Credence

by Penelope Douglas

  “I need you to go to a motel in town,” I tell her, stopping at the car. “I’ll come to you in a bit. I’ll meet you there.”

  “What?” she blurts out. “No!”

  “Please?” I plead, gazing into her brown eyes with those warm flecks of amber. “I need to do something here. Please. Don’t worry.”

  “Tiernan,” she starts.

  But someone approaches, and I look over, seeing Kaleb open the car’s back door, set my suitcase inside, and close it again.

  I freeze.

  I watch as he moves to the passenger’s side front door and open it for me, meeting my eyes.

  And suddenly, Mirai isn’t here. Jake and Noah aren’t watching from the porch, and I can’t feel the rain that’s turned lighter now, hitting my head.

  He’s helping me leave.

  He’s telling me to leave.

  I stare at him, my eyes burning, but I’m too shocked to cry. He’s drawing a line. The line I was afraid to draw earlier when I packed. I didn’t want to leave.

  I just thought I’d give us some space.

  Or maybe I hoped he’d find me gone and come after me.

  He’s telling me to go, though. He would rather me leave than ever have to say anything to me.

  I hold his beautiful green eyes, seeing the emotion behind that he tries to hide, but as I try to search for what to say to solve this—to save us—there are no words left.

  Maybe words were never really the problem. Actions speak louder, don’t they say?

  And his are loud and clear.

  I climb into the car, as if on auto-pilot, quickly closing the door, my insides knotting and twisting, because the idea of leaving isn’t real. This can’t be happening.

  This isn’t happening.

  “Kaleb,” I hear Noah bark.

  Mirai rounds the car, hopping into the driver’s side and putting the car in reverse.

  “Tiernan!” Jake bellows, and I see him pounding down the steps out of the corner of my eye.

  “No!” Noah yells.

  Jake slams his hand on the hood of the car, staring at us through the windshield. “Stop!”

  “Just go,” I tell her, turning my head away so Kaleb can’t see the tears. “Please…. please just go.”

  She locks the doors, slams on the gas, and I bury my face in my hands until we’re deep, down the dark highway, away from the house, and I can’t see his face again.

  Tiernan

  I move my spoon through the soup, listening to the quiet. God, this house is like a tomb. I always knew that, but damn.

  Right now, the boys would be watching TV, Noah laughing loudly while Jake yelled at him from the kitchen about his damn dishes.

  There would be music.

  Joking and playing.

  Life.

  There would be Kaleb.

  My chin trembles. It’s been twenty-two hours since I’ve seen him.

  Everything feels foreign now. I look around my parents’ white kitchen, pristine marble counter tops, and chrome appliances. This isn’t my home.

  Mirai pushes a leather binder across the island to me. I glance at it.

  “They left you everything, of course,” she says. “This is for your records.”

  My parents’ will stares back at me, and I look away, back to my soup.

  God, I don’t care. My heart has been ripped out, and it’s still laying in their driveway in Chapel Peak.

  I blink away the tears. I need to stop trying to understand how he could let me go. It’s nothing I’m not used to.

  At least my parents left me the money. At least I was a mention in the will. Proof that they cared enough to make sure I’d be okay.

  I was always sure of a life of comfort with them, if nothing else. I’m so rich, I’ll never have to lift a finger in the world or even leave this house if I don’t want to.

  Six months ago, I might’ve been grateful for that.

  “Don’t stay here,” she begs. “Stay with me. Or rent an apartment? You need people around you.”

  I sit up, pushing the bowl away from me. “You know me by now,” I tell her. “I may have the personality of a brick, but…I don’t need anyone.”

  I’m kidding. I need the candy-making people and… the Netflix people.

  “It’s not a weakness to need anyone,” Mirai says, watching me. “Except those pricks. If I knew what they were going to do, I wouldn’t have let you get on that plane. Twice.”

  “Stop.” I shake my head at her, tired all of a sudden. “That’s not what happened, and I’m not a child. I haven’t been one for a long time.”

  She looks away, her lips tight, but she stays quiet.

  I told her everything on the car ride to the airport last night. She was livid, almost running us off the road, and she nearly turned us around to go back to the house so she could deal with my uncle. I had to beg her to reconsider. I cried the whole plane ride to L.A.

  I didn’t mean to spill everything, but I needed perspective. I needed a new friend, I guess.

  “They’re my family,” I say, my voice gentle. “We were forced together and shit happened.”

  I was there. Not her.

  My only wrong-step was falling in love with one of them.

  She looks like she wants to say more, but eventually, she nods, letting it go for now. “Carter is walking the grounds,” she says, slipping her heels back on. “I’ll be back later with some clothes.”

  “I’m fine,” I assure her.

  Security is here. I don’t need a sleepover.

  But she looks at me level. “Just let me care about you, okay?”

  Something in her voice shuts me up, like she’s done being nice and done asking.

  Kind of like Jake. I give her a small smile.

  She hugs me, and I close my eyes, squeezing my arms around her.

  She says goodbye and leaves, and I prop up my elbows on the counter, staring at the will.

  But the silver case to my left out of the corner of my eye is all I can really see.

