"April, table 6 could use more coffee. You wanna grab that for 'em or are you gonna sit around all day?"
I look over my shoulder to my boss, Miranda, nodding towards where Mr. and Mrs. Housley are sitting. "Yes, ma'am," I say with a smile, grabbing the coffee pot after.
"Don't let her boss you around," Mrs. Housley says once I make it over. She touches my wrist gently and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"Oh," I say softly, cheeks blushing red. "I… it's alright, Mrs. Housley. She's the boss."
She shoots a look in the direction of Miranda, who's now berating someone else. "She can pick on someone her own size," she says. "Ain't that right, Fred?"
"That's right," he says, without looking up from the paper. "Y'oughta stand up to her one day, Miss April."
"Oh, I couldn't," I say, keeping my voice quiet. "Y'all are gonna get me in trouble."
Mrs. Housley laughs, a warm twinkle in her eyes. "That's what we're here for," she says.
"April!" Miranda barks, halfway across the restaurant. "Table 12. And girl, if I have to tell you again to stop running that mouth."
I duck my head, murmur an apology to one of my favorite couples, then make my way over to table 12 where a boy about my age sits. He's in army greens, hands folded, staring at the varnish on the table. There are designs frozen underneath, but they aren't all too interesting. I don't know what he's so concentrated on, but his eyes are set wide and his jaw tight. "Hi," I say, pulling out my notepad after setting the coffee pot down. "Can I get you started with somethin'?"
He looks up then, like he hadn't realized my presence before that moment. His eyes meet mine before he looks away again, this time rubbing the pads of his thumbs together slowly, rhythmically, like it's something he does often. "Hi," he says, barely moving his lips.
I furrow my eyebrows a bit as I study him. "Are you alright?" I ask, wondering without trying to pry. I look behind me to see if Miranda is on my tail, but she's not.
He looks up again and there's something different in his eyes. They've grown shiny, glossed with tears, maybe, or something different. I'm not sure. He looks anything but calm, though, and that doesn't sit right with me - so I give him a smile. The best I can muster, and a real one too.
He breaks because of it. His face softens and his eyes become a little less hard, a little less worried. "Would you mind sittin' down for a while and talkin' to me? I'm feelin' a little low," he says.
Something in my chest bursts and blossoms and I slip the notepad back in my pocket, leaning forward on the table with both hands. I say, "I'm off in an hour and I know where we can go."
As I take care of the rest of my shift, I feel light. I don't talk to boys much, they don't usually take an interest in me, but this feels different than most anything I've encountered. I've never seen him before. If he's from around here, it's not this town exactly.
I steal glances the soldier as he sits in the booth I left him in. All he would take is a cup of coffee, but he hasn't touched it. It's definitely gone cold, but that's not what's on his mind. All he does is stare out the front windows without actually seeing anything. His eyes are glazed again; he's far away. When the end of my shift comes and I'm able to collect my tips and take the apron off, I'm more than ready to leave.
"Do you still wanna…?" I ask, approaching his table. He flinches, like I've startled him. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to scare you. Do you still wanna talk?"
"Yeah," he says, gathering himself to leave. He pats his pockets with a harried expression, a deep crease becoming present between his eyebrows. "Just… just gimme a second."
"You don't worry about that," I say, extending a hand with outstretched fingers. "It's on the house."
"You sure?" he asks. "Your tip, though."
"I said, don't worry," I insist, then nod towards the door. "Follow me. I'll take you somewhere."
I take him to the best place I can think of, which happens to be the pier - and it's empty because most everyone is at home eating dinner. We walk in silence on the way there - mine curious, his subdued. There's something bothering him, I'm certain of that. I can only guess what it is, given his outfit and the fact that everyone knows the bus is coming to pick up soldiers from here and surrounding towns tonight at 9.
