Beautiful Dark (Beautiful Rivers Book 3)

by J. L. White

  I smile and we say our goodbyes. I return to the rental feeling buoyed. Yeah, I had to turn it down, but still. An offer like that is pretty validating. As a bonus, it gives me something else to distract my thoughts as I finally make the drive to my former childhood home.

  Back home, when I first found out the value of the house I inherited, I was so shocked I damn near swallowed my own tongue. Is it made of gold or something? I’d thought. But when I looked it up on Google Maps, I saw it’s just a regular old house. Apparently that price tag is for the privilege of plunking that regular old house down on prime California real estate.

  As I drive through some hilly residential areas past big, expensive looking houses still not as nice as the one that Lizzy lives in, I can’t imagine what all these houses cost. I sympathize with what I’ve imagined my mother’s emotions to be at the time of the accident. She lost everything: her husband, her provider, her home. It’s easy to see how she could feel like Grant Rivers was flinging money in her direction like it’d been a mere afterthought. A painless way to settle the score.

  Following the directions on my GPS, I enter an older neighborhood of more modest houses. A few more turns, and here I am, pulling up to the curb of my childhood home. A place I barely remember. But as I look at it now, it does feel more familiar. An old memory I had forgotten comes back to me. It’s a brief snippet, just me kicking a ball across the yard, around the tree. That’s all. It feels like I must have been around five, so I guess my father would have still been alive.

  I kill the engine and sit in the car for a few minutes, looking at the house and the yard and hoping for more memories. None come. I get out of the car and go up the walk to the front door. The lawyer told me he had the lockbox removed, and I see that’s right.

  The door itself feels familiar, another thing I didn’t know I remembered. It’s white with a sunburst window in the upper quarter. I unlock the door and step inside. Though I do remember the brick fireplace, the empty front room, with an apparently fresh coat of white paint on the walls, brings back no memories. This is only a shell of a place, with no furniture, nothing on the walls, nothing to indicate that my father once lived here.

  I go through an archway into the family room and kitchen area. Even though the kitchen has clearly been upgraded since we lived here, the layout is what I remember. I get a brief flash of sitting at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. Mom is standing on the other side, washing dishes. The counters in front of me are a tasteful gray, but in my memory they are clearly green. Olive green Formica.

  Like the front room, the rear family room is just an empty space. No ghosts from the past call to me as I go through these rooms, my steps echoing off the wood floor.

  I head down the hallway and peek in the bedrooms. There are three, and nothing about them conjures up any memories either.

  I’m not sure what I expected to feel here, but I didn’t expect it to be so sterile. I don’t mean the house. I mean myself. Even with the brief memories I’ve had, I’m neither happy nor upset. I don’t know what I feel. Maybe I’m numb, but for the most part, this house just seems like a house. No more extraordinary than any house.

  It isn’t until I step onto the back patio that a memory of my father surfaces. This one I had not forgotten. In this memory, I’m sitting under the big Valley Oak tree in the center of the yard over there, digging in the ground with a stick and watching a fat worm wiggle out of the muddy hole I just made. My father is crouching down in front of me, his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together. His handsome face looks down at the worm, then me, smiling.

  That’s a big one, sport, he says in my memory. But he says it in my own voice, because I don’t remember what his voice sounds like anymore.

  I slowly cross the grass and draw up under the tree. I put my hand on the rough bark, curling my forefinger and scratching it lightly with my fingertip. My gaze falls onto the blooming Bougainvillea along the back brick wall, which I have no memory of. Even though I’m right here, at this house, in this state, right where everything happened, it still feels so far away and so impossibly long ago.

  That familiar ache I sometimes get from missing my father swells in the base of my throat. I’m twenty-seven years old. It’s been twenty-one years since my father died. I still have moments like this. I think I always will. It can happen in the strangest places, too, so I don’t blame the house.

  Eventually, I lock things up and head to the airport feeling I’ve done what I came to do, and have no more reason to return. I’ll sell it. That’s all.

