Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  I offer myself completely, everything I am, because much like the song we danced to for the first time in this very apartment, he is mine and I am his.

  Forever and always.

  Thank you, Grady Bennett, for waiting for me to land strong.

  Thank you for believing in me and guiding me to safety.

  And thank you, most of all, for showing me what love is.

  For teaching me the meaning, the unadulterated beauty of the emotion, as it exists between the two of us . . .

  The way it was meant to be experienced.

  Home.

  Uncle Alan,

  This last letter, my letter to you, will serve as my voice. I remained silent for too long, hiding your secrets because I thought I shared in the blame.

  This is my absolution as I choose to provide for myself. My chance to take back my innocence, my choice in what happened to me, yet what you saw fit to take as your own, without consequence.

  I am finally writing to you to say aloud the ramblings of my mind as they’re poured onto paper, so I may find some sort of peace once I lay this letter to rest in the same soil that covers your lifeless body and houses your malevolent soul.

  I will never understand why you did the things you did, or said the things you said. I don’t think any person in their right mind can ever really wrap their head around the actions of a pedophile. Of a person who preys on the innocence of children, who feeds off of it with absolutely no remorse, for the sole purpose of their own sick gratification.

  I hope to never understand. I pray I am never witness to the darkness that twisted your mind, because I’ve had a hell of a time dealing with my own.

  Yours would undoubtedly seal me in that grave right alongside you.

  But that’s the funny thing about choosing to live. About making the decision to change your life, to take a different road, a more difficult path in order to reach where you deserve to be.

  You’re dead now, and because of your own choices, you’re lying right where you should be.

  And because of mine, my new choices, I’m living.

  Really living.

  It’s not always easy. Some days are harder than others. Some mornings I wake up, still feeling heavy and burdened, because in all honesty, I will never be able to completely erase your presence or your actions from my mind.

  But there are so many other days when I don’t. When I open my eyes, warmed by the sun and the excitement of staring into the eyes of a man who loves me unconditionally, every piece of me, regardless of the damage you caused.

  Those days, when I wake up in his arms, safe and secure, loved . . .

  I refuse to take them for granted.

  I choose to live.

  I choose to laugh.

  I choose to love.

  I choose to smile.

  You took so much from me, but my choices? My happiness?

  Those you can’t have.

  They’re mine.

  You also tried to take me too, but guess what?

  You can’t have me either.

  I’m too strong.

  I found my voice, my own vindication for your senseless actions.

  I will right your wrongs.

  And one day, I pray I will find the strength to completely rid your existence from my mind. But until that day comes, I will keep traveling my path. The one I chose, not you. I will walk with my head held high, with a smile on my face, and with love—real love—in my heart.

  Because that is my choice.

  Goodbye, Uncle Alan

  Cassandra

  One month later, I’m bent at the knees with my hand splayed on the dirt now covering my letter. Sitting back on my heels in front of his headstone, a surge of strength flows through me. Minutes go by as I silently read the letter in my mind, announcing each word proudly to the man beneath my feet.

  I don’t cry. I simply shake my head at the senselessness before rising on my feet.

  A warm hand curls around mine, helping me as I stand, I turn to meet those caring eyes watching my every move.

  The corners of my mouth tip upward, forming a thankful smile, and I lean into Grady’s arms, allowing him to provide the warmth I need right at this moment.

  “So proud of you, Cass.”

  His lips brush my forehead, then he drops his hand, linking my pinky with his as he turns to lead me out of the cemetery. I grin to myself, tightening my finger as we walk together, away from my past and into our future.

  One year later . . .

  EIGHTIES ROCK POUNDS RELENTLESSLY from the speaker beside me, and I grin widely at Grady as he skates toward me, coming from the direction of the DJ booth. His eyes crinkle at the sides with his smile as he approaches. Masterfully, he circles once before coming to a stop a foot in front of where I stand.

  “I can’t believe you wanted to come here,” he shouts above the music.

  I laugh, then respond. “It’s full circle. Where we started.”

