Finally, Forever Read online

  finally, forever

  Also by Katie Kacvinsky

  First Comes Love

  Second Chance

  Awaken

  Middle Ground

  Copyright © 2014 by Katie Kacvinsky

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotes used by reviewers.

  www.katiekacvinskybooks.wordpress.com

  Cover artwork: Copyright © 2014 by Katie Kacvinsky

  US map outlines credited to: www.freeusandworldmaps.com

  Dedicated to

  Ryan

  Thanks for providing the real-life inspiration that helped write the ending of this book

  finally,

  forever

  by

  Katie Kacvinsky

  PART ONE: THE ROUTE

  ~ Fifteen months after the break-up ~

  Gray

  I’m leaning against the side of my car in a parking lot in Omaha, Nebraska, and I’m watching a girl. White smoke curls around the open hood of her station wagon, and I can only make out a skinny leg and a faded, gray tennis shoe.

  The sun bakes on the blacktop between us and I swear the ground is so hot it has a pulse. I’ve been outside an entire thirty seconds and my forehead is already drenched in sweat. I can feel it beading on my neck and sliding down my back like a tiny fingertip tracing my spine. It’s the kind of humid heat that touches everything, even the thickest spots of shade, and it’s too heavy and stubborn for a gust of wind to blow.

  She takes one step back and I notice a baggy blue skirt stick to her knees in the stagnant air. The rest of her body is lost inside a white cloud. I slowly walk towards her to see if she needs help.

  She tries to wave the blanket of smoke out of her face with a long, skinny arm, as wiry as a tree limb. She takes another step back and her face comes into view. I freeze. I melt.

  Oh. My. God. It couldn’t be.

  I stare at her like she’s haunting me. Maybe I’m hallucinating. What is Dylan doing in Omaha, Nebraska of all places? She coughs and takes another step back and manages to smear engine grease across the side of her face. There’s no doubt that it’s her. She’s the same, all six feet of her long, lanky body. The only difference is her hair is cut short, tied back in two, messy pigtails that barely graze the top of her shoulders.

  She glances around the parking lot, her eyes passing over me at first and then they focus and then they hold and expand to twice their normal size. Her mouth falls open like she’s staring at an apparition. I wonder if I am, if I’m dreaming up this entire scenario. Maybe I fell asleep at the wheel. Maybe any second I’ll collide head-on with an eighteen-wheel semi truck. I would almost prefer that nightmare to this reality.

  I spent the last year trying to purge every memory of Dylan from my mind. It was a Dylan Detox. I listened to Anna Begins, by Counting Crows, and let the melancholy verses nurse me back to emotional health. It’s nice to know somebody out there understands. Music can save you from yourself. It’s like a friend whispering, Hey, it’s alright. I’ve been there. I got through it and so will you. It’s my self-prescribed medication for post relationship therapy. I convinced myself those song lyrics carried into my own life, my own situation with Dylan, and it all was starting to make sense. It helped me to move on.

  But Anna doesn’t come back at the end of that song. She doesn’t suddenly reappear at a road stop in Middle America and say ‘Hey, remember me?’

  What do I do now? Adam Duritz, where are your song lyrics for this prophetic situation?

  I used to hope that one day I would run into Dylan again, but Hope can be a dangerous demon disguised as an angel. Hope works alongside Fate and Luck and Timing, and they’re all co-founders of the conspiracy group I like to call Team Asshole.

  We both stand there, facing each other like we’re

  statues glued to the asphalt parking lot. I hear car engines moan to life and tires peel away and I wonder if I died and went to hell. What do you do when you run into the ex-love-of-your-life? Say hello? Hug? Shake hands? Run for your life? I’m afraid to open my mouth. I might scream.

  Dylan smiles, this elated, glowing smile as if our chance meeting should be serenaded with a marching band and fireworks.

