Coral

by Sara Ella

  He may or may not have spent too much time googling his crime.

  “Have you finished your college applications yet?” Amaya asked.

  He hadn’t even started them. But the pressure of his own indecisiveness wasn’t what irked him. Her tone didn’t lie. She was leading into something. “No,” he said. “Why?”

  She looked up at him, all seriousness now, which was rare for his sister. “I don’t want you to worry about working your class schedules around my stuff. You know. When you finally decide to get your act together and be a grown-up.” She shoved him lightly.

  He raised an eyebrow. Her humor tactics weren’t going to work. Not this time. “What’s up, Maya?”

  She pulled a brochure from beneath the couch cushion.

  “Fathoms Ranch?” he asked, staring at the bright cover.

  “I’m thinking about going after all.” She fidgeted with her hands and messed with her hair.

  How long had she been working up to telling him this? “I thought you were doing better. You told me your therapist said you were making progress. That your meds were working.”

  “There is better and there is best,” Maya said, clearly struggling with her words. “This is not my best, Merrick.” She pulled up her right sleeve and looked away. “I still think about it all the time. Death. I step outside and imagine jumping in front of a moving bus. I go to a restaurant and picture what the knife on the table would feel like slicing against my skin.”

  Merrick’s stomach lurched. Amid the old whited-out scars on her pale, freckled skin, fresh ones stood out.

  He took her hand. Where did he go from here? Nothing he could say would make her better or best. So he showed his support with a gentle squeeze.

  Amaya sniffed, withdrawing her hand and swiping at her nose and eyes with her sleeve. “It’s my ploy for a free vacation. Did you see where it is? They even have horses.”

  Merrick opened the brochure. His eyebrows shot up at all the ranch had to offer. “This is actually cool. I didn’t even know they had programs like this one.”

  “It’s privately funded. Dad and I are going up for a visit next weekend if you want to come.”

  Merrick smiled. “Maybe.”

  They were quiet. He searched for the right words. Thought for a long time. What could he say to a person who openly admitted she wanted to die? Nothing seemed right.

  In the end, he spoke the only words that felt true. “You are not nothing. No matter what anyone says. Okay? You are not nothing.”

  She stared at him, her expression blank.

  Had he offended her? Said the wrong thing? Again?

  “That’s a good line, big brother,” she said at last, blue eyes twinkling. “You mind if I steal it?”

  Relief came in a whoosh of air between his lips. “Go right ahead.”

  Amaya’s flat expression transformed into a mischievous grin. “So . . . about that letter to Brooke?”

  “Stop.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s in my blood.”

  The mention of blood sliced an awkward silence between them. But then Amaya said, “I see you being weird and it’s not cool,” and Merrick realized the serious part of the conversation was officially over.

  “Sorry.”

  “I know.” She frowned. “I’m sorry too.” Then her mischief returned. “See? That wasn’t so difficult. Sorry isn’t so hard to say. You might find it’s even easier to write . . .”

  “I’ll think about it.” Though Merrick said it to get her off his back, a part of him wondered if he should. An idea formed in his mind as he recalled his first conversation with Brooke.

  She didn’t believe in fate.

  Merrick did.

  They were all wrong for each other. Different people from different worlds.

  Which made his idea all the more epic.

  “Do you still have those old corked sea glass bottles you used to collect?”

  Amaya eyed him. “Why?”

  “No reason. Can I have one?”

  Amaya laughed and knocked one of his pieces out of the way, sending it home again. “You can have all of them. There are at least a dozen.”

  Merrick didn’t bother drawing another card. She’d basically won. No use embarrassing himself. He stood and paced the living room, his idea becoming more and more concrete. He perused the picture frames on the wall. “It feels strange without Mom here.”

  “She’ll come back.” Amaya sighed.

  “You think so?”

  “Dad goes to see Mom every month, and you know what he asks her every time?”

  “No. What?” Did Merrick want to know?

  “He asks her if she’s ready to come home.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That she is home. But he keeps going back anyway.” Maya’s shoulders sank.

  They both missed their mother. While Maya was optimistic, Merrick no longer carried delusions about who Lyn Prince was.

  He pictured his father in his suit and tie, walking into that quaint inn and asking a waitress to come home with him. Merrick’s perspective had begun to alter. All the preset ideas he had about his dad were fading.

  One by one by one.

  “You should talk to him about Brooke. If anyone knows about perseverance when it comes to love, it’s him.” Amaya gathered the game pieces, folded the board, and placed it in the box. “And you need to do something about your hair.”

  Merrick shook his head at her, his now chin-length mop going wild. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you look like a dog. One that’s badly groomed and never takes a bath.”

  “Hey!” He finger-combed the locks away from his eyes. “That’s rude!”

  She stood, took the game box, and placed it inside the giant ottoman by the armchair. “If you’re going to win Brooke back, you’ll need to do some serious work.”

  His grin was too far gone to hide. To Amaya, the girl he forever talked about was Brooke. But she had given him a pseudonym when they met.

  Coral.

