by S. M. Soto
When there’s no more clothes to unpack and nothing else to keep me preoccupied, I remember just how boring Lakeport can be when you have no one to kill time with. Thankfully, Myrah puts me out of my damn misery. Barging into my room, she leans against the door frame with a small grin on her face.
“Drinks at Clearlake?” she asks, and I nod my head in eager approval.
“Great,” she says clapping her hands in excitement. “Let me get cleaned up, then I’ll meet you down stairs in twenty. By the way, you’re letting me drive. I’ve been dying to get my hands on that steering wheel of your new sports car.”
I stifle my laugh. “By all means. Though, you might be seriously underwhelmed when you see the truck sitting in your driveway.”
Her face slackens. “Are you freaking kidding me? You have a salary of what, thirty million? Yet you still drive that ugly, beat up truck around. I don’t get you, Li. Seriously,” she says with a look of disgust on her face.
I shrug, fighting my laughter. “The truck brings back memories. I can’t bring myself to part with it. Plus, riding through town in a brand-new Ferrari is going to draw too much unwanted attention. I’m trying to lay-low, not deal with people asking me to sign their ball caps.”
Myrah rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Mr. Big-And-Famous.”
I opt for a quick change of clothes, a plain black shirt and jeans. I figure blending in and going incognito is my best bet. Running my hand through my hair, I grab my wallet, phone and keys, before heading downstairs.
I silently wait on the front porch for Myrah to finish getting ready, so we can head out for dinner then drinks. It’s tradition, only Myrah usually comes up to San Francisco to visit—for good reason. Lakeport just holds too many memories to stay here for long. Without permission, my eyes travel to the quiet house next door. Bea’s. It looks the same as it did six years ago. Quiet. Inviting. Humble.
Just then, almost like it was meant to happen, the front door opens, and out stumbles a hooded figure. Pushing off the rocky column of Myrah’s house, I take a step forward thinking a scrawny young kid dressed in a black hoodie decided to rob Bea’s house. My next step is frozen in place as an un-describable sensation overwhelms my body. Like an electric current zapping through my system.
The hooded figure stumbles down the steps, and slowly I watch as the person pauses, lifts their head around the neighborhood until it stops in my direction. My heart freezes mid-beat, and the world tips off its axis when my eyes land on a familiar pair of sage and whiskey. So many thoughts and emotions flow through me that I can’t pin it down to just one. The girl before me is nothing like the Bea I remember—she’s a shell of the girl I used to know, and my heart aches at that realization. Dressed in clothes that swallow her small frame, and with her face barely visible, she looks sick and frail.
Something definitely isn’t right here.
Her face, still as beautiful as I remember, is void of expression and any emotion, and I can’t help but agree with Myrah’s observation of her acting like a zombie. With my heart violently thudding in my chest, I wait for a spark of recognition in her features, but it never comes. There’s just…indifference. A blank fucking mask.
Before I’m able to take a step forward, she’s already on the move, walking toward the car parked in front of the curb. I watch her struggle to open the heavy metal door, before she takes off without a word. Taking my whole heart with her.
A few minutes later Myrah glides out of the front door repeatedly apologizing for keeping me waiting.
“Sorry, I’m due for laundry, so finding a suitable clean outfit was a bit difficult.”
I don’t acknowledge her or what she’s saying. Instead, my gaze remains focused on the last spot I saw Bea. I hardly recognized her.
Was that even her?
No. It can’t be.
Can it?
“Hello?”
“Earth to Liam.”
“What’s up with you?” I faintly hear my cousin’s voice in the background of all my thoughts.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” Myrah asks with a hint of sadness in her tone, prompting me to turn toward her. My brows dip and my lips thin into a grim line.
“Yeah,” I blow out a sigh. “Yeah, I did.”
“C’mon, let’s try to enjoy the rest of the night,” she says, her voice clouded with sadness as she pulls me toward my truck.
