The Truth of Letting Go Read online

  Cece tilts her head. “Or…Aunt Carol will turn up her nose and say that crazy daydreams are what’s ruining this generation of lazy kids who don’t want to work hard and become a serious professional.”

  “Yeah, that sounds kind of accurate,” I say without thinking. Shit. Distract and redirect. “But we have to try. It’s all we have and we definitely need to get home as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatevs,” Cece says. “I have to do more research to find my brother, so we might as well go back and load up on supplies.”

  That’s probably the closest thing to agreement we’re going to get out of her. “Cool,” I say, holding back my roaring enthusiasm about going home. “Let’s go.”

  “Chicken fried steak first,” Cece says. She pats her backpack, which is sitting next to her on the seat. “I’ll pay.”

  I hadn’t realized how much blind panic I was holding onto until Cece finally agreed to go home and I could let it go. Relief loosens the knot in my chest...four hours until I can breathe easily again. After dinner, we’ll be just four hours from home. Four hours to safety.

  Before the night is over, I can go back to stupidly crushing on Ezra, texting with Kit, and watching TV in my own house like nothing is wrong. I can finally stop lying to my parents when they call, and Cece will once again be safely locked indoors and out of my hair.

  A quick search for chicken fried steak on Cece’s phone brings us to the Pine Tree Lodge, a country style restaurant on the bayou. Their online menu has chicken fried steak and promises the best pecan pie in the great state of Texas. It’s half an hour away from El Campo, but in the direction of home which makes my heart beat a little happier. Now we’re just three and a half hours away from putting this insanity behind us.

  The parking lot is filled with big trucks and fancy motorcycles, and although the three of us are native Texans, it almost feels like we don’t belong with these rough country people. There’s a brand new patio off to the side of the restaurant, stretching far and wide and carrying the scent of new lumber all the way to the restaurant’s doors. A band is just setting up to perform so we ask the hostess for a table outside. It’s a little warm, but there’s a breeze and a beautiful view of the bayou that makes it worth the heat.

  Cece chooses a chair that faces the band. Above us, speakers play Garth Brooks while the band is getting set up. “This place is awesome,” she says, gazing up at the whimsical decorations all over the back wall of the restaurant. There’s a taxidermy rabbit with deer antlers, a ton of old license plates, and signed pictures of famous people from a time my parents would call the good old days. My gaze lingers on a black and white photo of a smiling Patsy Cline.

  To anyone passing by, we look like three normal teenagers eating a meal. And for a little while, things feel okay. Cece’s not pissed off at me anymore, and it could be my imagination, but it feels like I keep looking up only to find Ezra looking at me.

  The food is good; the kind of home-cooked meals my grandmother used to make before she moved into the retirement home. I order the fried shrimp with hushpuppies and share my fries with Cece, who shares some of her baked potato with me. Ezra gets the bacon cheeseburger and we all enjoy watching our very pregnant, very flirty waitress bat her eyelashes every time she talks to him. Her nametag says Missy, but I wonder if that’s her real name or just a nickname. She’s very young and has long brown hair pulled in a pony tail that swishes back and forth over her butt as she walks. She’s wearing the same short shorts the rest of the wait staff wear, along with an oversized neon pink Pine Tree Lodge T-shirt. You really can’t blame her for blushing every time she talks to Ezra. He’s totally hot.

  For dessert, we share the peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream at our waitress’s suggestion. She swings back by our table right when we’re finishing. “How was it?” she asks, putting a hand on her lower back to balance the massive baby in the front of her.

  “Amazing,” Cece says with a sigh. “I’ve never had a cobbler before but now I want more.”

  Missy grins. “They use a family recipe from like 1920 or something. It’s so good.”

  “I kind of want to order another one,” Ezra says, putting a hand on his stomach. “But then I might die…and you’d have to roll me out of here and shove me in the back of the RV.”

