The Design(26)

“Cammie?” a voice spoke from behind me, jarring me from my thoughts. I closed my eyes as I registered the fact that it was Grayson’s voice.

He’d followed me out.

I folded my arms even tighter before speaking.

“What can I do for you, Grayson?” I asked, not bothering to turn to look at him. A few minutes ago, I would have been ecstatic that he had cared enough to come out and talk to me, but in that moment, I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t feel any of my confidence. I didn’t feel flirty or desirable. I wanted to hit pause on the game.

“I was just wondering what you needed a breather from?” he asked.

You. You. You.

I kept my eyes on the road.

“Nothing.” That word held so much power: the power to deny someone your true feelings in a moment of vulnerability. I watched a car drive down the street and tried to concentrate on its movements rather than my feelings. But then Grayson spoke again.

“Cammie.”

He said my name like he was begging me to do something. I liked the sound of my name on his lips and when he touched my shoulder so that he could turn me to face him, I didn’t resist.

Fine, if he wanted the truth, I’d give it to him.

“Everything. I needed a breather from everything,” I answered, keeping my gaze on his navy tie. His ties always laid so perfectly down the center of his shirt, as if they were glued in place. Maybe that’s why I wanted Grayson. He was perfect, he had his life together, he was driven and committed—and I was none of those things. At any given moment, I had the desire to fly, to skip out on the rest of dinner and roam the city alone for the remainder of the night.

“Well I can’t fix everything,” he said with a little smile, trying to cheer me up. “Can you be more specific?”

His words were a simple joke, but they reminded me of an argument I’d had with Brooklyn after our parents had just passed away.

I refused to speak to Brooklyn about our parents, refused to see a shrink, refused to go to group therapy. I was practicing the art of avoidance and it was starting to slip into every facet of my life. Brooklyn was doing her best, trying to give me space to heal, but one Saturday night in high school I’d strolled through the front door two hours late, with fresh bruising across my chin. I was drunk from shit vodka that had burned my throat going down and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her.

“Cammie, what do you think you’re doing?” she’d yelled as I walked toward my room, ignoring her along the way.

“Oh don't try to be a mom, Brooklyn. Fuck off.” Saying those words burned even more than the vodka had. That was a first for us. There’s always a first with sisters. The first time you really overstep that line of trust. I remember she flinched at my words, genuinely hurt and taken aback by my cruelty.

“I can’t fix everything for us,” she whispered. “You can’t do this to yourself. You have to get help.”

I’d paused and reached up to feel the bruising on my face. I couldn’t even remember the incident that had caused it in the first place, but I figured it was probably just drunken clumsiness. Brooklyn stepped up behind me and wrapped her arms around me, so tight and secure around my stomach that it almost hurt.

We stayed like that until I couldn’t deny my feelings anymore. I was forced to acknowledge the overwhelming grief that had been locked away deep down inside of me for months. She was forcing me to feel it.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered as hot tears burned a path down my cheeks.

We stayed in the hallway, her chest pressed to my back, and I cried, long and hard. Long enough to realize I had to change.

“Cammie,” Grayson said, pulling my attention away from my memories and fast-forwarding my life back to the present.

I swallowed slowly, already knowing what I needed to do.

“Tell Brook that I felt sick and headed home. And make sure that Hannah gets a ride.”

“Cammie,” he said, reaching out for my hand, but realizing his mistake a moment too soon. His hand fell limp back to his side. “Are you okay?”

I glanced away from him, back down the dark street.

I'll let you know when I know, Grayson.

…



I ended up going to my spot. It was the one place that calmed my anxiety. To get there, you had to take a private road that led around the perimeter fence of LAX. If you followed it for long enough, eventually you’d stumble upon a lonely, forgotten cemetery. It seemed like a random place for a graveyard, just off the highway on the side of an airport, but it must have been there long, long before air travel.

I parked off the road and grabbed a flashlight from my glove compartment. The first time I’d been to the spot, a stoner from my high school had told me that he knew of a place to get high and watch airplanes take off. I’d followed him blindly that night, too naive to realize how dumb I was being, but I didn’t regret the mistake afterwards.

The next time I went, I ditched the guy and the pot in favor of going alone. Just me and my flashlight.

It was a forlorn spot, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by blackness, but the planes always came right when I needed them. Sometimes I got lucky and I could see four or five landing or taking off all within a few minutes of each other. I’d sit on a lonely grave, lean against a headstone and turn off my flashlight. Sitting there in the dark, I’d imagine it was me leaving on the airplanes. Each time I heard the low rumble of a takeoff, my heart would race and the earth would feel alive beneath me, shaking with the weight of the airliner.