Free Leaving Carolina by Tamara Leigh Page A

and clenching my teeth as I strain to triumph over the driveway’s wicked incline.
    Yes, had I been born someone other than a Pickwick, I could be happy on the other side of slender. Once I accepted myself, it would be a done deal. No secret yearnings for the forbidden, no drooling over another person’s meal, no torture to burn off excess calories. But God made me a Pickwick, and “plump” is not in the personal vocabulary of the body-conscious Pickwicks. It is, however, in my genes—
and
my jeans when I overindulge. As much as anything else, it sets me apart from the other Pickwicks.
    It couldn’t have been easy for my attractive father, especially once Mom started seeking comfort in food, but he was never really cruel. Just absent as he followed his wandering eye. Thus, I remained one sturdy Pickwick until my senior year, when I gained control over my eating, which led to the teenage stunt that has come back to haunt me.
    My calves burn deeper as I lengthen my stride, and I return mythoughts to my father. I have forgiven him for not loving Mom and me, but I’m grateful I won’t be running into him during my stay, since he’s out of the country. Permanently. Jeremiah Pickwick resides in Mexico, where our justice system decided to leave him rather than extradite. That also goes for Uncle Jonah, Luc and Maggie’s father, though I doubt the brothers have much to do with one another in their adopted country, having run dirty campaigns in their joint bid for the job of Pickwick’s mayor.
    I remember the headlines that ushered in my second year of high school, the snickers and sly glances that took the long way around Maggie to crash land on me. I shake my head. And pitch forward when my shoe catches on the uneven aggregate. I throw my hands up and follow through with the opposite foot. Close one.
    Leaning forward, I grip my thighs and heave breath up my face. “Don’t lose… your focus. Get in… get out.”
    “Are you all right?” a twangless voice calls.
    I snap my chin up and see Axel twenty feet to the left alongside the commercial mower that was beneath the hundred-and-some-year-old tree when I left for my run. This afternoon, his sandy hair is in a ponytail, eyes are obscured by sunglasses, and jeans and T-shirt are streaked with the soil of his trade. But for all that, he really is nice looking and has a physique to fit.
    And your brain is overheated. Note: ponytail, mustache, goatee, outdoorsy, probably tattooed, and is that a wrench he’s holding?
    I walk my hands up my thighs. “I’m fine. Is something wrong with the mower?”
    He sets the wrench down and heads toward me, his limp less noticeable today. “A cracked hose, but I’ll have it replaced and themachine running shortly.” He halts at the edge of the lawn. “I didn’t realize you had returned from town.”
    “My rental car broke down, so I took a taxi.”
    He glances at his watch. “You didn’t make it to Asheville to see your uncle?”
    “No, I’ll see him tomorrow.”
    “Do you need a ride?”
    Is he offering? I mean, I hardly know him beyond having aimed a high-heel shoe at him. “No, thank you. The rental company is delivering another car in the morning.”
    He nods. “What did you think of Pickwick?”
    “A lot has changed.”
    “Your uncle told me you’ve been gone twelve years.”
    “About that.”
    “Considering you spent the better part of your life in the South—”
    The
better
part?
    “—I’m surprised you don’t have the slightest drawl.”
    Thanks to all those voice lessons at the university I attended. For two years, I participated in a study to test a new method for helping those with distinctive accents subdue them. I was one of the success stories, but I was motivated. A Southern drawl, particularly one as pronounced as mine, is not a good way to stand out in the “fast lane” that is L.A. It leaves the wrong impression—as in slow and gullible.
    “You don’t have a drawl either,” I point