Letting Go Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020, L.A. Fiore

  All rights reserved

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Cover design, File Creation, Typset, and Graphics by Melissa Stevens, The Illustrated Author Design Services

  Proofreading by Rebecca Barney, Fairest Reviews Editing Services

  For Caitlin…

  Not how you saw your senior year coming to a close, but we’re so damn proud of you.

  We love you, dragon rider. Time to find your hidden world.

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  PLAYLIST

  PART ONE Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART TWO Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  OTHER TITLES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STAY IN TOUCH

  Playlist

  Skinny Love…Birdy

  Holding on and Letting Go…Ross Copperman

  I’ll Stay…Isabela Merced

  Lost Without You…Freya Ridings

  Again…Janet Jackson

  How Did You Love…Shinedown

  Always Remember Us This Way…Lady Gaga

  I Think It’s Going to Rain Today…Tom Odell

  Father Figure…George Michael

  Hallelujah…Jeff Buckley

  Flagpole Sitta…Harvey Danger

  Moon River…JJ Heller

  Castles…Freya Ridings

  We Are in Love…Harry Connick, Jr.

  Foolish Games…Jewel

  Capital Letters…Hailee Steinfeld

  Praying for Time…George Michael

  Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word…Elton John

  Wishbone…Freya Ridings

  No One Is to Blame…Howard Jones

  Someone to Love…George Michael

  In the Air Tonight…Phil Collins

  Move Together…James Bay

  Part One

  Sometimes to love is to let go

  Chapter One

  Cedar

  1998

  I first saw Brock Callahan on the day after my eleventh birthday. I was finally allowed to go into the woods on my own, not too far from the house, but it was a benefit of being eleven. While exploring, I’d discovered the fort. It looked old, beaten from the elements, and I wondered who had built it. Not that exploring the inside was going to happen because there could be crickets. Unlike most people, spiders didn’t bother me but crickets…nope.

  Why I went against instinct and popped my head inside was beyond me. The scream caught in my throat, seeing that the fort wasn’t empty. He was in the corner, his back to the opening. It was how he was huddled there that I knew he was scared or in pain. Again, instinct was to leave him alone, but instead, I moved closer. He turned before words could be spoken; gray eyes stared at me through brown hair that was too long, hanging over his eyebrows and brushing his shoulders.

  Sadness hit me first because he looked kind of lost. Recognition followed. There were so many questions running through my head, but I didn’t ask any of them. Dropping down on the ground, I opened my backpack and pulled out the cake wrapped on a paper plate. The pink icing was all over the plastic, and the vanilla cake was squashed, but it still tasted good. After taking a forkful, I handed the fork to him.

  He said nothing, just stared at me for a little bit. I stared back like I had all the time in the world. He reached for the fork, took a mouthful of cake. He tried to hide it, but he was hungry. He held the fork out to me, but I waved it off. “I’ve already had a slice. Why don’t you finish that?”

  He did, drank the three juice boxes I’d brought, too.

  The following day, I woke, grabbed some food from the kitchen and hurried into the woods. He wasn’t there and disappointment hit. I left the food, though. The following morning, the plates were empty. I wasn’t sure if it was the boy who ate it or the critters in the forest until I saw the single bluebell. Wild ones grew in the woods around here. He’d left one on the plate.

  For the next week, the routine continued. I’d bring him food, and he’d leave me a bluebell. A week to the day from our first meeting, when I arrived at the fort, he was there. Standing by the fort, his back to me. He turned when he heard me approach. He had the prettiest gray eyes I’d ever seen, and though I suspected he was thinking a lot, I couldn’t read him. Silence hung heavy for a few minutes as we both studied the other.

  He broke the silence when he said, “I’m Brock.”

  “Cedar.”

  That was how it started.

  Perched in the tree across the street from Mrs. Astor’s house, my binoculars were trained on her yard. It was five in the morning, and even for summer, there was a chill in the air. Brock was next to me, munching down on a bag of chips. His favorite part of surveillance work, the eating.

  We were playing detective. Mrs. Astor had complained at the neighborhood watch meetings that someone was cutting the flowers from her rose bushes. Of course, no one confessed, and no one saw a thing. It was possible Mrs. Astor was cutting her own roses, looking for attention. She did live alone, but for her three cats, so she was likely lonely. Brock and I were determined to solve the mystery, hence why we were sitting in a tree at the crack of dawn.

  “I’m almost out of chips,” he announced.

  “I’ll make you pancakes when we’re done.”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  I glanced over at him. “Is there any other kind?”