  I look over at the urn that looks like a large jewelry box, sterling silver with ornate etchings. Mirai has been keeping it until she brought it to me tonight. Just one urn for them both.

  My parents wanted to be buried at the tree with the swing in the yard, clearly never questioning that I would stay here or ever sell this house.

  I bury my face in my hands, letting out a groan. This ache, like something is burrowing into my stomach, and I know my eyes are puffy, even if I haven’t looked in a mirror since yesterday morning when I envisioned myself pregnant with Kaleb’s baby.

  God, yesterday morning. How can so much have changed in one day?

  Sliding off the stool, I stick my hands in the pocket of my hoodie and drift around the house, taking in how much has changed. Everything is still in its place, nothing really different. Except for the way I’m seeing it.

  The fireplace was for show, only turned on for parties or holiday pictures, and it runs on gas. No need for firewood, no crackles of the logs or smell of burning bark.

  Every few years, rooms were redecorated, furniture that had barely been used replaced with a new style. At no time did I ever veg out on the couch to watch TV or make popcorn for a movie night.

  The boys would tear this place up in no time. I shake my head, picturing a deer head over the mantel.

  I drift upstairs and stop at the top of the landing, ready to veer left for my room, but I pause, staring right. My parents’ bedroom door sits closed, and I head over, gripping the handle.

  The cool brass seeps down to my bones, and I can still hear her voice behind the door. The glass she’s drinking from clanking against the marble tops of the tables inside and the pills in my father’s bottle jiggling as he tries to gear up for his stressful days.

  I should’ve talked.

  Screamed, yelled, cried…

  I should’ve asked.

  I release the handle, leaving the door closed, and walk for my room and open the door. As s
oon as I step inside, however, something fills up in my lungs, and I don’t know what it is, but a small laugh escapes as the tears stream at the same time.

  The ominous Virginia Woolf posters and photographs of myself in thoughtful poses staring off into the wind.

  Jesus.

  My parents always kept recent photographs of me for reference during interviews, but the decorator thought putting some in my room wasn’t weird at all.

  And gray. Gray everywhere.

  Gray fur coverlet. Gray walls. Gray carpet. It’s like Pleasantville. I’m almost scared to look in the mirror.

  I stand there, no desire to move farther. This was never my room.

  Spinning around, I head down the stairs and back into the kitchen, not sure what the hell I’m doing, but I know it’s something. I grab a tea light and a lighter out of the drawer and tuck my parents’ urn under my arm as I head through the house and into the garage. Digging through some drawers I finally find a garden shovel and grab it.

  Just do it. I couldn’t stand up at their funeral and show them, myself, or anyone else that my soul wasn’t fucking crippled, but I can get this done for them.

  Hurrying outside, I circle the house and head to the tree, the tire swing that Mirai cut down and left laying on the ground now gone.

  I drop to my knees, light the candle and set it in the grass, giving me just enough light.

  I start digging. Stabbing the grass, I work out a patch and keep slicing through the soil, making the hole wider and deeper. My belly churns, the box sitting there like a fucking bomb about to go off. I can’t believe they’re ashes.

  Fucking ashes. They were so much before. Large. So important.

  And now…they fit in a shoe box.

  A fucking shoe box.

  A sob escapes, but I swallow the rest down and toss the shovel away.

  God.

  Slowly, I open up the box and—very gently—remove the clear plastic bag.

  It’s the weight of a truck, even though it’s barely the weight of an infant.

  I carefully spread the ashes in the hole, stuff the empty bag back into the box, and push the dirt over top, covering the hole again.

  I choke on the tears and brush off my hands, collapsing to the ground and sitting with my back up to the tree.

  It’s that easy, isn’t it? It’s so easy to bury them—to throw things away—but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t still felt. That what they did disappears, too, because it doesn’t.

  I wish they’d had gotten to know me.

  I wish they didn’t have to die for me to be given the opportunity to know myself.

  Sometimes the clouds aren’t enough, I guess. We need the whole damn storm.

  I stay out there for a long time, looking up at the thick bough above from where my father tied the rope for the swing. The wear in the bark shows years of all the nights they played. It’s still surreal to me that I never once came out here to sit on the swing.

  But then, there was no one to push me.

  I blow out the candle and take everything back inside, putting it away and closing the house up. I turn off the lights, making sure the back door is locked but not bolting the front, because Mirai is coming back.

  Climbing the stairs, I yawn, excruciatingly tired. It’s after seven here, so it’s only after eight in Chapel Peak. What’s he doing right now? He wouldn’t be going to bed yet. Not unless I was, and then he goes where I go.

  My heart aches. I don’t think I expected him to call, but I wasn’t sure I expected that he’d just accept us being apart, either. But here we are, a day later, and nothing.

  I stop at the top of the stairs, about to head to bed, but I step right instead and walk to my parents’ door, opening it up this time.

  The smell of vanilla and bergamot assault me, and I almost hold my breath on reflex. I like the scents, just not together. It will always remind me of her.

