[Beachwood Bay 02.0] Unbroken

by Melody Grace

  I sigh. “We’re not sure yet,” I say vaguely. My dad picks up fluttering fans wherever he goes. I guess charm is everything when you’re rotten to the core, like him.

  “Oh, well tell him to give me a call, if he’s ever down here.”

  “He won’t be,” I answer shortly. “Thanks for the keys, I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

  Hallie trips away, unsteady on her heels. I watch through the front window as she climbs into the Lexus and drives away with a wave.

  I’m left alone.

  I pause a moment in the hall, steeling myself. Suddenly, it’s too quiet, too still. Nothing but the sound of the distant waves lapping up against the shore, occasional birdsong, a car engine passing in the distance. Just me here, with all the memories.

  With Emerson…

  I feel a bubble of familiar panic rise in my chest. I rummage through my purse and find the vial of pills there, small and white and reassuring. I count them out again: one, two, three, four, five.

  They’re the last of my prescription, the one I swore I wouldn’t fill again. Daniel and the doctor don’t understand why I want to quit them: as far as they’re concerned, my panic attacks are a simple problem with a simple solution: meds. But they don’t get the downside, how spaced out and distant the pills make me feel, like there’s a thin wall of water separating me from the world, and every thought or feeling I have is smoothed out and calm.

  After my mom died, it was bliss, to finally have a way of shutting off my emotions. With the terrible agony of my grief, losing her and leaving Emerson behind, all I wanted was to be numb. But as the months passed, it started to scare me, how much I needed them just to get through the day. I finally phased out the anti-depressants, but my panic attacks keep coming around. I can never tell when one’s going to hit. I’ll just be walking down the hallway to class, and suddenly, my heart will start thumping, and the world starts to spin. It’s like an iron band is wrapped around my chest, crushing me, and I’m so caught up in the panic, I feel like I’m going to die. Every time.

  I figured out ways to manage most attacks before they get out of hand: meditation, breathing exercises, and visualization stuff. And just having the pills in my purse makes a difference—knowing that if one hits, I can make it stop. But I wish they weren’t such a crutch for me, always there, tempting me with that numbness all over again. I wish I could be done with the meds for good.

  This time, I don’t need to open the vial. I force myself to slow my breath, and repeat the mantra I designed to steer me through it.

  I’m here. I’m OK. I can get through this.

  Slowly, I feel the panic dissolve, until I can hear the distant crash of the waves again, and the call of the gulls circling on the beach.

  I’m here. I’m OK.

  I look around at the clutter. Better get to work.

  I head out to my car and unload: I brought boxes and packing tape and a carton of extra-thick garbage bags. I start in the hallway and work my way into the kitchen, sorting everything into three categories: trash, donate, and keep. It’s tough work, and by the time the light fades outside the window and the sun sets, I’m hot and sweaty and tired, but the kitchen isn’t even halfway packed.

  My cellphone rings. Daniel. I put down the packing tape and answer. “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey, is everything OK?” Daniel sounds concerned. “You said you’d call when you got there.”

  “Oh.” I stop. “Shit, I’m sorry, I forgot. I figured I’d just get right into the packing,” I add quickly, like an excuse. “Get it done faster.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s it going?”

  I look around at the mess of boxes and garbage bags. “It’s way more work than I figured,” I sigh. “I don’t think I’ll be back by next week. There’s just so much stuff!”

  Daniel laughs, low and comforting. “I had a feeling. Remember when my Uncle Greg died, and I had to go pack up his office? There was like, twenty years of old newspaper clippings all filed away to sort.”

  “Right.” Some of the tension in my chest eases. Daniel understands—he always understands. I picture his brown eyes and lazy smile; he’s probably sprawled on the couch with a beer by now, his reward after a long day in the law library. “Still, I’m sorry,” I add, biting my lip. “I wanted to be back to study, and you have that first big final next week.”

  “It’s OK.” Daniel sounds unconcerned by my delay. “I’ll probably be in the bunker working all weekend. Except, I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” I reply softly.