  While I’m waiting at the gate, I get a text from Lizzy:

  You don’t have to reply, but I said I’d give you some tips on which renovations would most increase the value of your house, if you decide to sell. I’d still be happy to do so, but if you’d rather with someone else, here’s a couple realtors who are trustworthy and know their stuff. Since you don’t know the town, I thought it might be helpful to have some referrals. Thank you for coming yesterday and... sorry again.

  I should at least have the courtesy to send her a thank you. But I really need to cut ties here. So I don’t.

  Later, as the plane taxies down the runway, I have fleeting thoughts of long stretches of beach, and a fantasy job, and a fantasy girl with crystal-blue eyes and a competitive streak. But I let those thoughts slip away as silently as they came. My home is 2000 miles from here, and I need to go back.

  Chapter 7

  Corrine

  When I see my doctor’s name on the caller ID, it’s soon. Way too soon. The MRI was this morning and it’s just getting on dinner time. In the time since I came home, had lunch, and took a nap, he’s already looked the whole thing over?

  Even though I should’ve been prepared, it’s a rather jarring shock anyway. In the two seconds it takes to answer my phone, a million thoughts cross my brain. Rather than go into it, I’ll just say they can all be summed up into one general idea: he’s calling so soon because it’s bad news.

  But when I answer, he says in a light tone, “Hi, Corrine. I’m just calling to let you know I have the results to your test. Everything looks great.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  But, I think numbly, this is the two-year mark. I thought I was doing well the last time I had an MRI at the two-year mark, but no. It turned out, I wasn’t fine at all. Does it really shock him that I don’t necessarily trust his reassurances that I’m doing well?

  “I know you’ve been nervous,” he says, “and I understand. But everything is looking good. You’re doing better than you may think you are.”

  “Okay.”

  “Congratulations. I’ll see you again in six months.”

  “Okay.”

  We hang up. I cock my head at the phone, and the screen goes black. My cloud of stunned silence breaks, giving way to jubilation. Six more months! That means I can get my degree!

  “Halle-fucking-lujah!” I say aloud, my knees bending and arms shooting in the air. I clasp my fists together, press my phone to my chest and bounce around on the balls of my feet.

  Oh man, the biggest freaking thing on my bucket list is earning my bachelor’s degree. And I’m going to do it. I’m really going to finally do it!

  Why aren’t I at Lizzy and Brett’s house? Or Connor and Whitney’s? Or Rayce’s? I need someone to celebrate with. Hell, I’d even settle for Montana. I imagine him dancing around on all fours with me, wagging his tail and barking happily. A laugh escapes me. It’s giddy and wild and out-of-control, just like the happiness ricocheting around in my chest.

  I send a group text to my cousins before calling my mom, then my father, and telling them the news. By the time I’m done with that, Connor and Whitney have invited me over to celebrate.

  I text back to Connor: I’m going to get my degree!

  Connor: Of course! Did you think you wouldn’t?

  I don’t answer, only grin. Ah Connor, ever the optimist. I love that
about him though.

  I put up the obligatory Two-Year-Cancer-Free post on Facebook, already looking forward to the likes and comments I know I’ll receive. I dash out the door, reveling in the familiar breathing space of a six-month reprieve.

  By the time I’m back at Hartman College Sunday evening, I’ve become keenly aware of the fact that I can’t seem to get Mason Reeves out of my thoughts.

  I keep wondering what it was like for him to go back to his old house, if he decided to sell it or rent it, and how he’s doing now that he is, probably, back home in Illinois. I think about him eating with us, the fight with Rayce, the way he kept looking at me. Especially that.

  I try to think about other things, but as my mind keeps circling back to him, I decide I can’t really take responsibility for the trouble I’m having. We can’t control every random thought that pops in our heads, right? But my mind has entertained some pretty odd ones. Like the fantasy that he could move to California and live in his old house. Even a truly baffling thought that we could have him over for dinner again. As if it weren’t bad enough the first time.

