by Melody Grace
Juliet.
It figures. The girl was trouble. I didn’t pay too much attention in class, but even I know, Romeo was screwed from the first minute she walked into his life.
“I’m Emerson,” I call back, and then I can’t help but smile. Because she’s still looking like a dark, pissed-off angel there in the middle of the wet highway. Because for some strange reason, I feel better now, just knowing her name. Because when her eyes meet mine again, there’s a crackle of possibility between us, sweeter than anything I’ve ever known.
This summer just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.
“Welcome to Cedar Cove.”
JULIET
The house is just the way I remember it from when I was a kid: sitting squarely in the lush, green yard like something from a picture postcard. There are blue shingles and a white trim, with a wide wraparound porch and a path winding past the house, back to the beach. As we pull off the back-road into the drive-way, I can see the pale sands of the shoreline through a gap in the trees, and hear the sound of the waves, crashing just out of sight.
The rain has passed now. The scene looks so peaceful, it’s hard to believe I’ve got a tight knot of dread in the pit of my stomach, just at the thought of being stuck here with my family for the whole summer.
“You OK now, sweetie?” My mom puts the car in park and turns to me, concerned.
“Fine.” I snap back, tearing the car door open and getting out.
“Are you sure?” Mom follows me around to the trunk. “Dr. Atkins gave us a prescription, for when you get these panic attacks—”
“It wasn’t a panic attack.” I cut her off, lying. “I was just freaked out. You did nearly kill us, remember?”
What I remember is that guy on the road, Emerson, and the total fool I made of myself stammering all over him. I cringe at the memory, hauling out my duffel bag and heading up the porch steps. When I try the door, it’s unlocked; I step inside, trying to calm myself down. I’ve been anxious and on-edge ever since our near-crash out on the highway.
Don’t you mean since meeting the hottest guy you’ve ever seen?
I pause. In a flash, I can see Emerson right in front of me: his dark hair wet from the rain, his shirt clinging to the muscles of his torso. He was wearing faded jeans and scuffed old work boots, with the dark ink of a tattoo spiraling up across one taut bicep.
Everything about him screamed trouble.
I blush, remembering his smirk when he caught me checking him out—and the heat of his gaze as he slowly raked his eyes across my body, from my head all the way down to my toes. I don’t think anyone’s every looked at me like that: with such blatant desire. It made me feel naked, and self-conscious, as if he could see through my damp clothes to every inch of my bare flesh. It set my blood singing in my veins, made my skin prickle with a quicksilver shiver.
It made me feel alive.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” My mom comes in behind me, snapping me out of the memory.
I quickly look around. It’s like a time-warp in here: childhood photos on the walls, the scuffed floorboards laid with threadbare rugs. Through the hallway I can see the kitchen and dining room with their faded floral wallpaper. “Just like when you were younger, right?”
“It’s smaller.” I reply shortly. She laughs,
“You’re just bigger now. My baby girl, all grown up.” Her expression gets wistful, and I have to duck quickly past her to avoid a hug.
“I’m going to unpack.” I tell her, already taking the stairs, two at a time.
“OK. I’ll bring in the rest of the stuff…”
Her voice echoes behind me as I check out the bedrooms on the first floor. There are two rooms here, and a small blue-tiled bathroom, but up another flight of stairs at the back of the house, I find another small bedroom, buried under the eaves. Mine. There’s barely room for an old dresser and a bed, but the room is light and airy, and the windows open out to a drop-dead gorgeous view of the shoreline.
I fling open the shutters, and heave the old sash windows up. I lean out, taking a deep breath of the salty sea air. The clouds are clearing, showing patches of blue sky, and I close my eyes a moment, feeling the sun burn through my eyelids. I should feel lucky I know, but no matter how beautiful the scenery is, nothing can shake the twisted truth, buried beneath my mom’s cheerfulness and all her bright chatter about what an amazing time we’re going to have here together.