"I've been coming here all my life," I say, sitting down on the edge and letting my legs hang over. The wind gusts around us, but it's a warm breeze. Makes salt stick to my skin and the tails of the ribbon at the base of my ponytail caress my cheek. I turn to him, the boy whose name I don't know, and see him staring at the lapping waves. "You ain't from here, are you?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Few towns over," he says.
"You waitin' for the bus?" I say, though I already know the answer. He nods. "You goin' off to Vietnam?"
He nods again, then says, "California first."
"You enlisted?" I ask.
He shakes his head, hands capped over his knees. "Drafted," he murmurs.
"Oh," I say, just as quiet. "There's no way you can just… tell them no?"
"No way," he says.
I don't have much of a response, so we just sit for a while. I watch the waves and wish I was better at conversation. I brought him here to make him feel better, but he only seems to feel worse. I can't imagine how I'd be in his shoes. Can't imagine how lonely. The least I can do is try to lessen that feeling. "My name's April Grace," I say. "My mama calls me that, you know, instead of just April. It caught on, I guess."
A hint of a smile pulls at his lips as he looks over with his eyes - pretty aqua. The color of the water doesn't come close. "Nice to meet you, Miss April Grace," he says. "I'm Jackson."
"Nice to meet you, too," I say, relaxing a bit. "I wish you woulda eaten at the diner. I coulda got you somethin', on the house. I don't want you gettin' on the bus hungry."
"Wouldn't be able to eat, anyway," he says.
"Are you scared?" He's quiet then. I wonder if I've asked too much - I don't know him. My mama always tells me I'm nosy and that it's not a redeeming quality. I never thought much of her words until now, when I want to eat my own. "I'm sorry," I say. "You don't have to answer that. My mama says-"
"I am," he says, though I hadn't thought he'd speak again. "A whole lot."
"Oh," I say. I'm not sure what to say now that he's given me an answer. So, I decide to keep him talking. "What of?"
He shrugs one shoulder and I study his profile. He's cute; more than cute. I've never seen someone like him. "Dying," he says. "Nobody back here remembering me."
"Why wouldn't anybody do that?" I say, bending one knee to turn towards him, keeping the other foot hanging near the water.
"Ain't got nobody," he says.
"What about your mama?" I ask. "And your daddy? They count for somethin', don't they?"
He shakes his head. "Daddy's gone," he says. "Me and Mama don't talk."
"Oh," I say.
"It ain't no pity party," he says. "At least, it didn't use to be. I was fine on my own 'til all this happened. Now, it's different. Nobody knows me. Who will care if I go off and die out there? Who'll even know?"
"I'll know," I say, blinking steadily. "And I'll care."
He looks at me for a long moment, judging the caliber of my words. Then, I reach over and rest my hand overtop his that's lying flat on the cement between us. I grip it surely, deliberately, and he makes sobering eye contact. "I bet you got a boyfriend," he says, trying to be polite - but I hear the note of tenor sadness in his voice.
"I don't," I say, keeping my eyes on him even as he turns back to the water. He blinks a few times and I keep my fingers where they are, stroking the sturdy knuckles and bones. I've held hands with a few boys before, but they were just boys in my class. Jackson is a man. "How old're you?" I ask him as the thought pops into my head.
"18 two days ago," he says. "Just in time. You?"
"Seventeen," I say.
"You don't have a boyfriend, nobody sweet on you?" he says incredulously. "Pretty as you are?"
"Well, I don't know nothin' about that," I say, tucking my chin to turn away from him. At the very least, it hides my blush.
He smiles and laughs a little, just enough to make his chest bounce. "I hope this isn't strange to ask," he says. "But I got no one to send a letter to. Would you mind if I sent one back here to you?"
My face heats up and my heart starts beating like crazy, hammering against my chest like it's trying to get out. "Of course you can," I say, then look over. "I'll write back."
He flips his hand over gracefully and intertwines our fingers, and I think I might collapse right there on the spot. I try not to let on, though, as I look at our joined hands. The feeling is one I've never felt before. I've never been this excited, so tangled up in knots over something so simple. "Only if you have time," he says, looking at our hands too.