  “Gray? What are you doing here?” she asks me, as if I’m the one that’s out of place in this picture. Her voice knocks me back to reality and I have to take a side step or I’ll fall over. It’s amazing how just the sound of a voice can make your entire stomach cramp and your head spin and your heart convulse in one simultaneous jerk.

  “I played ball out here this summer,” I say, a little roughly.

  “Oh,” she says and nods. “Was it a summer sports camp?”

  I almost laugh at her question. “Summer sports camp? Otherwise known as minor league baseball,” I clarify for her. Her knowledge of sports is up there with my knowledge of cosmetics. I cross my arms over my chest, displaying the muscles that I’ve worked on building for the last three years, as if to back up my statement.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  For a tiny, split second I get the crazy feeling Dylan followed me here because she desperately missed me. She showed up to surprise me at a roadway oasis to confess she can’t live without me, that if she graphed all the happiest times in her life, all of her peaks exist because of me. Her indifferent shrug dismisses this idea.

  “I was on the highway until Orson decided to crap out,” she explains and points to the open hood. I walk up to her latest beater-mobile. Where did she get this car, a junkyard? The station wagon looks like the one my grandparents used to drive that we called the ‘grocery-getter,’ complete with wood paneling along the sides. I stop a few feet away from Dylan, careful to give us some distance. The engine is still steaming.

  I look inside at the fried motor that’s expelling fumes of burnt oil, and back at her. I know her too well to sympathize with this situation. One thing obviously hasn’t changed.

  “What is it with you and owning piece of shit cars?” I ask her, looking into her eyes.

  “Ssh,” she says and covers her lips with one finger. She rubs the fender like she’s stroking an animal’s head. “He can hear you.” She looks down at the singed engine with concern. “Someone has to love him,” she says.

  “Cars aren’t dogs, Dylan,” I inform her. “They don’t have abandonment issues.”

  She just blinks back at me like she never considered this.

  “They’re meant to be safe and reliable,” I state, two words that probably don’t exist in her vocabulary.

  Dylan smiles and lifts the bottom of her white t-shirt to wipe off sweat dripping down her forehead. I can’t help but notice her bare stomach and it gives me a momentary brain lapse. Her skin has always had that affect on me. A fifteen-month separation might erase some feelings, even memories, but you can never erase that unstable, uncontrollable, unexplained phenomenon called attraction.

  “I always thought interior lighting was the most important car feature,” she tells me. “Ambiance is critical. This one has red interior lights. It’s like Christmas every day.”

  I look at her messy pigtails.

  “When did you chop off your hair?” I ask, since the last time I saw her, it fell halfway down her back.

  She grabs a pigtail between her fingers and examines the choppy end of it. “After you White-Fanged me in Albuquerque,” she says.

  I lean in close enough to see the blue, brown and green swirls that
swim in her eyes. Her eyes meet mine and a chill runs down my back, even in the sauna-like heat of the late summer day.

  “After I what?” I ask and a voice interrupts us, calling out my name. I spin around and Rachel is standing on the curb next to the restaurant entrace, regarding each of us with interest. She adjusts the yellow cardigan open over her navy blue sundress. Her light brown hair is parted on the side and pulled back in a low ponytail.

  “There you are. They seated us inside,” she says to me. She looks curiously at Dylan who is looking at her and they both turn and look at me. I connect an awkward triangle of stares. Behind Rachel is the entrance to The Palm Tree Cafe. I’m still wondering who decided to name a restaurant in Omaha after a tree that would never naturally grow here.

  “Rachel, this is Dylan,” I say as she walks up to us.

  Dylan reaches out her dirty hand. Her long, skinny fingers look like they were soaked in black grease. Rachel extends her own clean, small, manicured one. If hands express any sign of personality characteristics, these two are complete opposite. Dylan grabs Rachel’s hand in a firm hold and gives it one solid pump, her signature shake. Rachel takes her hand away and examines the track of gray fingerprints pressed on her skin like stamps. She rubs her hands together and studies Dylan.

  “How do you two know each other?” Rachel asks.