  “Hey, how about I come down and help out?” he suggests. “Two pairs of hands will be faster than one, and I could use the break. I’ve been staring at the same chapters on contract law so long, it’s all a blur.”

  “No!” I yelp loudly. “Thanks, I mean, but I have to study too. Here I figure, with all the peace and quiet, and the ocean…” I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help the panic that rises in my chest whenever I think about Daniel here, in this town, in this house—my past clashing up against my future. I’ve worked so hard to keep them apart, make it a clean break, that somehow I know him being here would be too much for me to take.

  “It’ll just be another few days.” I promise him quickly. “A week, tops. Not even. I’ll pack and study, be done in no time.”

  “Don’t work too hard,” Daniel warns me affectionately. “Or do I have to text you reminders to eat and sleep?”

  “No,” I protest. “I can take care of myself!”

  “And remember to meditate. You know you get panicky—”

  “I know,” I cut him off quickly.

  “OK, well take care, call me tomorrow.”

  “Love you,” I whisper to him, and I hang up, alone in the now-dark room. Despite my protest to Daniel, I realize that he’s right: I haven’t eaten all day. My stomach growls restlessly.

  I look around. I brought groceries with me, I could just cook a simple pasta on the stove, or nuke a frozen meal, but then I’d have to sit here to eat it, alone with all these ghosts…

  No. I need real food, and more importantly, I need a real drink.

  I grab my sweatshirt and my keys and go.

  There’s only one place in town to get a decent drink, or food served past nine p.m.: Jimmy’s Tavern. I pull into the parking lot, already mostly full with beat-up old pickup trucks. I find myself nervously scanning the rows for that familiar flash of cherry red. No sign of it.

  What did you expect? I scold myself. The way Emerson always drove, he’s probably crashed that truck three times over by now—taking the turns too fast, radio blaring.

  His hand resting possessively on my thigh…

  I glance in the rearview mirror and let out a whimper. My hair is sticking to my forehead in sweaty strands, and any makeup I had on at the start of the day has long since been wiped away. I pull some lip gloss from my purse and quickly swipe it on, pulling my hair back into a loose braid, just in case.

  Just in case what?

  I stop, blinking at my own reflection. This is ridiculous—I can’t creep around town, expecting to find Emerson hiding behind every corner. No matter how shitty things ended between us, it’s been years now, I’m over it. I’m happy off in my new life, with an amazing future, and an even more wonderful boyfriend waiting back home for me.

  The thought of Daniel is like a cold shower on my nervous emotions. I tug my hair free again, wipe off the lip gloss, and quickly walk through the main doors.

  Right away, I’m surrounded by the low hum of conversation and laughter. It’s a weathered old dive bar, with Bon Jovi playing on the jukebox, and people playing pool over in the corner. I go take a seat on a stool at the far end of the bar and quickly sweep my eyes across the crowd. I see some old familiar faces, regulars I remember from when I was back in town last, but nobody gives me a second look, or any flicker of recognition.

  I let out a slow breath of relief. I didn’t realize until now how tight I was wound, wondering if I’d see Emerson ag
ain. Or not even him, but someone who knew him, well enough to come say “hi” and ask after me and my family.

  “What can I get you?” The bartender asks, strolling over to me. I’ve not seen him before—he’s young and blonde, wearing a plaid shirt and a laid-back smile.

  “Jack and coke,” I reply. “And a burger, thanks.”

  “Coming right up.” He grabs the liquor bottle from the row on the shelf behind him, and gives me a long pour. “You just get in to town?”

  I pause. “How did you tell?” I frown.

  He gives me a lazy grin. “I know everyone in town.”

  His eyes flick over me, and I remember that I haven’t changed since breakfast with Daniel this morning, what feels like weeks ago. My preppy silk dress and sandals may be normal for the city, but here in Beachwood, the uniform is cutoff jeans and flip flops. “You got me,” I tell him, uncomfortable.

  “I’ll go see about that burger,” he winks at me, and strolls away.