  After I visit with my roommate for a while and retire to my room for the evening, my harmless thoughts escalate to action. Maybe, just maybe, I have to take responsibility for that.

  I actually search “Mason Reeves” on Facebook, then scroll through the results looking for him. Does he even have a Facebook profile? In some ways, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to give a crap about social media. What would he post about if he did? I don’t think it’s going to be pics of cute kitties or what he’s having for dinner.

  Soon enough, I’m pretty sure I found him. There’s a Mason Reeves, from Galesburg, Illinois, with the Dolphins logo as his profile picture. His page is set to private, so I can’t see anything else to know for sure that it’s him, but what are the odds?

  When I consider sending a friend request, I firmly tell myself to stop. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear from me. He hasn’t responded to Lizzy’s message or text, so he probably never wants to see any of us ever again. I can’t blame him.

  I close my laptop and go through my bedtime routine. I remove my makeup and brush my teeth. I climb into bed, then scroll through my Instagram, not at all trying to avoid any temptation over there on Facebook. Because I’m not going to bother him.

  When I do go back to Facebook, it’s just to check my notifications. I swear that’s the only reason. And I only went back to his profile just to see if I missed some detail, among the very few details present, that would tell me for sure whether or not that’s even the right Mason Reeves. I’m only checking.

  But by the time I’m staring at the friend request button, really staring at it, my mind and body growing still, I realize things are getting real. I know it might upset him. I know I probably shouldn’t. But every time I think about the way he looked at me, my cheeks flush warm. Just from the memory of it.

  My thumb rubs along the edge of my phone. Even if I did send a friend request, and even if he did accept, what then? It’s not like anything would come of it.

  But something about him intrigues me, even beyond the drop-dead-gorgeous exterior. Maybe it’s worth sticking my neck out.

  I quickly tap the button with my thumb, a swoosh of anxiety rising in me the second I do it.

  Well, shit.

  Too late to change my mind now.

  The fact that it’s too late kind of makes me smile though. Even though I’m simultaneously hoping I don’t regret it.

  Or that I hurt him.

  My smile vanishes. God, why did I just do that? What if I do upset him?

  Well, if he doesn’t respond, that’s his call. But I needed to reach out to him, and ultimately, I’m glad I did.

  I go to sleep that night, wondering if he’s going to accept my friend request, and hoping I’ll have my answer in the morning.

  It’s been so long, I figured I had my answer, but almost a week later, Mason accepts my friend request. I wonder if he finally accepted out of guilt or a sense of obligation or what.

  I should be getting in the shower to get ready for class. Instead, I go to his profile to check out his activity. Which isn’t much. It’s been a couple weeks since he’s posted anything. Scrolling down, I notice his posting is pretty sporadic in general, with long stretches in between. Maybe he wasn’t ignoring me at all. Maybe he just now saw it.

  His posts seem to fall into one of three categories: Miami Dolphins, old cars, and family. The most recent family post was last month, and is a pic of him and his mom. It reads, “Grateful for this lady. Happy birthday mom.”

  I linger on it. It’s a close up of the two of them, leaning together. The background looks like maybe they’re sitting at a table in a restaurant. I wonder if he took her out for dinner for her birthday?

  He’s still fucking gorgeous. It’s only been two weeks since I saw him, and already I forgot just how hot he is. Even his picture affects me.

  I’m curious about his mom and take a closer look. Though sitting, she’s obviously shorter than he is. It’s hard to see the resemblance. While he has dark hair and dark eyes, she has lighter hair—a dirty blonde with a hint of auburn—and blue eyes.

  They’re both smiling, and I feel the contrast between this real image of her looking so happy and the mental image that I’ve had in my head of her perpetually grieving. Like she’d constantly be walking around depressed over her loss all those years ago. As if I don’t know better. There’s always the possibility that she’s not fine at all, but just knows how to put on a happy face.

  But still. The image of the two of them smiling is striking, and alleviates something heavy inside me.