  “We…,” my voice trails off because our past is as easy to summarize as the plotline to a TV drama. I look at Dylan for help and she takes care of making the introductions.

  “I met Gray in Phoenix a few years ago,” she explains. “We’re old friends. My car just died, and I’m trying to get to Flagstaff.”

  “Flagstaff?” Rachel says and my heart pinches in my chest. Oh, no. Don’t say it.

  “Well, Gray’s on his way back to Phoenix today.” She turns to me and smiles like she solved all of our problems—not started them. “You can give her a ride.”

  I clear my throat, trying to loosen a knot of tightening nerves.

  “Oh, no, that’s okay. We, no…,” Dylan blunders and then she stalls and looks at me to gauge my reaction. I have to remind myself to breath. A shallow stream of hot hair squeezes through my throat. I swear I’m having a panic attack.

  “I’m sure there’s a bus,” Dylan offers, and I nod enthusiastically. Yes, a bus, or a plane, or a hot air balloon, or she can roller skate there for all I care. That girl is not getting inside my car. It’s my one safe place. It’s my zone of tranquility.

  “Seriously,” Rachel encourages us. “You can split gas money and trade off driving shifts. It’s perfect.” She gives me a confident nod. “We’d feel better knowing you were driving with someone,” she tells me.

  I laugh, a sort of choking sound. It brings my voice back.

  “Why are you going to Arizona?” I demand to Dylan.

  Her constant smile flattens at the corners. “There’s a family emergency,” she says. She studies my eyes, the hostility behind them, and understands what I’m not saying. “But don’t worry about it. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “That’s just silly,” Rachel pipes in. I want to smother my hand over her mouth. Don’t you see you’re planting the seeds of misery by inviting this girl back into my life?

  “I could use a ride,” Dylan says.

  Rachel nods. “Isn’t it great how fate makes everything work out?”

  “It is strangely fortuitous,” Dylan agrees and meets my eyes for a second before I look away. I pretend to be fascinated by a red minivan pulling into the parking lot.

  “What are you going to do with your car?” Rachel asks.

  “Well, it’s not actually my car,” Dylan says. I just named it. “It’s Nick’s.”

  Just as she says this, a guy is walking up behind her, holding two sweating bottles of water and smiling.

  “Making friends already?” he asks and offers her a bottle. He gives her this adoring grin and it makes the muscles in my arms tense.

  I stare him up and down. He’s exactly my height, 6’3”. His brown, wavy hair is pulled off of his face with a pair of sunglasses. He has these large, brown, really friendly eyes. He looks outdoorsy, dressed in a blue polo shirt and tan cargo shorts. I’m a good judge of character and Nick seems, unfortunately, cool. I automatically despise him.

  Dylan turns and makes the introductions. As soon as she says my name, Nick’s eyes dart to mine like a javelin, hitting me with an unbelieving stare. I meet his gaze and hold. We’re having some kind of stare-down and I’m determined not to look away first. He definitely recognizes my name. I wonder how much Dylan told him about me. I wonder how badly he wants to kick my ass right now. But he doesn’t look angry, or jealous. More than anything, he looks curious. He actually reaches out his hand to shake mine. I grab his fingers and try not to squeeze so hard I break one.

  “Gray. Nice to meet you.” He says my name like he’s referencing a famous book title and I almost smile at his lie. He shakes Rachel’s hand and regards both of us for a few seconds like he’s trying to piece something together.

  “I’m Dylan’s boyfriend,” he says, specifically to me. He throws an arm around Dylan’s shoulder just to be a jackass. Even Dylan looks surprised by the possessive gesture.

  I fight to keep my feet steady. I’ve seen one other guy touch Dylan in my life. Once. And I threw a baseball at him as hard as I could. The same territorial instinct is flooding back.

  “I found a red eye flight I can catch tonight,” he says to Dylan and leans in closely to tell her. Their noses almost touch. “Are you sure you want to take a bus to Flagstaff?” he asks her. “I found some cheap flights to Phoenix.”

