“Matt, I just—”
“If you leave me,” said Matt. “You’ll have nothing. I promise you.”
“But, Matt…”
“No!” he said, grabbing Regan’s upper arm so hard that she gasped. Matt stared at her and then released her arm roughly. “I am not a fucking failure,” he said.
Neither am I,said Regan, to herself.
—
“ARE YOU READY TObe a jetsetter, Regan-doodle?” said Charlotte.
“What about Flora and Isabella?” said Regan.
“Send them to sleepaway camp,” suggested Charlotte. “Youlovedsleepaway camp!”
“No,” said Regan. “That was Lee. I went to day camp.” A memory surfaced: standing in a giant gymnasium, realizing that she was the only girl at basketball camp. The smell of boys’ armpits and socks. She’d taken her sketchbook from her backpack and hidden under the bleachers, drawing mermaids in underwater kingdoms until it was time to go home, wincing at the sound of dribbling basketballs and piercing sneaker squeaks.
“That’s right. Well, anyhoo,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t have a passport,” said Regan.
“Mine is expired,” said Charlotte. “We’ll expedite them. We can figure out the paperwork together!”
“Is this really happening?” said Regan.
“Yippee!” said Charlotte.
—
REGAN HAD FOUND Ahorseback riding camp in eastern Georgia. The girls were thrilled. All that remained was telling Matt. She watched him sleep. He was tall and stocky, with thinning black hair and a bit of a paunch. Regan could still remember him as a teenage football star, Lee’s impossibly wonderful boyfriend, the one person Regan had thought of to call when she changed her mind about running away with Mr. Ragdale. And Matt had come, rescuing Regan from her art teacher, bringing her home on the back of his Harley-Davidson. Lee was gone by then, having ditched Matt to move to Los Angeles. Matt came by some evenings to sit on the porch swing with Regan.
Their romance had developed slowly. Matt had helped Regan talk about Mr. Ragdale, had insisted it wasn’t her fault. Matt thought they should press charges. But Regan just wanted to forget the whole episode, and Charlotte agreed they should never speak of it again. Regan transferred to a different high school for her senior year. Matt, who had enrolled in the premed program at Savannah Technical College, worked in town at a bar called Pinkie Masters. When Regan stopped by with her friends, he gave her free drinks. (She was partial to Alabama slammers, as her fake ID said she was from Montgomery, Alabama. Never a big drinker, she’d have one and then switch to Sprite.)
One night, Regan came on her own. It was karaoke night, and Regan nursed a soda and studied for her English final exam. She was stunned when she heard Matt’s voice through the speakers. “This one goes out to my angel from Montgomery,” he said. Regan looked up and saw that he was smiling at her. His voice singing the Bonnie Raitt song was smooth and low. Regan couldn’t breathe. It was the first moment she glimpsed the possibility of her greatest dream coming true.
“Just give-a me one thing,” crooned Matt, “that I can hold on to.”
Regan bit her lip. She nodded.
They made love soon afterward, on the night of her eighteenth birthday, just weeks before she was accepted to NYU. As Matt looked deep into her eyes and entered her, moved inside her gently, saying her name, she knew she would never leave Savannah. He was her love; he was home.
Regan stared at her sleeping husband. For a moment, she regretted what she had done at Bonna Bella Yacht Club. But it was too late.
Matt opened his eyes. “Hey,” he said.
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to.
“My mom won a cruise,” said Regan. “I told the girls they could go to sleepaway camp and I’m going. With my family. On the cruise.”
“What?”
“I’m going away for a while,” said Regan. Her voice wavered.
“Mmm,” said Matt. He closed his eyes. Regan thought he had fallen back asleep, but then he opened his eyes. His gaze locked with hers.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