  Entering the room, I look around and notice everything is as pristine as if they were still alive. The bed is made, no sign that their bodies laid there for hours all those months ago, and the glass top of my mother’s make-up table glimmers in the moonlight streaming through the sheer white curtains. The crystals dangling from her lamp gleam, and I flip on a light, doing a three-sixty around the large bedroom.

  As much as I try to search for a connection to them, though, it doesn’t come. There are no memories here. No nights of crawling into their bed. No playing with my mother’s make-up or helping my dad with his tie.

  I walk into the closet and turn on the light, gazing at the long line of beautiful dresses I desperately wanted to try on over the years and never could.

  “Hey,” I hear Mirai say behind me.

  She’s back.

  I turn my head slowly, looking at the closet of clothes and the displays of jewelry and watches. I think of all the art in the house and the cars in the garage that have nothing to do with me anymore. A home full of things that were never a part of me, and I no longer desire them to be.

  “Can you call Christie’s in the morning?” I ask Mirai, pulling the closet door closed and twisting around to look at her. “Let’s hold an auction. We’ll donate the proceeds to their favorite charities.”

  “Are you—”

  “Yes,” I cut her off, walking out the door. “I’m sure.”

  “Thank you.” I smile, taking the breakfast burrito and my receipt.

  Walking out of the small shop, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, protecting my AirPods from the light rain as “The Hand That Feeds” plays in my ears. I cross the empty walkway, bypassing the pier, and head out to the beach, sand spilling inside my Vans as my heels dig in.

  The dark clouds hang low as the waves roll in, the morning sun hiding and the beach blissfully empty except for a couple joggers. Two surfers paddle out, their black wetsuits glistening. I plop down and shimmy out of my backpack, taking out my water bottle and sitting cross-legged as I unwrap the foil around my burrito.

  I take a bite and stare out at the ocean, the salt and sea in the air making me smile a little.

  Six weeks.

  Six weeks back in California, and the days are getting easier. The auction will be happening soon, I’ve redecorated my bedroom and revamped some of the furniture in the house, and I’ve chosen a design school in Seattle to attend college in the fall. I have a few months to travel or do just about anything I want to do before school starts.

  I’ve called Jake. He’s called me.

  But he’s not much of a talker on the phone, adamant that I just need to come home and he’ll talk to me there when I do.

  I’m not going home, though. I need to do this.

  I finish my burrito and stuff my trash into my backpack, lifting my water bottle to my mouth. I might not be any happier than I was when I left, but I respect myself, at least. There’s no other choice.

  I lie back, falling onto the sand, ready to feel the small drops on my face.

  But as I look up, someone stands over me, looking down.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Noah?

  I yank out my AirPods and shoot up, pushing my hood off my head.

  “So this is Surf City, huh?” he says, dropping his boots to the ground and plopping down on the sand next to me.

  I gape at him, unable to blink. “Wha—where did you come from?”

  He smiles that Noah smile, and I can’t control myself. Tears shake my chest, and I dive in, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask.

  “Well, you weren’t home,” he tells me, his arms tight around me. “And it was raining, so I took a chance.”

  I let out a laugh, remembering I’d told him about me loving to come to Huntington Beach when it rains. Clever.

  “Actually…” He lets me go, and I sit back to take in his new haircut and sun-kissed face. “My dad snuck a tracking app onto your phone when you weren’t looking after the Holcomb incident at the lake last August.”

&nb
sp; Is that so? I roll my eyes.

  Holcomb.

  I hadn’t thought about him in a while. He pleaded guilty, Jake told me, and got fifteen months for arson, along with a few other charges.

  “So, when did you get in?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Six weeks ago?”

  “Six weeks?” I blurt out. “You’ve been in L.A. for six weeks? Why didn’t you come to the house?”

  He’s been here as long as I have. I haven’t been able to get ahold of him other than texts. Did he intend for it to be a surprise? Because, if so, it took him long enough.

  Six weeks…

  His tone softens, and he looks thoughtful. “I kind of needed to be alone, too.”

  I stare at him, but I’ve got nothing to say. I get it. Shit happened.

  The wind blows my hair, and I push it off my forehead as the rain slowly wets it. “It’s so good to see you,” I tell him.

  “I hoped it would be.”

  Does he have a place, then? He hasn’t been staying in hotels this whole time, has he?

  Either way, I hope this means I’ll see him more now. At least until I leave for school.

  “I’ve got a sponsor,” he chirps.

  “That’s great.” I smile wide. “So, you have a team now.”

  “He’s building one, yes.” He nods. “I’m the lucky first recruit.”

  “He?”

  “Jared Trent of JT Racing,” he tells me. “He’s an interesting guy. Kind of like a cross between my father and Kaleb.”

  The mention of Kaleb gives me pause. Like I’d been pretending none of it was real, and here comes Noah to kick me in the stomach. Everything suddenly hurts.

  But I force a laugh. “Yikes,” I say.

  “I know.” His lips twist up, kind of forlorn. “He doesn’t talk much, and then when he does, you kind of wished he hadn’t.”

  Yeah. Kaleb and Jake are like that.

  “But…he likes what I can do,” Noah continues. “That’s who I need in my corner.”

  I’m glad he found what he was looking for. I hate that he thinks he never had that already, though.