  I shift awkwardly on my stool, registering how out of place I must look. Further down the bar, a couple of guys in baseball caps and workman’s tans are checking me out with long looks. I try to ignore them. I grasp my drink and take a long sip. It’s strong, and the alcohol burns in the back of my throat, but I keep drinking. I need it tonight, with all these old ghosts dancing around the edge of my mind, trying to trip me up.

  I turn my mind to safer things, like trying to remember the last time I was in a bar alone, without friends or Daniel. The answer is never. Even back in college, I was never really the bar-hopping type. Lacey dragged me off to parties, and the pub crawls in the city, but after Emerson, my heart was too raw to make a real go of it and flirt with the frat boys lining up on a Friday night. I didn’t even want the random make-outs Lacey would always use to rebound after her heart got dented by a guy. My pain was too deep for that. Nothing was ever going to make it better.

  At least, that’s what I thought. Then I wound up meeting Daniel in my Ethics class, spring semester of my sophomore year. He’s three years older than me, but was taking the class to make up a basic requirement for law school. The first few weeks, he just smiled at me. Cute brown hair, brown eyes, preppy Oxford shirts and pants. There was something genuine in his expression, like he had a joke to share with me—just me—so soon, I found myself smiling back. Then he moved to sit beside me, just appearing in the next seat one day, offering me a spare pen and a copy of his notes. We paired up for assignments and started studying together, and by the time the end of the semester came, he finally asked me out on a date.

  A real date. It was funny—there I was, surrounded by casual hook-ups and one-night stands, and Daniel took the time to do it right. While Lacey was hanging off two a.m. booty texts from random guys, I was getting to know him the old-fashioned way. Dinner and a movie. Weekend brunch, then strolling the bookstores and cute boutiques in the arts district. Somehow, Daniel could tell I needed the time. After everything I’d been through, I wasn’t about to just throw myself into something all over again, risk my newly-healed heart on another guy when I knew just how much it could hurt me to love someone the way I’d loved before.

  Because I couldn’t love another man like that, even if I tried. That part of me—the part that loved so recklessly, desperately—it was dead and gone. But as the months passed with Daniel, and my fears slowly melted away, I came to realize: maybe love doesn’t have to destroy you. Maybe it’s not all unbearable passion, and kisses that make you want to die. Maybe love can be that gentle breeze my mom told me about: strong, and sure, and true.

  “Time for another round.”

  I look up. One of the guys from down the bar has sidled over. “I’m Kenny,” he says, standing over me, too close, so I can smell the faint scent of sweat and beer and tobacco on his breath.

  I try not to recoil.

  “No thanks,” I answer firmly.

  “Aww, c’mon,” he grins at me, tanned and solid-looking, but with a cocky arrogance about his stare. “What’ll it be? You want one of those girly cocktails, or are you up for the hard stuff?”

  Kenny leers at me, his gaze slipping suggestively over my chest, and even though my neckline is sensible—hell, practically demure—I feel naked under his stare, in all the worst ways.

  My chest tightens. I feel sick.

  “I said no thanks,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice low. I don’t want a scene, but this guy seems determined to talk to me. “Really, I’m good. You can get back to your friend.”

  Kenny’s smile slips. “What, you won’t drink with townies?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I answer quickly. I look around, but nobody’s paying us any attention, and the bartender is still out in the back.

  “Sure, but it’s the truth,” Kenny sneers at me. “You think you’re too good for us, is that it?”

  “No.” My voice is louder now. I catch the eye of an older woman at the next table, but she just drops her eyes and glances away.

  “So have a drink.” His eyes narrow meanly. “Maybe it’ll loosen you up.”

  I gulp. I know exactly what kind of loose he wants, and that’s never going to happen.

  Even though I’m still hungry and I have food coming, I can’t stay. I scramble down from my stool and quickly pull a twenty from my purse, leaving it on the bar. “I have to go,” I tell him quickly, taking two steps towards the door.

  He blocks my path. “Where you going?” He reaches out to touch my cheek. I flinch back. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

  “Please…” My voice comes out a whisper, heart pounding. “I have to go.”