The next morning, I wake up with one person on my mind, and only one person. Bea. Even six years later she’s still my last thought before bed, and my first thought every morning. Especially now, with her next door, so close to me, yet so far away.
Pushing all thoughts of the girl next door away, I climb down the stairs surprised to see Myrah cooking at the stove.
“Should I grab the extinguisher?”
She shoots a glare over her shoulder, making me chuckle.
“I’ve learned a lot about cooking in the last few years, dick. I’m no amateur anymore,” she says with pride in her voice. I eye the golden brown pancakes on the plate and come to the conclusion that she might actually be telling the truth.
My cousin in the kitchen? The whole fucking world is coming to an end.
Slapping a hearty stack of pancakes on my plate, I dig in. Myrah snorts as she sits with her plate across from me.
“You’re a major league baseball player, should you really be eating that many pancakes?”
“Carbs are good for you, don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever you say, macho man. I do have a favor to ask while you’re here though.”
“Of course you do,” I reply sarcastically.
“The fence in the back is falling down, do you think you can fix it? Mom and dad still won’t be back for another three months, and I sure as shit won’t be able to do it on my own.”
I smirk. “I’ll get started on it today. Is the hardware store still on Main street?”
“Sure is,” she says with a mouthful of pancakes and syrup.
After breakfast, I hop in my truck and head to the hardware store. Once I finish up there, I cross off a few other errands as discretely as I can around town. By the time I’m finished with everything, it’s almost four in the evening, and I can’t help but wonder where the hell the time went.
On my way back home, I’m just about to pass Orchid Street when my foot slams on the brakes with a mind of its own. I close my eyes, not sure if I can handle seeing what’s down this street, but deep down, I want to. This place holds some of my best memories here in Lakeport.
Blowing out a sigh, I turn the wheel of my truck down Orchid. Slowly the grass field comes into view, and it feels like I’m transported back in time. Déjà-fucking-vu. Parking my truck, I kill the engine and hop out. The first thing that hits me is the smell. It smells like freshly cut grass—almost sweet, but pungent too—nature, and my adolescent teenage years. My feet crunch through the thick blades of uniform green. Each blade is sharp, and tall, slightly yellowing under the sun.
The field looks the same as it did six years ago. Almost like someone’s kept up with it by picking the weeds and trimming the blades of grass every now and again. It’s a bit rougher and shaggier than I remember, with a few brown patches here and there interspersed with wildflowers. The same flowers that always reminded me of Bea. The corners of my mouth turn up in a smile as I remember the first time I sat with her in this field.
I stare at her intently as she lays on her back in the grass, eyes closed against the bright warm sun. Orange and yellow hues shine off her skin, making her glow an iridescent shade. The rays reflect off her hair, bringing out the chocolatey brown color, and the fine strands of honey—identical to the same honey color as her eyes. She looks beautiful. I wish she didn’t always look so damn beautiful. But that was Bea. She was everything.
Plucking a white and yellow wildflower, I twirl it in my fingers before I lean down, placing it behind her ear and hair. Her eyes slowly flutter open, and she breaks out
in a wide grin that completely takes my breath away when she sees me hovering over her. She plucks the flower from behind her ear and examines it, before looking back up at me.
“It’s beautiful.” Those big beautiful doe eyes stare up at me with so much affection, the warmth of her gaze curls around my chest and seeps into my soul.
“Yeah, it is,” I say thickly, not looking at the flower. Instead, I look at her. Always her. She blushes under the weight of my stare and slips the flower back behind her ear.
“Can you hear it?” she asks, prompting me to furrow my brows.
“Hear what?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“My heart,” she whispers. Her slender throat works a swallow. “Can you hear it?”
I shake my head, my gaze riveted on her gorgeous eyes. Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, she nibbles in contemplation before dropping her gaze down to my hands. Coming to some conclusion, she reaches out and I allow her to grab my hand and place it over her chest. Her heart gallops violently beneath my palm like a horse’s hooves in a race.
