Page 50 of As a Last Resort

I wrote Keys underneath. I always lost my keys. I could fix that. I opened my cabinet and grabbed a saucer. I put it right on the kitchen counter as you walked into my apartment and placed my keys on it.

“That’s ridiculous.” I put my keys back in my purse and threw it on the couch instead.

I stared at the empty dish.

“Okay, fine. Fine.” My words aimed at no one in particular, I took the keys back out and put them back on the dish.

“It’s official. I’m going crazy and talking out loud.”

I jumped when my phone rang from my purse.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Samantha Leigh?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Beverly from the Willow Rehabilitation Center. I’m looking for Samantha Leigh.”

My mouth went dry.

“What happened? Is she okay? Yes, this is her.” The words tumbled out like an avalanche.

“Yes, I’m sorry to alarm you, Ms. Leigh.

She’s doing great. We’re really encouraged by her progress.

As part of our program, we incorporate family therapy early in recovery, especially when a patient’s addiction is tied to grief or the loss of a loved one.

I’m calling to see if you’d be willing to come in? ”

My knees gave out, and I sank into the nearest chair as the tension leaked from my body. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until it escaped in a long exhale. She was okay.

A wave of goose bumps crawled over my skin. Was I ready to see her? What if she looked different? Sounded different? What if this new version of her was just a mirage, and seeing her would only confirm what I feared most?

Or worse, what if she looked the same? It hadn’t worked. Nothing would ever work. And it would only be a matter of time before everything started to unravel again.

“Would you be available tomorrow or Wednesday?”

“I work this week,” I answered. “Every week, actually. I’m not sure, I’m back in New York. Can I get back to you?”

What if when I saw her in person, it broke the illusion of the sobriety this woman on the other line said she had? I’d come and say, See I told you, it wasn’t going to work.

“Yes, of course. But we think a session with you would be really beneficial—not because she’s struggling, but because she’s healing. I’ll email you my contact information and just let me know what works for you.”

“Right, okay, yeah, I’ll get back to you for sure.

Thanks.” I hung up and stared at the floor.

I took a deep breath and counted the light gray stripes on the white rug under my feet.

They wanted me to visit mom. To come back to Florida.

My mind was screaming at me—the promotion, Glenn, the board meeting, Florida, my mom, Lexi’s wedding.

Austin.

I cradled my forehead with my hands and shut my eyes.

Walking the city at night alone wasn’t exactly the safest option, but I felt like I was going to suffocate if I stayed in that apartment a second longer. I needed some fresh air.

The city looked different in the dark. Shadows grew longer and alcoves looked deeper.

Noises from drains always made me uneasy in the daytime, but they sounded even more ominous in the dark.

I walked by businesses closed up for the night.

Neon lights flickered in the windows of bars still open, the sounds of chatting patrons floating out from inside.

I walked by Italian Marco’s wooden flower stand, all shuttered up for the night. I opened my purse, took out a hundred and scribbled a note on an old receipt. For last time , I wrote and slid it through the wooden crack on the closed-up display.

“Hate to break it to you, but Italian Marco is married,” a voice from behind me said. I turned around and Jack’s blue eyes stared right at me, full of surprise.

“Samantha? Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Jack, hi.” Just pile it on, universe.

“I thought some random person was leaving love notes for the local flower guy.”

“Oh no, I was short on change a few weeks ago and he covered for me. Was just paying him back.” I knew my ears had turned red. I was never good at lying.

“So, about the whole—” he started.

“Yeah, no, we’re good,” I interrupted.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have just—”

“No, really, it’s fine. All water under the bridge.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Normally I would rush to fill the awkward silence but I just didn’t have it in me. So I just stared at him. I never noticed it before but his eyebrows were really well shaped. I wondered if he waxed them.

I was just exhausted. And tired. And ready to get back home, although the word home felt off.

“Well, since we’re cool and all, I mean, would you want to go grab a drink or something right now?”

I was sure I hadn’t heard him right. “With you?”

He stared at me with a very confused look. “Yes, with me.”

A laugh burst from my mouth. Because this was what I needed—Jack coming to my emotional rescue and bailing me out of heartbreak.

The man who calls servers over by snapping his fingers.

The man who talks with his mouth full and upon further inspection, most definitely gets his eyebrows waxed.

The man who takes dates to farmers markets while he’s technically still in a relationship.

I couldn’t stop laughing. Hysterically laughing. Check me into a mental institution laughing with tears rolling down my face. And I couldn’t stop.

“Why are you laughing?” His beautiful brows pulled together like he was offended he wasn’t in on the joke.

“I’m just sorry to hear things didn’t work out with Sunflower, that’s all.”

“Sunflower?”

“Yeah, let’s just call it a day on this one. For good.”

“You sure? It’s spring roll night at our pho place. I was on my way there anyway.”

“You know, I don’t like spring rolls. They actually upset my stomach.”

“We ate there every Sunday night for six months.” He chuckled and took a step toward me.

“I know.” I stepped back.

He took a step forward again and tilted his head in such an endearing way. “You love pho.”

I laughed, but this time it was small and came out as a huff.

Why had I played it safe for so long? If I didn’t like pho, it would mess up our weekly routine.

And God forbid anything I do unsettle anyone else because then maybe I wouldn’t fit here.

Or with him. And it would be scary to not belong here.

I was supposed to be here. “I’m going to go. Good luck with everything, Jack.”