  Missy rests her hand on the back of his chair. “My ex used to love the cobbler, too. I always brought him some home after my shift.” She rolls her eyes. “But then he left me on the day we were supposed to meet at the courthouse to get married. Fucking asshole.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry that happened to you.” That seems a little TMI to me, but Ezra frowns, the sincerity evident in his features.

  She sighs. “You look like the kind of guy wouldn’t do that to a girl. Especially a girl about to have his baby.”

  “Absolutely not,” Ezra says, glancing at me for a split second. “I think you’re going to be fine, though. Single moms are some of the strongest people ever.”

  Missy puts a hand to her heart. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “Listen,” Cece says, piping up with a mouth full of ice cream. She sets her fork on the plate of cobbler crumbs. “You’re really pretty and all, but he doesn’t even live in this area. Plus, I’m pretty sure there’s some flirting vibe thing going on with him and my cousin,” she says, pointing to me. “So maybe don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Cece!” I snap, knowing my face is as red as a freaking stop sign. “That was very rude.”

  Missy laughs nervously. “No, no, it’s fine. I was flirting,” she says, her hand still on the back of Ezra’s chair. She moves it to his shoulder before letting go. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make myself feel like maybe a guy would want me some day.”

  I’ve never been more mortified but Ezra just smiles that dumb charming smile he has. “You’ll find someone great,” he says.

  “Thank you,” Missy says. She fishes in her apron pocket for our bill. “You can take care of this at the front desk.”

  “I got it,” Cece says, making grabby hands for the strip of paper. As she rushes off to pay the bill, Missy gives me a quick look over. “This one’s a keeper,” she says in a whisper that’s totally not quiet. “Hold on to him.” She winks and then waddles away.

  Even if I were wearing makeup, it wouldn’t hide the red in my cheeks. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  Ezra leans back in his chair, watching the band as they start in on another song. “No worries.”

  That’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for. I mean, Cece’s right in a way. I’m crushing on him for sure. I don’t know how he feels about me.

  “I left her a nice tip,” Cece says as she returns, backpack slung over her shoulder. Hey, Lilah?”

  “What’s up?” I say, sipping the last bit of Diet Coke from my glass.

  “Do you think we could go watch the band, just for a little bit?”

  I’ve been hell-bent on getting home since pretty much the moment we walked out of our front door yesterday at four in the morning. But now that we’re sitting out here in the warm summer evening, the smell of pine trees in the air, the soothing sound of a country song playing across the patio, I kind of want to stay. I know this can’t last forever, but once I’m home, I’ll be securely gripped in Mom’s vise of rules and stability. If only for a little while, I want this to last. “Is that cool with you?” I ask Ezra.

  He nods. “Let’s go.”

  We make our way through tables of other patrons eating their dinner and find a tall table with three empty barstools. On the raised wooden stage, a band of four men in their thirties rocks out to a song that’s a cross between country and rock. The painted logo on the drum set says they’re called the Bill Bosom Band, but I’ve never heard of them.

  The song ends and they launch right into a boot-stompin’ country song that gets everyone all riled up. Some biker chicks who are as old as my mom jump off their barstools, beer bottles in hand, as they shimmy up to the makeshift
dance floor. People are singing along and tapping their feet to the music.

  Cece’s eyes light up. “Want to go dance?”

  “Um, no,” I say, shaking my head. “No way.

  She pokes out her bottom lip. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “So? You think those drunk people know how to dance?” she says, hooking her thumb toward the filling dance floor. People are really having a good time with this song. Still, I fold my arms over my chest and shake my head. Cece looks at Ezra and he holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Not me. I’m a dude.”

  “Guys are capable of dancing,” Cece says, planting a hand on her hip.

  “Not this one,” he says.

  She huffs, blowing wispy strands of hair out of her face. “Fine. I’ll go without you two party poopers.”