“Whenever I’m around you, this is what you do to me. You make it hard to breathe. You make me smile. And on days like these, you make my heart skip a beat.”
I smile, despite the sting in my chest that particular memory evokes. When I think back on my past with Bea, I always try to pinpoint when the exact moment was that I fell in love with her. But as I relive each memory, time and, time again, I realize I’ve always loved her. There was never a time when we were together that I didn’t love her. That’s the sad truth of my reality.
My brows furrow as something crawls up my spine. It’s not physical, just a sensation that I can’t even put into words. The air suddenly feels thick, with static, electricity, even. Whatever it is, my body is fully aware of it. I can feel it vibrating in my fingertips and my toes. My eyes drift around the field, coming to a complete stop when I see it. My feet falter when I see her.
Bea.
Everything starts to make sense.
She’s no more than a few yards away, sitting deep in the field with her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped protectively around her legs. Long chocolate locks of brown hair fall haphazardly around her, and her skin is so pale it’s almost chalk white. Bea’s always had creamy, light skin, but never this white. My heart constricts just staring at her. Myrah’s right, it’s painfully obvious she’s not the same girl we knew all those years ago. But I intend to find out what happened. One way or another.
Shoving my hands in my pants pockets I close the distance between us and lower myself on the ground a few feet away from her. For a brief second, I don’t think she realizes someone’s sat next to her, but then I notice the defensive posture of her shoulders, and the change in her breathing.
I sit quietly beside her, not saying a word. Instead, I use this time to study her. She’s still just as beautiful as I remember. Big hazel doe eyes, with long lashes that cast shadows across her face, and those perfectly plump lips. My eyes drift down to her baggy clothes, and my brows furrow. She’s dressed like someone who’s trying to hide. Bea has never been one to hide. She was fearless, in every sense of the word.
It doesn’t make sense.
My eyes hone on the pink scar on her wrist that is poking out of the sleeve of her sweater. Like someone poured a bucket of ice water over my body, my skin pricks painfully, and my heart thunders in my chest.
I hope that’s not from what I think it is.
My nostrils flare as I reach for her wrist. The moment I make contact with her skin, she flinches with a loud gasp, like I’ve just struck her. My hands go up outside of my head in surrender.
“Hey, it’s just me. It’s okay.” I reassure her, like she’s some wounded animal. Her chest rises and falls erratically, like she’s just finished running a marathon. My eyes drop to the vertical scar on her wrist. The puckered skin of the scar is a silvery pink, drawing attention to Bea’s otherwise perfect pale flesh.
“What happened there, Bea?” I ask, trying to keep my voice gentle and steady.
Her eyes are wide as she stares up at me in horror. She doesn’t make any attempt to speak, she just stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. It hurts. More than I could’ve imagined.
“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask more firmly this time. My anger clouding rationality. I don’t want to hear her say yes, but I need to know—and my gut is telling me I already know the answer.
Bea still hasn’t said a word. She shifts her eyes away from mine, and looks out beyond the grass, watching the sun set. My jaw grinds back and forth as my anger bubbles to the surface. I think about the stranger sitting next to me, and I know I deserve half of the blame, but I wasn’t the one who cut all ties. She stopped calling. She cut me out of her life. So, why the fuck am I sitting here trying to have a discussion with a person who doesn’t want me around? But my need to know the truth makes me stand my ground and wait.
“Why would you do this, Bea?” I say, my voice laced with anger. I don’t even try to hide how upsetting the scars are to me. Slowly she turns her head to me, and the look in her eyes gives me pause. There is so much there, but nothing all at once. It’s bone chilling.
“Because I wanted to die.” Her voice is cold and detached, but each word is laced with venom. “I still do.”
I flinch involuntarily at her words.
She gets up from her position in the grass and walks away without a backwards glance, and I make no move to follow her. Her answer crumbles what was left of my heart. I’m at a loss for words, unable to wrap my head around what she said.
Why? Why would she do that?
As the sun sets around my lone figure in the thick blades of grass, I can’t help but wonder what happened to my sweet Bea.