  “Or what?” His smile is tense. “You got someone waiting on you?” he snorts. “Poor fucker, living with a frigid bitch like you.”

  What comes next happens so fast I barely have time to register it. One minute, Kenny is leaning in towards me, the next, he’s flying through the air. He lands with a crash into the nearest table, glasses smashing to the floor. His assailant doesn’t pause a second; he goes after him, grabbing his shirt by the collar to pull him up from the ground, while the other fist smashes into his face in several quick jabs. Blood pours down Kenny’s face as he splutters, flailing helplessly against the attack.

  The other guy just keeps punching.

  I gasp. “Stop it!” I cry, rushing forward. I grab the other guy by the shoulders, trying to pull him away, but he’s too big: six feet of solid muscle, the sinews in his back rippling with every new blow he rains down on Kenny, now bloody and whimpering on the floor.

  “Please,” I beg, desperate. “You’ll kill him!”

  The guy finally pauses, just for a second. I grab a fist-full of his T-shirt and haul him away.

  He turns, breathing heavily, violence still alight in those deep blue constellations I know by heart.

  Emerson.

  I freeze, staring at him in total shock. Of all the ways I’d imagine meeting him again, all the millions of scenarios I used to invent, none of them involved a guy beaten and bloody on the floor, and a whole bar of people staring at us.

  I hear blood rushing in my ears, and suddenly, I’m dizzy. I can’t breathe. But this isn’t a panic attack, this is something else altogether. Here he is in front of me, like all those nights I tried not to think about him, but wound up replaying every moment and every kiss all the same.

  Emerson. In front of me. At last.

  My eyes drink him in, greedy. He’s older now; of course he is. I’ve been remembering the young man he used to be, but the boyish glint in his eye is gone now: he’s all grown up. All man. His features are etched deeper, dark stubble shading across his jaw. His dark hair is cropped short, showing the strong curve of his skull, and that body that was always slim and taut is stronger now—arm muscles pressing at the fabric on his black T-shirt, his whole torso radiating power and animal rage.

  “Jules.” He says it hoarsely, still breathing heavily from the fight. Not that it was a fight, not really, it was annihilation.

 
My eyes meet his again. We’re standing three feet apart, but the connection between us is like a surge of electricity, surging from his dark gaze to mine.

  “I…I…” I stutter, gasping for air, but no words come. Seeing him is more than I ever imagined: his presence fills my world, overwhelming, like there’s nothing else in the room. Like the room doesn’t even exist—it’s only him, and me, and the storm of emotions crashing through me I thought I’d never feel again.

  It’s too much. God, it’s all too much.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt, and turn on my heel and flee. I push past the other people crowding round, and out of the doors. My footsteps echo in the dark parking lot as I sprint for my car.

  Tears sting in the back of my throat. I don’t know what happened back there, how I could just fall apart with one look from him, but suddenly, it’s like I’m eighteen all over again, feeling everything so fresh and fierce, as if for the first time.

  How could I be so stupid to think I’d ever be over him?

  “Jules! Juliet, wait!”

  He’s coming after me.

  I don’t slow, fumbling in my bag for my keys. I have to get away, before he can see me, see what a wreck I’m reduced to with just one glance.

  “What, I don’t even get a thank you?”

  Emerson’s voice echoes, sarcastic, in the empty lot.

  I stop. Suddenly I’m mad as hell—furious at myself for falling apart so easily after all this time, but more than that, I’m angry at him. Hot, spitting, fists-clenched furious.

  I whirl around. “Thank you?” I spit back at him, my voice high and fevered. “What the hell was that in there? You could have killed him!”

  Emerson folds his arms, lips set in a thin, determined line. He’s standing in the shadows, his body coiled, dark and forbidding. “He deserved it.”

  I feel the anger boil up in me. Now I remember it: the dark side to Emerson’s passion. The jealous streak, the possessive arm around my shoulder. I used to feel safe in it, treasured, like I was the most important girl in the world, but this is different. He has no right to act like I belong to him, not anymore.