  She tried to keep her true name a secret, but he’d found her out. He never told her, but he saw her name written on the inside cover of her notebook that first night at the library. Still, he wanted Brooke to offer the truth herself.

  Maybe there was still a chance she would.

  “Thanks.” Merrick side-hugged his sister and moved to the stairs. He paused at the bottom step. “Hey, Amaya Hope?”

  “Yes, Merrick Noah?”

  “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  She held up a hand. “I can see where this is going, and let me stop you right there, big brother.” She plopped back onto the couch and pulled a blanket over her legs. “You messed up, but you don’t get to take the blame for my illness. You don’t get to own something that belongs to me. That’s stealing.” She winked. Her eyes sparkled, but a sadness remained. A memory of something that pained her.

  He saw past her walls now. Had learned to look beyond. “You okay?”

  “I’m trying to be.” She shrugged. “Some days are better than others.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know.” She gazed out the window, closing her eyes as she rested her head on her bent knees. As much energy as she tried to exert, Amaya was tired. If they let her sleep all day, she would.

  When Merrick reached her room, he found the corked bottles in green and blue sea glass lined up along three shelves above her dresser. He grabbed a blue bottle and headed to his room, where he retrieved paper and a pen.

  He sat on the bed he no longer slept in and wrote. He wrote because this was her language.

  Brooke may not believe in fate.

  But eventually, Merrick would help her see the light.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time he pulled up alongside the curb before the glammed-up storefront. He paid the parking meter and leaned against his car, not quite ready to go inside. It had been a year since he’d sent that bottled messag
e out to sea. If not for his sister, he never would have had the courage to see the rest of his plan through.

  “Miss you, Maya.”

  A breeze picked up, lifting the collar of his shirt. It was stupid. Silly. But every time he spoke to his sister as if she were here, Merrick wondered if she could hear him.

  And if she could hear him? She’d tell him to get his rear inside and fulfill the promise he’d made.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” He pressed two fingers to his lips and blew a kiss to the wind before he shoved off his car and headed through the glass doors.

  Forty-Eight

  Brooke

  “You got this?” Nikki looks past me through the passenger-side window. “I can come in.”

  I follow her gaze to the lobby entrance of the four-star San Francisco hotel. Inhale. Clutch my twine-bound manuscript more tightly in my arms, hugging it to my chest. Me and these words. These words and me.

  So many times I’ve pressed the work of another author against my heart. Wishing they could change me. Mold me into another character. Shape me into the best version of myself.

  But these pages. These thoughts and emotions and memories . . . They have changed me. More than any Hobbit’s journey or child’s venture through a wardrobe.

  Because they are mine. This is my story. And I’m finally ready to share it.

  “This is something I have to do on my own,” I say, allowing emotion into my eyes and voice. Not so afraid to let it show anymore. “Thanks, Nikki. For driving me. For everything.”

  “You’re a Berkeley girl now. We’ve got to stick together.” She winks. “Speaking of sticking together, Nigel says a certain Prince never stops talking about you.”

  I blush and clutch the pages even tighter. I haven’t seen Merrick in over a month. Not since that day at the tea shop when I let him view River’s suicide through my eyes. Since I trusted him to hold on to the pearl bracelet I desperately want back. We’ve texted. Liked one another’s posts on social media. Now it’s mid-October and we haven’t once hinted at meeting up again. I can’t decide if he’s just being nice, or if both of us are too afraid to make the first—or second—leap.

  “He keeps asking me if I’ve read anything good lately,” I tell Nikki.

  “Oh?” Her dark, perfectly shaped eyebrows arch. “And have you?”

  I eye her. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She looks up at the low convertible ceiling and bats her curled eyelashes. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, girl.”

  I slap her arm playfully. Nikki feels more like a sister to me after two months than my own sister Jordan feels after seventeen years.

  “I’m not saying anything.” Nikki focuses on her phone and taps the screen until she pulls up her favorite podcast. “But I will tell you that there may or may not be something you’re missing.”

  “As in . . . ?”

  “You know, for a college girl who’s written almost an entire novel, you’d think you’d catch on to things more quickly.”

  My jaw goes slack and I slap her arm again. “Nikki! What do you know?”

  She shrugs and clips her phone into the holder beside the stereo. When the podcast host’s voice plays through the Bluetooth speakers, she unlocks the doors with a click. “I’ve said too much.”

  I groan and gaze toward the brightly lit hotel lobby.

  “Have you written an ending?” Nikki touches my arm. She knows me so well already. I love her for it.

  “I can’t.” I think of River. How I believed her death over a year and a half ago was the last page. “The novel reads like a fairy tale but feels closer to a tragedy. I don’t know how to end it on the right note.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” Nikki turns down the volume. “Personally, I vote for a happily ever after with the most romantic kiss ever. One where the girl runs into her beau’s arms. The music swells and everyone watching can’t help but tear up a little.”

  I can’t tell if she’s talking fiction or real life now. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

  “And who says fairy tales can’t come true?”