  Hands in the air, Cece sways to the beat as she dances out onto the dancefloor. People part to give her room to join in, and she laughs while she dances with a couple of biker ladies. Overhead, they turn on the strands of patio lights and it sparkles all over the bayou. I lean on my hand as I watch Cece dance, happily partying with a group of strangers, but somehow, totally in her element.

  “I wish I could be carefree like that,” I say as I watch her.

  “Nothing is stopping you,” Ezra says. “Go have fun. I’ll watch the backpacks.”

  “There’s no way I’m doing that,” I say. On stage, the song slows down. “And it’s over anyway, so…”

  But then the guitarist slams on the frets and a new song begins, just as upbeat as the last one. The crowd cheers. Right in the middle of everyone is my cousin, eyes closed while she dances to the beat. Her hands are in the air, hips swaying, and to anyone on the outside, she looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  I envy her so much right now.

  I am weighed down with my responsibilities, and the guilt of how badly I’ve slipped up in the last forty-eight hours. I am worried about Cece, worried about my parents finding out, worried about my house back at home. I’m even worried about Ezra, this hot and cold guy who sometimes watches me like he thinks I’m interesting and then other times he’ll ruin it by acting is if I don’t even exist. I am so heavy with all of these intangible things, and I would give anything to feel them float away, if only for a few minutes.

  I close my eyes and inhale slowly, letting the music dance around my soul. It’s just a silly country song about a cheating girlfriend, but the way the guy sings it makes it sound like a fun adventure. When I open my eyes a moment later, Cece is rushing toward me, a flush in her cheeks and sparkles glinting in her eyes.

  She takes my hands, her chest heaving from being out of breath. “Come on,” she says, tugging me off my barstool. “I’m not taking no for an answer!”

  Filled with a sudden giddy excitement, I turn back to Ezra. “Watch our bags?”

  “Of course,” he says with a grin that sends a warm tingle to my toes. “Have fun.”

  My heart flutters nervously as I let Cece pull me onto the dancefloor. It smells like nature and beer out here, a mixture of smoky ribs from the kitchen and cigarette smoke from the patio. On stage, the band rocks out to songs they know by heart. Cece squeezes my fingers before letting them go. “Just have fun,” she says in my ear.

  I follow her lead and pop around lightly on my toes, letting my hands flail like hers. It’s fun. It’s embarrassing. It’s the freest I’ve ever felt.

  “Hey,” I say as the song ends and another one begins. I’m out of breath and sweating, but I feel so alive.

  “Yeah?” Cece says, grinning wide.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Why aren’t you mad at me anymore?”

  On stage, the bearded hot guy with a guitar says, “This song’s for all you beautiful ladies.”

  Cece lifts one shoulder and gives me a crooked smile. “That’s who I was this morning. I’ve changed since then.”

  The Bill Bosom Band knows how to rock out on the patio in the middle-of-nowhere Texas. I dance with Cece until I can’t feel my anxieties anymore. Until all the impracticality of this entire night slips away from my worries and the only thing that’s left is pure, unreserved fun. For the next ten songs, Cece and I aren’t estranged cousins living under the same roof. My mom isn’t addicted to therapy and propriety. I don’t have a college future looming over me that I have no desire to fulfil. It’s just me and Cece, dancing and laughing on the dance floor.

  I can’t even describe how wonderful this feels.

  When a song ends and the singer leans into the mike, my heart seizes up. He announces that it’s time for a little break, promising they’ll be back on stage soon. But the moment is over now, the music silenced and replaced with the sounds of crickets and the gentle flow of the water beyond. The dance floor begins to clear out.

  “I’m not ready for this to be over,” I tell Cece.

  “Same,” she says, reaching out and pulling a pine needle from my hair. My hair is all a mess, frizzy from the humid air and tangled from dancing. I try combing it with my fingers as we walk across the patio. An older man with a beer gut and jeans held on by suspenders stops right in our way. He reeks of body odor and cigar smoke, but something about his graying handlebar mustache makes him look like a hillbilly Santa Claus. In other words; I don’t feel like he’s going to kidnap us or anything.