  I keep scrolling, looking for more pictures. After a few posts either bemoaning a lost Dolphins game or cheering a victory, along with several more of shiny vintage cars, I find a photo of just his mother. She’s in running clothes with a big number ‘78’ pinned to her chest. The post reads: “Her first half marathon.” She’s sweaty and beaming. It looks like she just finished.

  “Wow,” I say aloud. “Impressive.”

  I’ve always wanted to do something like that.

  Well, no. Scratch that. I’ve always wanted to say I’ve done something like that. I don’t want to have to actually do it. Because of, you know, all the running.

  I scroll for longer than I should, gathering what clues I can about Mason from the little snippets he’s left here. But it’s unsatisfying. I want to know how he really is. Who he really is.

  I think I should probably acknowledge that he accepted my friend request, but I’m not sure if I should like anything on his page. What if his mom sees, and the name “Corrine Rivers” is an unpleasant reminder for her?

  Instead I hit the message button.

  I chew on the bottom of my lip, pondering what to say. “Thanks for accepting my friend request,” is, well, lame. I can’t just jump in with the things I really want to know about, because they’re too personal and none of my business anyway. So I stick with something safe.

  Me: Howdie. You have quite the Dolphins fixation.

  After I hit send, I worry he’ll think I’m being mean and snarky, instead of light and playful, the way I imagined it in my head. He doesn’t know me well enough to know how to take it. Plus there’s the little matter of the unpleasantness that happened Thanksgiving Day. Maybe he thinks I’m on Rayce’s side. Well, I am, but I don’t agree with him.

  For another ten minutes or so, I scroll deeper and deeper into his feed, hoping he’ll respond. Every time I stop to gawk at a rare photo of him, I feel like a true creeper. I give up waiting and hop in the shower. For all I know, it could be another two weeks before he replies, if he bothers to at all.

  I’m rubbing my wet hair with a towel, missing my long hair like crazy, but it’s almost to my shoulders now and getting easier to deal with. The blonde highlights give it a little more personality too, which is worth it to me even though coloring is a little tough on post-chemo hair. But for all
I know, I’m just going to lose it all again anyway, so I may as well enjoy it while I have it. I will say, the one advantage of shorter hair is it’s a lot quicker to dry.

  When my phone digs with a notification, I snatch my phone from the counter. It’s a message from Mason. I tap it, my heartbeat quickening.

  Mason: My dad was a Dolphins fan.

  “Well, fuck,” I say aloud.

  Sorry, I message back.

  He replies immediately. For what?

  Me: Just... I don’t know. Bringing up your dad.

  Mason: You didn’t. I did. It’s okay. He grew up in Miami and stayed loyal to the Phins. Because, obviously.

  I smile. Obviously. ... Okay, confession. I don’t watch much football, so I wouldn’t really know.

  Mason: And here I thought we could be friends.

  I straighten, smiling wider. He thought we could be friends? I turn and lean back against the counter, typing my reply. I don’t know if I can be friends with someone with so much car porn on his timeline.

  Mason: What? I don’t have car porn.

  Me: Yes, you do. All the antique cars. They’re all shiny and chrome-covered and, you know, porny.

  Mason: Ha! I thought you meant cars with half-naked women all over them. But thanks for making cars even more exciting.

  We didn’t talk much about what he does for a living on Thanksgiving, so I’m not too clear on it. Do you work on old cars like that or new ones?

  By the time I’ve finished brushing my teeth, he sends a reply. Mostly I repair modern cars. I work in a shop. But I have a 65 Impala I’m restoring, and I’ve done some restoration work for other people. My first was an 86 Corvette Stingray for my mom. I’d like to do more, but there’s not a big market for that in Galesburg.

  I smile. Who knew Mason Reeves could be so chatty? I like it. Is Galesburg a small town?

  While I’m waiting for him to reply, I whip off the towel, hurriedly hang it on the rack, and hustle into my bedroom. I’m going to be late for class if I don’t get a move on. I’m running a little behind thanks to, you know, trolling his Facebook feed earlier. And now chatting with him. But it’s so worth it.