Slamming the front door behind me, I drag my fatigued body up the stairs to the guest bedroom. I sat in that field for hours, trying to piece it all together, but it was a waste of time. What used to be a sanctuary for me and my thoughts was now tainted with Bea’s attempted suicide.
“Hey, everything alright?” Myrah asks as she pops her head out of her room. I grind my teeth together still trying to tamp down my anger. With myself. With Bea. With this whole fucked up situation.
“She tried to kill herself.”
Myrah blows out a harsh breath, stepping out of her bedroom. Her eyes water, but she doesn’t react the way I want her to. She doesn’t act surprised, or even look relatively shocked by the news. If anything, she looks guilty.
“You knew,” I accuse, feeling my temper rise. She inhales a shuttering breath, her chin quivering.
“It happened about three years ago. Her mom heard a loud commotion from somewhere in the house, Bea crying out in pain. She found her locked in the bathroom, laying fully clothed in the bathtub. They were able to get her to the hospital before she lost too much blood. Shelly cried to my mom about it for weeks, not understanding why she would do it.” Myrah swipes at the tears streaming down her face. “I wanted to tell you. I was going to tell you, but then you said you had made a friend, Emery. I didn’t want to ruin it for you, so I thought…I thought if I didn’t tell you, it wouldn’t affect you.”
“And if she succeeded? What would you have done then, Myrah? Jesus Christ, don’t you think I would’ve wanted to know this shit?” I growl, not even able to comprehend living in a world where Bea doesn’t exist. I may not see her every day, or talk to her, but knowing she was happy and well was enough for me. Until now. Because now I know that she’s neither one of those things.
Myrah sniffles, wiping her tears on her sleeve. “I would’ve told you. I don’t know how, but I would’ve done it,” she says hoarsely. I shut my eyes, blowing out a gruff breath.
“Why, Myrah? Why the fuck would she do that? The Bea I knew...the Bea I loved would’ve never done anything like that,” I say vehemently.
“I don’t know why, Liam.”
“You haven’t thought to ask?”
I have no right to get angry at Myrah, b
ut seeing what Bea did to herself makes me want to lash out someone.
A look of hurt flits across my cousin’s face. “Of course, I have! What do you think I am, some kind of monster? I’ve tried for years, Liam. And every single time she’s pushed me away. The last time I tried talking to her? That was the first and only time we’ve ever fought. She screamed at me and told me to stay away from her. We haven’t said a word to each other since then. But you know what? I’m tired of not knowing.”
“Me too,” I say as I shift my gaze to Bea’s quiet house next door.
“If I can’t get through to her, maybe you can.”
Maybe there was a reason I was meant to come home and run into Bea. Maybe fate—the evil son of a bitch—was trying to tell me something.
For the tenth time, I recheck my college schedule, preparing for tomorrow. My first day at Mendocino. I want to say I’m excited, but the anxiety is eating me up. I graduated high school four years ago. That’s four years of no interactions with people other than my family, and people at the grocery store. My social skills are at an all-time low.
“Hey,” Jenny says knocking on my open bedroom door. I left it open when she got here, deeming it safe.
Once Jenny informed me Connor would be working late tonight and staying at his condo in Sacramento where the firm is, I figured it was safe to leave the door open for the rest of the evening. I usually keep it closed. Not that it’s ever helped me.
“I bought you a new outfit for school tomorrow. Try it on. See if it fits,” Jenny says with an excited grin.
What am I, six years old?
Jenny’s always tried getting closer to me, building a “relationship” with her boyfriend’s little sister. She doesn’t even know the half it. I’m sure she probably thinks I’m some strange recluse who hates dealing with her family. Truth is, I just hate her boyfriend. I force a smile and nod my head, while I take the shopping bag filled with clothes and head to the bathroom. I pull out her choices and cringe. A white scoop neck shirt from Express, distressed skinny jeans from Nordstrom, and a pair of Tory Burch sandals.