  Dylan points over at me and grins like I’m her old pal from the neighborhood and this isn’t at all weird.

  “Funny, actually,” she says. “Gray’s headed to Phoenix today. So, he can drop me off in Flagstaff.”

  “Wow,” Nick says and he regards me again. “What a coincidence.”

  Tell me how you really feel.

  “I wish I could go with you,” Nick says and coos into her shoulder.

  “Why don’t you guys eat dinner with us first?” Rachel offers. “Before you head out?”

  I stare at Rachel. Aren’t you just full of fun ideas?

  “Perfect,” Nick agrees. He reaches down for Dylan’s hand and I’m already stalking towards the front entrance. I have to make a concerted effort not to stomp. I hear Dylan commenting on the name of the restaurant behind me, and she wonders out loud if palm trees grow in Nebraska. If I weren’t currently loathing my life, I would smile.

  Dylan

  I watch Gray disappear inside the restaurant so fast it’s as if he has a jet pack strapped to his back. I can almost see a trail of steam shooting out behind him. I stand in his exhaust trail, stunned.

  “Dylan?” A voice calls out to me through an abyss

  of shock. “Dylan?”

  I blink and Nick’s worried eyes come into view.

  “You’re scaring me. Focus,” he says and shakes my shoulders until I meet his brown eyes. “I’m worried you’re going to lose control of all bodily functions right now.”

  Fragmented words start to appear in my mind but they’re not forming sentences. They drift and float but they’re difficult to connect. My heart is pounding as if I just sprinted around a track. Only one thing is clear.

  “He hates me,” I say.

  “Hate can easily be confused with love,” Nick argues. “They’re very similar emotions if you think about it.”

  Now I’m even more confused. “That makes no sense, Nick.”

  “Love never does,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  “I can’t believe Rachel offered Gray to drive me. It was her idea. Shouldn’t she be a little wary, loaning out her boyfriend to chauffer random girls across the country?”

  Nick rests a hand sympathetically on my shoulder. “Honey, have you looked in the mirror recently? I don’t really think she was intimidated. You have a huge sm
ear of motor oil running up the side of your face. And under your chin. And how did you get tire tread marks on your t-shirt?” He shakes his head and makes a “tsk, tsk,” sound.

  “But, you told Gray you’re—”

  “Just play along right now,” he interrupts. “Trust me.”

  He swings the glass door open and half shoves, half escorts me inside the restaurant. My skin immediately chills in the freezing blast of air conditioning. The room is as cold as a meat locker. I bypass the hostess stand and head straight for the restroom sign. My thoughts are racing in front of me and I’m picturing Rachel’s face. One word: Rebound. She’s not right for him. She has a limp handshake that lacked any assertiveness. Her brown eyes are dull and lack any spirit of adventure. And she wears cardigans. In the summer.

  I push through the door and stand in the middle of the room.

  She would probably keep his cupboards stocked with daily multivitamins, one for men and one for women. She’d make cut-out cookies for his games, in baseball shapes and frosted with his number. She’d pack picnics with napkins neatly wrapped around the silverware. Her meals would contain the appropriate number of servings from the food pyramid.

  But Gray doesn’t want to be taken care of, he wants to be challenged. Doesn’t he? Or what if all the things that I think make her wrong for Gray are all the things that make her right? And why is a wide set man wearing a greasy apron giving me the stink eye? What is he doing in a women’s restroom?

  “You lost?” he asks me and I blink a few times.

  “I just need to use the bathroom,” I say.

  “Does this look like a bathroom?”

  I glance around at the industrial sized ovens and grills and refrigerators and I can smell sausage cooking and I can hear the bubbling sounds of French fries cooking in the fryer. Two other cooks, both guys, turn and stare at me. I see lots of piercings and tattoos and I get the feeling I’ve stumbled into a motorcycle gang’s initiation meeting. And they’re not happy about it.