"I will," I say. "And if I don't, I'll make some."
He smiles softly and looks back towards the water, so I do too. We stay like that, right there on the edge of the pier with our fingers locked together, watching the water for who knows how long. When the sun starts to go down and the air gets cooler, though, we both know it's time to leave. He can't stay. My heart splinters because of it; it wasn't supposed to happen like this. I just started feeling all these things - I don't even get a full day with them. When he adjusts to stand up, I dart my head over with urgency, and my feelings must be written on my face. "I know," he says, extending a hand to help me up. "But I got no choice."
I try and calm my features. "I know," I say quietly, dusting myself off. "Should I walk you to the bus?"
"I'd like that," he says, then takes my hand again. I let him, keeping close as we walk down the beach, over the boardwalk and towards the middle of town where the bus stop is. A few other men in green are waiting there, too. They have women by their sides crying, and a few have small babies. My heart hurts.
"Be safe," I say, because it's a routine thing to say. After it comes out, though, I realize how stupid it is. "I mean… as best you can. I wish you didn't have to…"
"Me, too," he says, and we both see the bus in the distance at the same time. "But you're gonna write, right?"
"Yeah," I say, then pat the pocket of my skirt. "I got the address. You got mine?"
He pats his chest pocket. "It ain't goin' nowhere," he says.
The bus gets closer, puttering and spewing. I chew the inside of my lip and try to contain the nervous energy coursing through my gut, but it's impossible at this point. He's looking at me with intensity and I want to do something about it - but he steps before I can. He moves quickly and kisses my cheek, lips lingering when they touch me. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting my heart go wild as my cheeks bulge with a grin.
When he pulls away, my face is hot. I can still feel where he kissed me. "Was that alright?" he asks, eyes sparkling.
"Yeah," I breathe, hand lingering by my cheek. I want to touch it, but I don't want to wipe his lips from my skin.
"Alright, good," he says, then kisses the other cheek as the bus comes to a stop. "Don't forget to write me back, April Grace," he says, starting to turn away.
"I won't," I say, holding my arms close while watching him go. "Please, be safe."
"I will," he says, putting one foot on the steps. "You, too."
"I will," I echo, blinking away hot and insistent tears. "Alright, go on now. You're holdin' everybody up."
He smiles and it lights up his face. "Just wanted to get another look," he says.
I give him one last wave and watch as he sits down, then we make eye contact through the window. A presence sidles up next to me as I blow him a kiss and I look over, finding Theodora Altman standing with her arms crossed over her chest wearing the same judgmental look as always. She's one of Mama's friends - she's been around my whole life. She's one of my sister's godmothers, but I forget who. "Who you wavin' to?" she asks, though I can tell she knows. "You know that boy?"
"Yes, ma'am," I say, not tearing my eyes away from the bus as it rolls away. Jackson keeps his eyes on me for as long as he can, and I him.
"He's not from around here, is he?" she says.
"No, ma'am," I say.
"I saw him be sweet on you," she says. "You better hope I don't tell your mama. He's too old for you, April Grace."
I don't have much to say for myself. It doesn't surprise me that she said that; I figured someone might, whoever happened to be here watching. But I guess it hadn't mattered - I still did it.
"You never know, anyway," she grumbles, watching the bus disappear from view. "They might not be comin' back."
…
April Grace,
I hope everything is good back home. It's just about time for school to start, so you're probably busy with your senior year. How are things at the diner? Any new guys come in and steal your heart?
They don't give us much time to write. I'm not much good anyway. I hope you can read my handwriting… teachers always said it was terrible. There's a lot of guys here. Haven't talked to much of anyone yet. No one's easy to talk to like you. Sure wish I didn't have to be here. I think about you a lot. It's kind of funny how much, because I barely know you. But that's not how it feels. Hope you know what I mean.