It’s all a lie.
The familiar panic creeps back into my body, and I catch my breath, forcing myself to stay calm. I’ve been getting these panic attacks for years now, off and on, but lately they’re worse than ever. Stress, my doctor says – with senior year, and college looming – but school has always been the least of my problems. It’s only when I start thinking about the things I can’t control that my chest gets tight and my skin starts to prickle with heat, and a three-ton weight starts pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.
Please, not now, I try and shut it down before the attack can take hold. I cross to the bed and grab my camera from my bag. It’s an old manual SLR model, a gift from my grandpa, and by now, it’s like another limb to me. I cradle the familiar case in my hands, carefully screwing on a new lens and winding on a fresh film. The routine calms me, the panic ebbs away. I snap the case closed, and thunder downstairs.
“Going for a walk!” I yell to Mom, who I can hear settling into the main bedroom. I don’t stop: racing out the back of the house and across the yard until I hit the sand. I kick off my sneakers and sprint down to the water, shrieking as the cold surf laps against my skin.
I snap photos of the deep blue ocean, tipped with white foam; the grey clouds blowing fast across the sky to reveal sailor’s blue and a bright midday sun. But no matter how much I focus on the frame, and light, and all the dozens of details that go into making up the perfect photograph, I can’t ignore the real problem.
Three months. Here, with my family, play-acting like we’re all OK? I don’t know if I can make it.
It’s bad enough when we’re at home: watching Dad knock back his fourth scotch of the evening, rolling his eyes and insulting Mom with obvious disdain. Worse still is the way Mom doesn’t seem to mind. She loves him, through it all, turning a blind eye to all his drinking and late nights with his TAs over at the college. I can stay out of it, most of the time: study late at the library, work my after-school job at the art supply store. But here, together under one roof, with my older sister too?
I’m going to lose my mind.
The only reason I said ‘yes’ to this whole charade is that Mom asked me. No, more like she begged, all of us. For some reason, she’s got it into her head we’re going to be one big happy family for one last summer before I go off to art school in California in the fall. I’m counting down the days until I can put a thousand miles between me and Dad, and Carina too, but there’s one thing tainting the thought of my escape: the fact I’ll be leaving Mom too.
The thought of her, alone in that house, with no support against Dad’s bitter, drunken tirades… It fills me with a guilt and shame that only gets stronger, the closer I get to leaving. But part of me resents her for it too—she’s made her choice, she’s choosing to stay with him. Choosing to love him. So why should I feel so guilty, wanting to get the hell away from that toxic house and never make the same mistake as her, never settle for something so cold and silent and still? Love isn’t meant to be a prison like that, trapping you with fear and insecurity. She could go, find something better—hell, anything would be better than the life she has with him—but instead, she hangs on, through everything, waiting for the affection that never comes.
Not me. I brace myself against the splash of the cold surf, breathing in the salt and wind, and the curve of the distant horizon. I don’t know what my life will hold yet, I’m just on the edge of everything, but I swear, it will be better than this.
It has to be.
I stay on the beach taking photos for the rest of the aft
ernoon. When I get back to the house, mom is asleep in the porch chair, so I scribble a note and leave it on the kitchen table.
Gone into town to explore. Back later.
I pause. I’m still dressed in the clothes from the journey out. My shorts and T-shirt are dry now after the rain, but wrinkled and scruffy. I quickly race upstairs and change, picking out a pretty tank top edged in lace, and some cute blue shorts. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror as I pull the fresh shirt over my head. I blush.
This isn’t for him. I tell myself sternly. For all you know, Emerson doesn’t even live in town; he’s just passing through.
Still, that doesn’t stop me dabbing on some lip-gloss, and fixing my hair in a braid before thundering back downstairs and out to the garage, to pick out one of the rusted old bicycles and push off towards town.