  He flashed me a grin. “Nope.” He then looked past me and jerked his head. “Look.”

  My head whipped around so fast I nailed myself in the face with my binoculars.

  “Nice eye hand coordination you got there, Slick.”

  I flicked Brock the finger. “It’s Mr. Bennett,” I whispered.

  I felt Brock’s breath on my neck when he whispered back, “Yep.”

  “Why is he cutting her roses?” I asked.

  “He likes her.”

  I looked at Brock like he’d just sprouted horns and fangs. “He likes
her, so he’s cutting her roses?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “He doesn’t have an in, so he’s making one.”

  “By cutting her roses?”

  “She’s interested, isn’t she?”

  I opened my mouth to debate his point, but he actually had one. “I guess.”

  He linked his fingers behind his head. He always did that when he’d won an argument. “By Christmas, they’ll be...” He wiggled his brows.

  I smacked him in the arm. “They’re old.”

  “Old people still get it on.”

  That wasn’t a visual I wanted in my head. Mrs. Astor and Mr. Bennett, her cats watching the show. Yep, there it was. Burned into my brain. “Thanks for the image.”

  He chuckled. “Anytime. Let’s go. You owe me pancakes.”

  Brock sat at the table with my mom as she sewed. He was trying not to laugh, but he wasn’t trying hard enough. It was Halloween. Last year, we went to a party; this year, I wanted to trick or treat because, next year, I’d be thirteen and too old. Brock had never been trick or treating and didn’t really want to go now, but he sucked it up. We decided to do something together with our costumes. I wasn’t sure who suggested salt and pepper, but, for my last Halloween, getting all decked out worked for me. Mom was finishing my silver hat that would be the cap to my saltshaker. What did Brock wear? All black.

  “Okay. Here you go, Cedar.” Mom stood and handed me my cap.

  “How do I look?” I asked, walking the length of the dining room like I was a super model.

  “You look like salt.” Dad said from behind me. He was dressed like a vampire, a black cape, slicked back hair vampire. He looked great. Mom was dressed like his meal: white gown, blood down the front, and puncture marks on her throat. Maybe I wouldn’t outgrow Halloween.

  “Thanks for making my costume, Mom.”

  She winked then turned to Brock and held up another silver cap. He looked at it like it was a snake, he even took a step back, but Mom had a way about her. He even let her put it on his head. “Thanks,” he muttered, quietly but sincerely.

  Mom responded by kissing his cheek. “You two have fun.”

  “You too. Don’t drink too much blood, Dad.”

  We walked down the path to the sight of Dad throwing his arm over his face, covering most of it with the cape and calling after us in a terrible impression of Bela Lugosi. “I vant to suck your blood.”

  We were down the street from my house, and I thought for sure Brock would take off the cap, but he didn’t. And when I glanced over, he looked thoughtful.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  His head tilted to me, and he said softly, “Really glad you stepped into the fort that day.”

  He didn’t let it show often, but there were times when I was reminded that his home life wasn’t good. This was one of those times. Holding his stare, I answered sincerely, “Me too.”

  Seconds passed, and then he snapped out of it, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a house. “Let’s get some candy.”

  “You got the wire cutters?” I asked, as Brock and I belly crawled toward the cage on the Millman property.

  “Yeah, and the burlap bag.”

  We both heard the sound and stopped. I did a hand motion, like I’d seen in that war movie we watched the other night. Brock lowered his head to muffle his laughter. “You’re a dope,” he whispered.

  Silence followed, we continued.

  “He’s going to make noise.” He warned.

  “I know. That’s why I’ve got the walnuts and grapes.”

  “He’s going to be heavier than he looks.”

  I glanced back at him. “That’s why I brought you.”

  “The Millmans are going to be pissed.”

  “That’s why I brought this.” I said, dragging the bag behind me.

  “You’ve thought it all through.” Brock was teasing me, but I had thought it through.

  We reached the cage. I checked my wrist, even though I wasn’t wearing a watch. “We’re right on schedule.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” he said, moving in front of me and cutting the cage.

  “I’m using the stars as a reference.”

  He glanced up; it was overcast. “Alright, Slick.”

  He cut the wire. We both slipped inside. We weren’t going to have a lot of time before the one we were rescuing made a scene. I threw the walnuts. He appeared. He was bigger than I thought.

  “Is he going to fit?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he’ll fit.”

