Filthy Foreign Exchange(59)

Right or wrong, I crave him.

Kingston: All that matters is you. Are you okay?

Me: Been better, but yeah.

Fighting to keep my eyes open, the last thing I see is the final text he ever sends me.

Kingston: I’m sorry, Love.





Epilogue


Thirty-six hours after being admitted, I was released from the hospital. My prognosis? Six weeks with a cast on my arm, a prescription for sleeping pills, and a mildly concussed head.

Oh, and my dad demanded the bell be hung back on my bedroom door. Sebastian took his ass-chewing over the phone like a champ, and wasn’t mad at me. Thank God.

When I got home, Kingston was already gone—for good—and my parents refused to discuss it further. However, they did ensure me Sebastian was being allowed to stay and finish his year of study across the pond, so that was some good news.

With a cast on my arm, I couldn’t practice my routines—the only “escape” I had—so I returned to a paperback existence. I’ve never read more books in my life. But even with my fictional heroes and happily-ever-afters, time still crawled by so slowly it might as well have stopped altogether.

I was no longer speaking to Clay or Savannah, who were both smart enough not to show their faces at our house, with Savannah also wisely avoiding me like the plague at school.

And with the first snow of the year falling, my parents and little brother sang “Happy Birthday” to me. I felt older, but not wiser. And when I blew out the candles, I wished for the clarity I thought I’d once found to return.

Where do I go from here?

I’m still pondering that same question days later as I read the letter once more. It’s the second of two very surprising correspondences I’ve received since that night.

The first was from Kingston’s father, Gerard Hawthorne, thanking me. Maybe my parents got one too—I didn’t ask—but mine shocked me. He wanted me to know that the young man who returned wasn’t the same one he sent over, and that it was mainly because of me. Apparently, Kingston had credited me with being a fresh, positive influence in his life who taught him the value of loyalty to family, self-discipline, and striving to do the right thing.

And the second letter is the one that’s trembling in my hand. It’s an invitation to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure: a summer backpacking journey throughout the UK, fully paid for by the Miranda Hawthorne foundation. Kingston’s mother.

I look over at the flowers, now brittle and losing more petals each day, that arrived on my birthday and still remain on my dresser: seventeen white roses and a lone, bright-pink Stargazer lily in the middle. I’d known whom they were from the moment I saw them, but the card attached confirmed it.

Happy birthday, Love. Thinking of you every day.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on me, just as he knew it wouldn’t be. The bright-pink flower in the middle represented me; he always did have a thing about me and pink. And the seventeen white roses, which stand for innocence and purity, surrounded me.

I thought the flowers would be the last I’d hear from him, until this letter came today. I’m unsure whether the offer is his father’s very generous way of thanking me for all the things he credited me for or Kingston’s doing, but I suspect it’s mostly the latter. I should’ve seen something like this coming, since the last note he left me on the bathroom mirror—written in dry-erase marker, so I’d be sure to see it—was a challenge, again daring me to move.

Not all those who wander are lost.

I absolutely agree. It’s time for me to live—fly. And maybe I’ll fall…but perhaps, instead, I’ll soar. My mind is made up, and though I have a while to wait and parents to convince, it won’t be changing.

I’m ready to see the world…just not him.