The winding back-road is empty, and the sound of birdsong and rustle of the trees in the wind is a strange backdrop after our city suburb, with the lawns all trimmed neatly, and cookie-cutter houses laid out in straight lines. But as I cycle, I’m not thinking about the scenery, or the freedom of summer stretching out in front of me. There’s only one thing on my mind.
Him.
Emerson. I roll the name around my mind, feeling that anxious flutter in my stomach just at the thought of him. It’s crazy, I know, the way I fell to pieces just from one look of those midnight blue eyes. When I remember the way I stuttered and stared at him in a daze, it makes me hot with embarrassment all over again.
And just plain hot.
I grip the handlebars tighter. It was never a big deal in high-school, but now I’ve graduated – about to head off to college – I’m realizing just how inexperienced I am when it comes to guys. To sex. The truth is, the sum total of my romantic experience is a couple of sloppy makeout sessions in the back room of some basement party with a guy from this local garage band. My friend Shana was dating the lead singer, and so when it got late, and everyone else was pairing off, I’d wind up hanging with the drummer, playing video games and killing time waiting for our friends to be done doing… whatever they were doing.
But even then, hooking up with him was more curiosity than anything: an experiment, trying to figure out what it was that sent Shana giggling after her guy with that knowing smile on her face; that made the girls in school pour over their cellphones and ditch class to meet guys. But the experiments never worked. For all my drummer boy’s enthusiastic groping, all I felt was restless, detached. I never got it, never knew what it was I was missing out on.
Not until Emerson smiled at me.
Jesus. I try to shake the thought away as I turn off the dirt road onto Main Street. One smile—it’s like I’m so starved of male attention that I’m melting for the first guy to check me out. But even as I scold myself, I know it’s not true. The heat in his eyes as they trailed over my body lit some answering flame in me; nerves and synapses crackling to life with a deep pull I’d only ever glimpsed from far away. Call it desire, or lust, or just plain possibility, but it was something new. And now I’ve had a taste, I can’t help but look for him on every street as I cycle slowly through town, hoping to see that red truck parked on the corner, or his tall, muscular body strolling down the sidewalk.
I make a slow circuit down to the harbor and back, but it doesn’t take long for me to tour the entirety of Cedar Cove, and soon, I’m right back where I started. I pull over, fastening my bike up outside Mrs. Olsen’s, a cute little diner I remember serving the biggest ice-cream floats I’d ever seen. I must have been seven years old back then, but when I step inside the front door and the bell rings out, I swear, it hasn’t changed at all. Red chequered linoleum covers the floor, and a jukebox in the corner plays old Motown songs to the blue plate special crowd.
“Sit anywhere, honey.” An older woman calls from the front counter, so I pick a booth by the window.
Just in case Emerson comes by.
I pull out my workbook and busy myself until my shake arrives, sketching out plans for my summer photography projects. I want to work on my portfolio, so maybe I can do a series on the town, or something about the shoreline, and how it’s changed…
I’m lost in thought when the waitress brings my drink. “Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. Then I look down, and realize my hands are covered in dirt from the bicycle. “Hey, do you have a bathroom here?”
“Right in back.” She points it out for me. I leave my sweater in the booth but take my purse. I guess old city habits die hard: out here, they probably all leave their doors unlocked, and give rides to strangers.
The bathroom is a small, two-stall room. I’m rinsing my hands at the sink when I hear a muffled sobbing noise, coming from the occupied stall.
I stop.
The noise comes again, ragged, like someone’s weeping, and doing their best not to be heard.
“Hello?” I ask cautiously. “Is everything OK?”
Another sob comes, louder.
I move over to the door, and tap gently. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“N…no.” A woman’s voice replies, hoarse. “I…I’m fine.”
I stand there, awkward. “Are you sure? I could call someone for you.”
There’s a pause, and then the door swings open to reveal a woman huddled on the seat with tissue paper bunched in her hands. She’s older, in her forties maybe, wearing a cheap red tank top and jeans, with mascara running down her cheeks and dark roots under bleached hair.
