"Lily," Calder pleads. "If you would let me explain…"
"No," I say, releasing his arm. "No. I'm done. With both of you." I turn and bolt up the steps before either can stop me. Someone calls my name, but I don't care who. I can't bear to look at either of them right now.
I know my way to my room at this point. I grab my things and fumble in my purse for my keys. I refuse to stay here a moment longer. I can't believe I allowed myself to be so easily fooled, that I believed Calder's lies even for a minute.
When I return outside, Calder is halfway up the stairs. Garrett is dragging himself to his feet behind him.
"Lily," Calder says, "if you'd just let—"
"No." I push past him. "If Garrett made it up here, then the road must be clear by now. I'm leaving."
Garrett grins at my announcement. He thinks he's won.
"Come on," he says, taking my arm. "Let's get out of here."
I jerk away from him. "Don't touch me. I don't want to talk to you, either."
"Lils, I didn't—"
"ENOUGH." I shove him aside and march down the driveway. If either one of them comes after me, I swear, I'll punch him in the face.
When I get to the gates, I find them locked. Garrett must have climbed over them like I did. I can’t believe that one stupid, reckless decision turned out like this. My ex’s Jeep is parked beside mine, and I give his front tire a kick before diving into my own car.
And that’s when I lose it. As soon as I crank the gas, the tears begin to spill over.
I keep replaying the entire thing in my head: the argument I had with Calder in the garden, Garrett's unexpected arrival, the subsequent fight. The realization that Calder has been lying to me this entire time.
It's a disaster, this whole situation. How the hell do I attract such assholes?
But no, that's not fair—I brought all of this upon myself. I called Garrett when I knew I shouldn't have. I gave into my attraction when I knew Calder was no good for me. I can’t blame them for being themselves.
The worst part is that there's no hope for the Center now.
My tears are coming so hard that I have trouble seeing the road. I force myself to slow down. The last thing I need is to crash my car out here and rely on one of those idiots to save my ass.
When I get to the place where the road crosses the river, I nearly lose it again. On either side of the bridge, the road is completely underwater. I estimate it’s still a foot deep in some places. Garrett was fine in his Jeep, but I'm not sure my crappy old Honda can survive that much water. She's on her last legs already, and I certainly don't have the money for repairs. I don't have money for a tow, either, or to call a cab all the way out here. I pull over, park, and lay my head against the steering wheel, nearly hyperventilating.
I feel so… empty. Like I sold my soul and have nothing to show for it. I dig my nails into the vinyl of the steering wheel and force myself to count down from ten. By the time I reach one, I've managed to breathe normally again.
This is just a setback, I tell myself. There's still plenty you can do for the Center. Don't let one bad weekend destroy all of your hope.
Easier said than done. All the hope in the world won’t make me feel any less horrible about these last few days. I can’t believe that I fell for Calder’s lines, or that I thought I could handle Garrett in my life again, even in some small capacity. I’m an idiot all around. I need to get as far away from these dipshits as possible before I’ll even be able to think straight again.
I look at the water in the road.
"What do you think?" I ask my Honda. "Up for the challenge?"
I give her an encouraging pat on the dash, and then I crank her into gear.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Three days later, I'm helping out in one of the Center’s art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children's programs, is out sick. I suspect we'll lose her to another job in the near future anyway.
I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We're working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress.
"It's a garden, Miss Lily," she says. "Like the one in my book."
"It's beautiful. You've been practicing, haven't you?"
She beams at the compliment.
"Look, those are the roses," she says, pointing them out. "And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And here's the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain."
I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I'd thought it was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen.
But I'm not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him.
"It's beautiful," I tell her again.
She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her.
"And what are you painting, Ben?"
He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile.
"That's awesome!" I say. I give him a high-five.
I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and "for girls."
Now, though, he's often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session.
I look around the room. Ben's story isn't unusual around here. The Frazer Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone?
It's not that I believe they won't explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time—but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?
I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. I'm exhausted. I've spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. I've been here every morning at seven, and I've taken to the phones as early as it’s socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I've tried begging, I've tried offering incentives—everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, I'm grateful for everything we can get, but it's just not enough.
I sigh. There's no way around it. I know Dad is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we're going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if we're going to hold on. We've done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Cunninghams. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but we're low on those, too.