Yours,
Jackson
When I get the first letter, my heart about jumps out of my chest. I sit on my bed and read it over and over again, going over every word like it's holy. I can hear his voice so clearly, and I let my eyes catch on the jagged edges and sharp lines of his blocky handwriting. That night, I sleep with the letter on the pillow next to me.
Jackson,
I was so happy to get your letter! I've never written to anyone before, so this is really exciting. School is going good. It's just school, not much to say. But since it's football season, I'm really busy with marching band. I play piccolo. But really all I've been doing lately is thinking about you.
It is crazy how it feels like I've known you forever. What took you so long to come into my life? That might be silly to say. I don't know. I don't know much about this kind of stuff.
Are you being safe? Is everything okay over there? Well, as okay as it can be, I guess. You're always on my mind and I'm praying hard for you.
Love,
April Grace
We exchange letters once a week and it comes to be something of a routine. I look for his in the mailbox every Monday evening, and ignore the scathing looks from Mama. She heard through the grapevine about what I'm doing, and it's not easy to keep a secret as I'm living under her roof. She can't do much to stop me, though, and she hasn't tried. She has bigger things to worry about.
I keep every letter that I get. I press them flat and store them in the drawer of my desk where I can go look whenever I miss him just a little too much. Sometimes, I embarrass myself over how much I feel for someone I've only met once. But I know him better than anyone else - and I hope he can say the same for me.
Instead of just pleasantries, our letters have turned more emotional and intimate than I've ever been with anyone. I don't much like sharing my private feelings, but Jackson is different. He got to know my heart through words on paper, and there's something special about that.
After he leaves camp in California and goes to Vietnam, my heart has taken to racing all day long. His safety and wellbeing are all I think about. I hate that he's over there and fighting. It scares me more than anything else ever has.
My April Grace,
It's a lot different here than I expected. Hot, for one. I don't think I've stopped sweating since we got here. It seems pretty safe so far though so don't worry about me. The biggest problem is the bugs. They say we're gonna put up nets in a few days. It'll be nice to sleep and write a letter without having to worry about them swarming around my light.
I don't talk about it with the guys but I know I can say it to you. Every night gets worse. There are always gunshots. I don't want you to worry, you know I'll be fine, but sometimes when things are extra bad I can't get the thought out of my head that I might not make it back. I know I shouldn't say that. But I had to get it out somewhere. I'll be fine though. I swear I will.
Yours always,
Jackson
When he talks about how scared he is, my heart breaks. More than anything, I wish there was something I could do. I want to rescue him, hold him in my arms and get him away from that place. He didn't choose to be there. He didn't choose to fight, and they took him anyway. I want him back.
Jackson,
I miss you something awful. I've been crying so much lately. I know it's silly since I'm the one here and if anyone between us should be crying it's you, but I can't help it. Thinking about you makes my heart hurt but it's also the only thing that gets me through the day. I miss you so much. Please tell me you're okay. That's all I need to hear. Sorry this letter isn't longer I just can't get my thoughts right. I'm trying not to get teardrops on the paper too.
Your baby,
April Grace
More time than usual passes between that letter and his next, which makes me insane with worry. When I see the familiar envelope in the mailbox, I practically tear it open.
My April Grace,
I'm coming home for a little while. My mama passed away and they're letting me go on leave for the funeral. Wait for me.
Yours,
Jackson
…
On the day of his mama's funeral, I'm at school unable to concentrate on much of anything. I don't know when I'll be able to see him, we haven't corresponded since he told me he was coming home. I know it's today, though; I saw her obituary in the paper.
My head is in the clouds for the entire day. Jackson has clogged my thoughts so badly that when I hear his voice say my name, I think it must be a figment of my imagination. "April Grace," I hear, walking out of school with my arms wrapped around my books and my ribbon fluttering in my eyes. I frown a bit and shake my head, convinced it's not real, but then I hear it again. "April Grace, is that you?"
