Last Ride to Graceland by Kim Wright Read Free Book Online

planned the whole thing. Planned to go sprawling at Elvis’s feet with my legs spread to Jesus and my white cotton panties showing, and even though I didn’t, she’s right in a way. Nothing that ever happened atGraceland was sensible or fair, but for some reason, I was the one who was chosen. For some reason, I was the one he pulled into the fold.
    But that was the then and there, and this is the here and now. No use crying about it. No use wondering what might have been. I shake my head to erase the memory of Graceland and try to focus on being back in Beaufort. Pretty, sweet, unchangeable little Beaufort. The bridge that stretches over the waterway is the only thing I’ve seen since I hit town that seems at all different from the day I left. It looks like the water’s gone gray instead of blue in my absence, but then I realize that’s nothing but the tint of the window. I roll it down and, yeah, the bright, cool cut of the bay is still there. The wind hits my face and I catch a whiff of the salt and hear the gulls screaming out as they circle. And despite everything that’s happened in the last four days, I smile. Being home isn’t all bad.
    After that, all that’s left for me to do is to turn under the twisted branches of the old cypress, the prettiest tree on all of St. Mary’s Island. The Blackhawk lurches and squeals in protest as it pulls onto the long, oyster-shell driveway that leads to Ainsworth Paving and Concrete. And as I roll up, I see Bradley sitting there, exactly like I’d imagined he’d be, at one of the picnic tables, all alone, sitting with his blue work shirt open down to his belt buckle. He’s cut his hair. He looks good.
    My heart softens, opens up a little in my chest. It’s like right up until this moment I’ve been so preoccupied with how I’m going to fool Bradley that it never occurred to me thatmaybe I wouldn’t have to fool Bradley. I keep forgetting his kindness, the sweet open planes of his face. If there’s anyone who can hear this awful story I’m fixing to tell and still love me, it’s him. And yet my hand is limp on the door. This car has been my bubble. I see that now. It’s protected me as I floated between one world and the next, but the minute I step out, that bubble will break. I pick up the little jar of tupelo honey from the passenger seat, leaking but still mostly full, and I put it into my pocket, thinking I will give it to him. A gift from the road. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.
    Bradley is tilting his chin and frowning as he stares at the car. Everyone does. You’ve got to study a car like this from a sideways angle, because it’s like looking at the sun. Behold it directly and it shall smite thee blind. But even though Bradley can’t possibly recognize the Blackhawk or see me through the windows, he seems to sense that something big is happening, because he stands up. Starts walking toward me, slowly at first, then picking up his pace, so that by the time I’m finally out of the car and he knows it’s really me, Bradley is running. He catches me up and swings me around, and the movement is so abrupt that for a moment it knocks the air out of my chest. “I want to tell you . . .” I start, but then I can’t speak, so I grab the collar of his work shirt. The cotton feels strong and warm beneath my hands, and he stops twirling me. Just holds me, dangling, in midair, our noses almost touching.
    â€œI brought you something,” I say. “A souvenir. Because I have to tell you—”
    â€œNo,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me anything because there’s nothing to tell. You never went away and this whole yearnever happened and you’re my girl, always have been, always will be,” and then he begins spinning us again, harder than ever. My jacket flies open and the jar of tupelo honey slings out of the