  “Maybe you should write the last scene,” I say, and I almost mean it. “You have way more experience in that department than I do.” My cheeks burn hotter. My heart beats a little faster with thoughts of summer nights and lanterns and kisses beneath the stars.

  Now it’s Nikki’s turn to blush. “Nigel is definitely a much better kisser than I imagined. Of course, he’s had an excellent teacher.” She palms her chest lightly and tilts her chin. Her confidence is both intimidating and inspiring. Never arrogant. More . . . secure. She knows who she is and nobody can make her change.

  I want to be Nikki when I grow up.

  “Maybe your happy ending scene is closer than you think.”

  Again, I have no idea if she’s speaking of my book or something else that warms my core and lightens my head.

  When at last I step out onto the curb, I slip my manuscript inside my tote bag and adjust my focus. The October evening air is perfect. Welcoming.

  I wish I didn’t have to go inside.

  But I have to do this. It’s what my—our—oldest sister would have wanted.

  I enter the lobby and ask a woman at the front desk for directions to the event space where the concert will be held. She pulls out a map and a highlighter, marks an X where we stand, and circles a set of elevators.

  “The north elevators take you to the even-numbered floors. You’ll take those to the fifty-second floor. There you’ll see a new set of elevators that grant access to the roof, where the amphitheater sits. You’ll need a room key to gain access to that floor, hon.”

  “Thanks. My sister’s staying here.”

  She nods. “You know you’re a day early. The show isn’t until tomorrow.”

  I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I prefer to know where I’m going ahead of time.”

  Recognition flickers across her gaze. “You look familiar. Do I—”

  The desk phone rings, my saving grace. When she answers, I take the map, dip my head, and move toward the elevators. Muster up the courage to continue forward even if all I want to do is flee.

  A chandelier glitters overheard and marble floors give the illusion I’m walking on melted pearls. Every nook and corner radiates my former life. A life fit for royalty.

  The glitz.

  The glamour.

  The money.

  It’s in the walls and ceilings and floors. This was my childhood. Watching my father, and soon my sisters, onstage, awaiting the day I, too, would make my debut.

  The night I turned sixteen I sang the only song I’ve ever written. One that came out of anger and hurt and resentment toward the man who refused to see beyond his own pain. Jordan took over halfway through my ballad, cueing the band and drowning my voice with a fast, upbeat jam she’d performed a hundred times before.

  I’d left to look for River then. When I found her at the beach, standing in the ocean with the waves lapping at her thighs, it was too late.

  I was too late.

  I bow my head lower, hiding my face between drapes of my beacon-bright hair. No one else recognizes me, though. No one sees. I am no longer the someday-pop-princess daughter of Jonah King—country music legend. I am as forgotten as a long-ago tale. As washed up as the foam of the sea.

  I’m alone on the elevator when I step on, a low hum the only sound as I’m lifted up, up, up. No music plays. The elevator doesn’t stop and no one else gets on. I’m taken to the floor just shy of the roof. It’s another lobby, with a sitting area and a bar. The only other souls present are a bartender wiping out wineglasses and a security guard at the elevator doors ahead.

  When the guard sees me, he holds up a hand. But then he pauses. And blinks. And shakes his head. “Brooke? Brooke King?”

  “Hey, Will.”

  “Does Jordan know you’re here?”

  Remember who you are. You belong here. Or you did once.
“I wanted to surprise her, since she’s in my state.”

  Will considers my half-truth for only the briefest second before he steps aside and swipes a card over a reader to the right of the elevator. The doors slide open and I step inside. Seconds pass before the doors reopen. I’m on the roof, standing on the precipice of a sloping amphitheater.

  It’s a stellar design, housing row after row of circular bench seating swirling down, down, down. A whirlpool, descending into darkness. And there, at the center of it all, is Jordan.

  The crew performs the sound check while my sister sings her hit single. The same song that played over Jake’s car radio the day Hope died.

  “I’m swimming through your head, swimming through your head.

  Don’t you know my voice is poison?

  Can’t you see you’re already dead?”

  The depressing lyrics reverberate, transporting me back to the emotions of that day.

  But rather than crawl inside myself, I choose to face my pain head-on. I feel Hope with me now. I hear her voice. See her confident smirk and optimistic attitude. She’d tell me to rip the Band-Aid off. “What’s the big deal?” she’d ask. “She’s a girl. Like you. You’re both human. She’s no better than you are.”

  “Easier said than done,” I say to myself.

  I wish Hope had believed her own words.

  I wish I’d said them to her every day.

  I wish the ones who bullied her understood the depth of their damage.

  “You are not nothing,” I’d tell her again and again and again. “And neither am I.”

  Jordan doesn’t see me yet. Beneath the hot lights and enveloped by the sound of the band and her own voice, she’s lost to me. As far away as the bottom of the sea.

  It’s easy to feel drawn to my sister. With the San Francisco cityscape as her audience, she appears immortal, timeless. I picture tomorrow’s crowd, imagine as they listen and sway, watching in silent wonder while Jordan’s voice fills the air.