“You sure?” he asked again.

“Yeah, I think that’s the right call here.”

“Okay then. See you around, Samantha.” He turned and walked away. I didn’t get a bit of satisfaction when he looked back and slowed for just a second.

And then, my hospital-grade laughter turned to tears.

Tears that refused to stop flowing. I went to lean against the wall but there was something that looked brown and gooey oozing down it.

The city smelled like a dirty pipe and everything just looked wet.

A man walked by me and saw me crying, then took a step in the other direction instead of asking me if I was okay. That’s New York for you.

And I missed Austin.

I missed Austin. And it was a sharp feeling. Grief has a way of dulling out eventually. It’s still there, and it hurts, but you start to build things around it. You start to color experiences near it and one day, Dad’s still not there, but it doesn’t stab like it used to.

But remembering the way Austin’s skin felt against mine sliced through me so fast I didn’t feel it at first, then I couldn’t breathe. It seared me.

I missed his smell and his eyes and his laughter.

I missed the way when I opened my eyes in the morning, he was already looking at me, smiling.

His bacon was better than the five-star chefs down the street.

I missed the way he buttered every single inch of my toast. I missed how my face flushed whenever he caught me looking at him.

I missed that little muscle on his forearm that popped up whenever he did anything . I had no idea an arm could be so sexy.

I lay in bed that night, eyes wide open. The sound of rubber rolling down the wet street and rowdy patrons, their morning regrets still just great ideas, floated in through my window. How did I ever sleep with so much noise?

I sat up and looked out my window. A young man was kicking a can down the street and singing “chim chim cheroo.” I looked around the city, my city, and for the first time in seven years, felt like I didn’t belong.

Too many conflicting scenes played when I shut my eyes, so I opened my laptop instead. My Google search page was filled with pictures from Rock Island.

I clicked on one of the Birchwood Beach. The article explained how with the water levels being at an all-time low, it uncovered this beach only a few years ago. Water levels were continuing to recede, uncovering lots of treasures no one knew about underneath the water.

I clicked through a few photos. There was one of a few teenage boys hanging off a high branch.

A few family photos, everyone in white and chambray, smiling for the camera.

There was one shot far away of a man on one knee, and a woman with her hands clasped over her mouth.

It was taken by a photographer hidden somewhere.

The trees surrounded them at low tide, their branches reaching out around them like a timber cage protecting their sweet moment.

In the far distance, a lighthouse poked through the bushes on the beach.

Wait. A lighthouse?

I clicked on the photo and tried to enlarge it, but it was too pixelated.

I cleared the search bar and typed in Rock Island Lighthouse .

The page popped up with only a few hits.

The first was an old sepia toned picture of the lighthouse that looked to be from when it was first built.

Its shutters were dark against the white wooden siding and a small porch wrapped around the building.

Sand dunes surrounded the house, standing tall reaching up to the sky like brushstrokes.

The second was an article about the possible renovation of the lighthouse back in the early fifties. Ideas started snowballing in my head.

I reached for my phone.

ME: Have you ever been to the lighthouse at the Birchwood Beach?

LEXI: Is this your idea of an apology?

I picked up the phone immediately and called her. Just as I thought it would go to voicemail, it connected. I started before she even spoke a single word.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sam, I—”

“Wait. Before you say anything, let me get this out. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you.

I was trying to push you away because I was scared.

I’m sorry I defaulted to the same thing I always do, leaving before someone can leave me, whether they want to or not.

You were right. I ran before to get away from the one person who didn’t care about me in the way I needed her to, and I left so many others who did. I left you. And I’m sorry.”

She sniffled through the line.

The line went silent for five seconds. Then ten. “Okay, that was a pretty good apology.” She laughed and sniffled again. “Apology accepted. But I’m still mad about Austin.”

“About that.” I took a deep breath and forged on. “I’m not sorry. I’m sorry about the way I acted and how I left it with him, but I’m not sorry about how I feel about him. But if you’re open to it, I think I may have figured out a way to maybe fix it. All of it.”

“I’m listening.”

“The lighthouse. Is there one at the Birchwood Beach?”

“Yeah, didn’t Austin take you to it? It’s a pretty good trek through the bushes at this point since everything’s sort of grown over. You can see it by boat better.”

I pulled out the land survey for the Rock Island contract. At the northernmost tip, past Birchwood Beach, there was no sign of a lighthouse.

I looked back to the computer and the map on the screen clearly had it positioned at the tip.

Thinking back to that day, we had eaten lunch, then I got the text about my mom so we left.

We didn’t walk down farther than halfway along the beach.

And when he took me to see it on the boat, our time was cut short.

Something started to fall into place.

“Stay by your phone. I’m going to run something by you in a little. But Lex…”

“Yeah?”

“For the record, you’re worth staying for.”

I hung up and clicked through another couple articles on the computer and learned that the lighthouse had been used for almost twenty years steering ships around the island.

A picture of an old keeper’s log recorded the weather and a few ships that made it around the point.

The entries were barely legible, dotted with watermarks and discolored from age.

The lighthouse was no longer operable. It had fallen into erosion and desperately needed repair. Provisions were made to automate the actual lighthouse itself back in 1949, but the building was closed to the public.

An idea started to spark. I could see it. It’d take a lot of research and a miracle, and I only had a single night to make a lot of changes, but I had nothing else to lose.