I look up, unable to ignore it. And there he is, Jackson, leaning against a beat-up pickup truck wearing street clothes - something I've never seen him in. He looks different, older somehow, and I never knew my heart was capable of plummeting to my feet so quickly. "It's you," I breathe, though I meant for it to come out much louder.
"Hey, pretty," he says, smiling.
I drop my books with a clatter and break into a run, hair flying behind my shoulders as I rocket towards him. We both laugh as he picks me up and swings me around with ease, arms laced around the small of my back as I bury my face in his neck. "You're here," I say, voice muffled by his skin. He smells so good - fresh and clean. "You're really here."
He sets me on the ground again but I don't pull away. I keep hugging him as tightly as I can while letting all sorts of feelings wash through me. This is the most I've ever felt, and I'm not ready to stop yet. "I made it," he says.
"What about your mama and the funeral?" I ask, finally looking into his eyes. They're prettier than I remember, and so clear. "I'm real sorry to hear about her, by the way. I dropped flowers off at the funeral home."
He holds my face in both hands, looking at me in the same way I assume I'm looking at him. Like I can't believe he's really here and I'm hearing his voice instead of reading it. "Me and Mama weren't close," he says. "She kicked me out last time I saw her. I'm not going to the funeral. I'm spending the time I have home with you," he says. "If you'll have me."
"How long?" I ask, hoping for a week or more.
"Tonight and tomorrow," he says sadly. "The bus takes me back to the airport around supper." He sighs. "I know, it's not long enough."
"It's gotta be," I say, both hands on his chest. "It'll be just fine."
"Can you stay?" he asks. "With me, tonight. Is your mama gonna…?"
My face flames at his proposition. Of course, I've been daydreaming about it for as long as he's been gone, but the thought of actually spending the night with him is enough to send me into a tailspin. But who knows when I'll get this opportunity again? It could be months before he's home again. Maybe years, no one knows how long this war will go on.
"Mama will be fine," I say, though I'm wondering that myself. I'm not sure what to tell her, but I'll think of something. There's no way I'm not spending every minute that I can with him. "I just have to go home and tell her I'm stayin' with a friend tonight. Study group, or somethin'. Is there somewhere I can meet you?"
…
Mama doesn't put up a fight when I tell her I'm sleeping over at Lexie's house to study for the big algebra test. She's busy with my baby sister who's teething, anyway. She doesn't have much room in her head for me, and I'm perfectly fine with that.
Jackson picks me up at the end of my dirt road, and when I climb into the passenger's seat of his truck it feels like the most natural thing. "Hey, pretty," he says again, mirroring the greeting from earlier today. "We good to go?"
"Uh-huh," I say, stealing a glance at him. "Mama's taken care of."
"And Daddy?"
"Daddy's at the bar," I grumble, looking out the window instead of at him.
"Oh," he says.
"So, where are you takin' me?" I ask, turning back.
Uncertainty flashes across his features as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, twisting the leather in his strong hands. "Well," he says. "I don't have much of an idea."
"Home?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "To be honest, there ain't much 'home' to go back to. Mama's house got foreclosed on. Right now, I'm just kinda… wanderin'."
"Oh," I say, stumped as the warm breeze from the night swirls around my neck.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think ahead. I was just so caught up in… I coulda gotten us a room at the Motel 6 had I thought it through and saved up some."
"It's a nice night," I say, one hand flat as my arm is out the window. "Why don't we go to the cornfield and park? You got sleeping bags?"
"In the back, yeah," he says.
"We'll spread 'em out and sleep in the truck," I say. "It's as good of a plan as any, don't you think?"
He smiles and it lights him up. "As long as I'm with you," he says.
It doesn't take long to make the bed of the truck into something more comfortable than I could have imagined. He uses my backpack as a pillow and I use the crook of his shoulder, and we stare up at the stars like we've been doing it our whole lives like this together. "I see the Little Dipper," I say, pointing towards the sky and tracing the shape in the air.