  He pecked up a walnut then another and another. He got closer; Brock put the gloves on, came up behind him. “You ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I got the bag open, Brock moved in and all hell broke loose. Feathers went flying, and who knew how deafening a gobble could be. The back-porch light went on. Brock got the turkey in the bag; I left the frozen turkey in his place with a note that said, Happy Thanksgiving. Slipping through the cage first, Brock pushed the burlap bag to me before following after.

  “Who’s out there?” Mr. Millman shouted.

  It wasn’t easy carrying the pissed off turkey, but we were saving his life. We hauled ass into the woods and just kept going.

  “I think we’re far enough away,” Brock said. We put the bag down then climbed the closest tree and watched as the irate turkey found his way out of it.

  “He doesn’t look very grateful,” Brock said.

  I tossed the rest of the walnuts and the grapes at him. “One day, when he’s old, rocking on his front porch with his wife, all his children and grandchildren around him, he’ll appreciate what we did.”

  I felt Brock’s eyes on me. He thought I was a nut. I grinned.

  “Did you save any of those walnuts and grapes?” he asked, then added, “Because we might be up here a while.”

  “There’s no way. Donny is lying.” I scratched my head and pushed my glasses up on my nose. “No way.”

  “You don’t want to try?” Brock said, egging me on.

  “No. If it was possible, which I highly doubt, we could cause damage. I would feel awful.”

  “You are a tender heart,” Brock said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Alright, so no cow tipping today.”

  I glanced over at him. “So now what?”

  “My parents aren’t home, and there’s ice cream,” Brock suggested, but he didn’t wait for me to answer, pulling me along behind him.

  Brock’s house was massive. I’d only ever met his parents a few times, not that they said much to me. Unlike my parents, they wouldn’t be getting any parenting awards. He pulled me into the kitchen, flipping on the lights. “Get the bowls.”

  I moved through his kitchen like I knew it because I did. We hung at his house a lot because we had the place to ourselves.

  Brock made the biggest sundaes, and I never ate all of it, but he always finished mine.

  We settled on the sofa, flipped on the television and watched Jurassic Park. I fell asleep, but woke, when I heard the door slam shut.

  “Goddamn it,” his dad roared.

  “It’ll be alright,” his mom said.

  There was a sound right before his mom cried out. I tensed because he’d just hit her. Brock took my hand. “We got to go,” he whispered, pulling me from the sofa to the French doors that led out back. We slipped outside and ran, not stopping until we were at our fort.

  “I’m sorry,” Brock said.

  “For what?”

  “Them.”

  “He hit her,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he hit you, too?”

  He looked away from me, but I knew he did. I suspected that was what had brought Brock into my life that first day. “Brock.” I tugged on his
arm; he reluctantly turned his gaze back on me. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

  “The Caribbean. Working salvage, diving wrecks,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, and a cottage on the beach. What about you?”

  “Wyoming or Colorado. Some place with wide-open spaces. A cabin, maybe a horse or two.”

  “That sounds nice too.”

  “Maybe we do both,” I suggested.

  His hand tightened on mine. “Yeah, we can do that.”

  I was doing homework when I heard pebbles hitting my window. My heart sank because that was our signal. Pulling my boots on and grabbing the kit stored under my bed, I hurried from my room, down the stairs and out of the house through the woods to our fort. He turned to me. Tears rolled down my cheeks. His father hit him. Not anywhere visible, but there was pain in his eyes. I wanted to hit his father.

  I ran right to him and threw my arms around his neck. He didn’t hesitate to pull me close. “I hate him,” I said. “I fucking hate him.”

  “Me too.”

  I stepped back. “Where?”

  He lifted his shirt, and there was a big nasty bruise forming and several scratches that were bleeding. Tears burned my eyes. “Sit.”

  He grinned, but he sat. I spent the next half an hour cleaning his wounds.

  “Whenever you’re ready to run away, just say the word,” I said.

  He grabbed my hand, my gaze lifted to his. “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, but he wouldn’t take that. “Answer me, Cedar.”

  I stood, putting some distance between us. “Because from the minute I stepped into that fort, I became bound to you and you to me. And I want the cabin and the cottage.”

  He said nothing, but closed the distance between us, pulled me to him and held me there for a long time. After that night, Brock pulled away from me. It wasn’t lost on me that it was the day after my fifteenth birthday. Four years to the day…I met him on my eleventh birthday, and I lost him on my fifteenth.

  2005

  Sitting at lunch, my pizza went untouched. I’d had a thought in class, an idea for a shoe. Chewing on the tip of my pencil, the image formed in my head before I started sketching. My black rim glasses slid down my nose, but I was too engrossed in the design. I wanted to design clothes. Much of what I wore, I had designed and made.