She looks up at me, and her expression is so hopeless, I catch my breath. “Are you OK?” I ask again. She’s nervy, jittering, and I realize what’s wrong. I’ve seen it before, with my dad, every time he goes more than a day or two without a drink. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
She shakes her head, inhaling and wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
The woman gets up, and I stand back to let her past. She takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then her legs give way. I rush to hold her up, but her weight is too much for me. I lower her gently, so she’s crumpled on the floor, leaning against the wall.
“I’ll go get someone,” I say hurriedly. She doesn’t look hurt, but her face is pale, and her eyes are bloodshot; her whole body trembling.
“No, I’m fine, I just need a moment!” she protests, but I’m already out of the door.
I find the waitress by the register. “I need some help,” I say quietly. “There’s a woman back there, she’s in a bad way…About this tall,” I describe. “Blondish hair, red tank top…”
The waitress’s face changes.“Dawn.” She sighs with recognition. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll handle it.” She moves to the phone, and dials a number.
“Is she hurt?” I ask, worried.
“Only what she does to herself.” The woman’s tone is resigned. “Thanks for looking out, but we’ll be fine. Your shake is melting.” She points to my booth, but I shake my head.
“It’s OK. I’ll stay with her.”
The waitress shrugs, as if to say, ‘suit yourself’, and then starts murmuring into the phone. I collect a wad of napkins and some ice-water, and head back to the bathroom.
The woman hasn’t moved. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, like she wishes she was anywhere but here.
“Here, you’re Dawn, right?” I say, crouching beside her. “We’re calling someone for you.”
She takes the water and sips, avoiding my gaze. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk, so I wait in silence beside her until, after what feels like forever, the bathroom door flies open.
“Get up.” The order comes in a harsh voice that sends a shock right through me. I recognize that voice, from just a few hours ago, but it can’t be….
It is.
Emerson.
I stare up at him, stunned. I can tell from the expression on his face, he’s just as surprised to find me here. He’s still wearing that faded grey T-shirt from before; his eyes a stormy blue as he glances quickly fr
om Dawn back to me. “What are you--?” He starts to demand, looking so mad, I scramble to my feet.
“I found her like this.” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… They said they were calling someone, but I thought I should wait, make sure she was OK...”
Now it’s my turn to trail off into silence, my words dying as I take in the anger and harsh, flinty resentment etched across his chiseled face. He looks like a totally different person to the guy I met earlier: that Emerson was smirking, flirtatious, playful. Even when he was yelling at me about the accident, there was something confident about him, full of swagger. But this Emerson looks hollowed out, so tense it’s like his body could snap with just one touch.
Hold him.
The thought comes from nowhere, and I fight it off, waiting until finally, Emerson gives a sharp nod. “Thanks,” he grounds out, like he means anything but. “I got it from here.”
He reaches down and grabs the woman’s arm. “Come on, mom.” he grounds out through gritted teeth.
Mom?
“You’re hurting her.” Before I can think better of it, I rush forwards and gently help Dawn to her feet. “Do you think you can walk OK?” I ask softly, looking her straight in the eyes.
“Sure she can.” Emerson interrupts, but I ignore him, keeping my focus fixed on the woman’s watery eyes.
“Just hold onto me, OK?” I tell her brightly. “Easy there.” I put my arm around her shoulders, helping her along, and slowly, we shuffle out of the bathroom and back into the diner. Thankfully, it’s almost empty, and the family in the corner is more concerned with the toddler grabbing at their plates than us. “Don’t worry,” I tell Dawn, guiding her outside. “We’ll get you home soon, OK?”
Emerson’s red truck is parked out front, slung at an angle across the street like he didn’t take the time to park.
“I got it from here.” he tells me curtly, when Dawn is delivered into the passenger seat. He doesn’t meet my eyes, or say anything more, he just slams the door and strides around to the driver’s side like I’m not even here anymore.