  His eyes are glassy as he stares at us, bushy grey brows pulled together. “You two are sisters,” he says. “Nearly identical.”

  I laugh because on a basic level, Cece is taller and has red hair compared to my dark brown locks. Her eyes are green and mine are brown. We couldn’t be more different on sight alone, and this guy is clearly blind.

  Cece beams. “Close. We’re cousins.”

  “Cousins,” he says with a nod. “You’re not from around here either.”

  “No sir, we’re not,” she says. I’m a little weirded out by talking to a strange, most likely drunken old man, but Cece seems thrilled to have another person in the equation.

  Overhead, the speakers come to life, playing the opening of an old John Michael Montgomery song that I remember from my childhood. The man puts a hand to his heart. “I love this song,” he says, extending his hand out to Cece. “Would you do me the honors of granting me one dance?”

  She curtseys. Actually curtsies. “I’d love to,” she says, batting her eyelashes as she takes his hand. She throws a wink over her shoulder as he leads her back onto the dancefloor. All around us, people are pairing off and dancing to the slow song. The high I’d had a few minutes ago is definitely gone as I walk around lovebirds, making my way back to our table. Slow songs are not a way to forget about your worries.

  Ezra meets me at the edge of the patio. His hands are in his pockets, hair swooped to the side, barely missing his eyes. There’s this subtle smile on his lips. “Where are our bags?” I say, glancing behind him.

  “I locked them in the RV.” He taps his front jeans pocket and his keys rattle.

  “Cool,” I say as a weird cotton ball sensation fills my throat. Ezra’s just an arm’s length away from me, eye level since the patio is a few inches higher than the seating area. “I guess we can go home soon.”

  He nods. His Adam’s apple bobs. “You want to dance?”

  “What?”

  He steps onto the patio, suddenly taller than me again. “Cece’s got a partner,” he says with a sly grin. “I don’t want you to feel left out.”

  Butterflies flip flop around my stomach. “I thought you didn’t dance.”

  His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. “Watching you dance has inspired me.”

  I drop my head into my hand. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed. Did I look like an idiot?”

  He takes my hand, inching forward until I step backward. Now we’re both technically on the dance floor, just at the very edge of it. “You looked adorable,” he says, putting a hand on my hip and tugging me toward him. Grinning as if he has this
all figured out, he takes my hands and lifts them up to his chest, and I lace my fingers together behind his neck, his skin warming me to the core.

  Ezra’s dark eyes glow under the clear lights overhead. He peers down at me, that coy grin permanently etched into his handsome features as our feet sway and shuffle to the slow country song.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” I say, so close I can smell the Dr. Pepper on his breath.

  “Well I’ve had a year’s worth of practice,” he says as his feet lead the way.

  “Really?” I nearly stop in my tracks because I can’t picture Ezra taking dance lessons. I give him an evil grin. “Girlfriend make you go?”

  “Nah, remember back at Rose Elementary when they taught us dancing in P.E.?”

  “Ahh,” I can’t help but nervous laugh now that I’m thinking of his girlfriend. “You’ve had no formal training, just the stupid torture they forced on us in school.”

  He grins. “Hey, I remember most of it, so it counts.”

  “I do, too. Cece was my partner.”

  “Lucky. I had Trisha Bines as my partner. She was such a bitch.”

  “Can fourth graders be bitches?” I ask. My fingers twist together behind his neck as we sway to the music. “I’m pretty sure bitchiness is developed in high school.”

  His grin fades. “She spent the whole time making fun of my squinty eyes.”

  I frown. “Definitely a bitch.”

  He laughs and takes a step back, taking my hand and spinning me around like they do in the movies. I twirl around twice, and then his strong arms pull me back against his chest. I’m laughing as I bump into him, and then all of a sudden I’m very aware—too aware—of how close we are. I shuffle back a few inches, and let my arms go back around his neck, locking my elbows to keep that safe few inches of space between us.