"I see the big one," he says.
"Me, too."
We spend a moment in silence just existing next to each other as the night passes by - slowly, which I'm grateful for. Then, his face nears mine and I can smell the peppermint on his breath, so I turn too. "Would it be alright if I kissed you?" he asks. "On the mouth, I mean."
"Yeah," I answer, so he does.
It's my first kiss and it's not flawless, but it's perfect. He holds my face gently in his big hands and presses his lips to mine all sweet and slow, and I close my eyes to soak it in. I'm not sure where to put my grip at first, but eventually it moves to his neck and he jumps. "Sorry," he says. "Your hands are just freezin.'"
"Sorry," I say, breath coming shaky. "I'm a little nervous."
"Me, too," he admits, then closes his eyes gradually to kiss me again.
My body eventually finds a groove with his and we figure out a rhythm. He undoes the bow from my ponytail and buries his hands in my hair and up the back of my shirt, tracing the slopes and ridges with his fingertips. I give myself to him and take what I can, forcing the thought out of my mind that I might not get this again.
…
We said we loved each other that night and I begged him not to go, as much as I knew he had to. I cried and said it wasn't fair, I acted like a child but all he did was listen. I know he agreed. I know he wished he could've stayed, too. But the army don't wait for no one.
My girl,
I wish you could've seen the sun come up this morning. You would've loved it. I could practically hear you telling me how amazing it is. Like our night together when we watched the sun come up. I probably seen the sun come up thousands of times over that cornfield but the first time it was ever beautiful was when I was there with you.
J
His letters always make me cry now. I never knew it was possible to miss someone so much. I think about him so much that my mama doesn't ask anymore. My best friends hear way too much about him. Sometimes, the letters I send are pages and pages long and other times I know he knows how much I love him through just a paragraph.
Baby,
I just want you to come home. I don't know how many times I've said that. You must be so tired of hearing it. Already acting like your wife. I don't care. I love you and I don't want to spend another day without you even though I know I have to. I wish time would speed up.
Your April Grace
Time stretched between his letters gets longer. I try not to cry as much and put a good head on my shoulders. I have to start thinking about college next year. I hope he's back in time so we can go together. I can't stop imagining what our life will look like - a cute house, good jobs, a nice family. Once he's back, we can get started on all of that. We already know we want to get married, it wasn't really a question in either of our heads.
Darlin,
Things are getting hectic over here. I don't get as much time to write as I'd like. Please don't think too much of it. You're still on my mind all the time. When things get rough, I think of that day sitting down on the pier. I close my eyes and see your pretty smile. I love you ten times over.
Don't worry but I won't be able to write for a while.
J
…
Two months later, I haven't received another letter from him. I've worried myself sick, turned into a shell, forcing the same routines I've always done. As of right now, I have my piccolo in the bleachers and a football game is just about to start. I wish I were anywhere but here, but I have no choice in the matter. I stare ahead at a man I don't recognize as he makes his way to the microphone, then listen as he starts to speak.
"Folks, would you bow your heads for a list of local Vietnam dead," he says, one hand wrapped around the stand.
My stomach lurches and I jump to my feet out of instinct, not knowing where I'm going but knowing that I have to get there fast. I shove my way through the crowd and make it to the exit, where I try to get away from the sound of his voice as I find a sanctuary under the stands. The dirt is cool and soft as I sit down in my band uniform, ribbon in my eyes, piccolo strewn across my lap.
"Hank Addison," he man reads, and I cover my ears. It does nothing, though. "Peter Allen. Greg Astinbury. Jackson Avery."
My palms fall away from my ears as tears slip out and run down my cheeks, soaking the neck of my uniform. I hear people moving above my head, people asking who he is. People wondering what kind of an impact he made here; they've never heard that name before.
I'm the only one who will cry for him. And I'll be crying for the rest of my life.