  He smiles, then takes my hand into his, leaning into me as he speaks. “So fucking proud of you.”

  I never knew I needed those words until my Grady said them to me. Now, I feel delight in them.

  My cheek presses against his with my smile and I nod my acceptance of his compliment. His beard tickles my skin as I press my lips just above where it frames his gorgeous face. I smile as I inhale his scent.

  “Thank you for giving me a fucking phenomenal epilogue, Grady Bennett. For being the perfect hero. And for giving me my very own happily every after.”

  He mirrors my gesture, smiling contently against my skin. “It’s your story, sweetheart, I’m just lucky to be living in it.”

  He releases me then wheels backward and gestures toward the floor.

  “Dance with me?”

  Grady’s eyes light with amusement when a familiar Foreigner song begins to play. I couldn’t not smile if I tried.

  I nod eagerly, then press off my skates to follow his lead.

  My eyes quickly find Spencer skating circles around Dalton, already on the floor. Her mouth forms the words as she shouts them at the top of her lungs and I shake my head, laughing as I listen to the lyrics.

  Looks like love finally found them both.

  Mrs. Locke, well Mrs. Lawson, catches my attention next. Her smile is peaceful as she watches her daughter skating on the floor. After a beat, her stare slides from Spencer to capture mine. Her grin widens and she winks, signaling her approval of my accomplishment.

  I smile back at her, watching as Detective Lawson snakes his arm around her waist from behind to whisper something in her ear that makes her laugh. My happiness for her stretches clear across my face before I break away from watching them to carefully focus on my footing.

  After a couple successful steps, I lift my gaze, which lands on Aubrey and her husband, Kaeleb, as they guide their three-year-old daughter, Adley, carefully around the slick floor. Her blonde curls bounce as she flees from her parents, clearly having none of their assistance. I grin as Kaeleb looks to Aubrey in a way that tells me she resembles her mother very much.

  That grin continues to widen as I watch the couples and their unequivocal happiness. My own joy takes flight, knowing everything is as it should be. That I’m right where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing with my life.

  And it has nothing to do with hair.

  Although I do miss my clients terribly, I made the choice earlier this year to embark on a new journey. A new vocation, so to speak. In fact, it’s the reason we’re all gathered here tonight.

  I train my gaze on one pair in particular, angelic giggles somehow rising above the blaring music as they hit my ears.

  I eventually gave Spencer her birthday present. It was belated, but only because it was a work in progress.

  With the support of Aubrey, Spencer, and of course Grady, I decided to try my hand at writing. And when I did, there was no turning back. I was completely captivated as I wove the words together, laughing and crying with the characters
as they told me their story.

  I published my first book six months ago.

  It was a beautiful tale of two children who unknowingly fell in love one day as they watched a simple sunset together on a front porch. A story of their resilient friendship as they grew into young adults, the undeniable growth of their feelings with each passing year, and sadly, soon after finally caving to those feelings, their separation as one’s haunting past threatened the other’s future. It was a story of redemption, as after five long years, they still remained Under the Influence of their love, finally making their way back to each other.

  A true love story as witnessed by my eyes, yet told by them.

  Their story, my gift to Spencer.

  But tonight, as we all celebrate together, I just hit publish on my second book.

  My book.

  My story.

  My secrets, unleashed, when my own life was Out of Focus.

  So many thoughts and feelings have swirled through my mind for years. Talking with Aubrey and sharing with Grady have not only been cathartic and provided necessary healing, but allowed all the jumbled words to find their position on the pages.

  You see, once I found my voice, I knew exactly what I intended to do with it. So, with the publication of my second book, I did just that.

  Why have a voice if you’re scared to use it?

  I’ve lived in fear for the majority of my life, but I refuse to remain silent anymore.

  I wrote my story for all to read, in my own voice, in hopes that if I can just reach one person, if I can relay the message they’re not alone, then I’ve somehow made sense of a senseless act . . . of any kind. Tragedies happen all too often, but often remain hidden underneath a terrifying blanket of secrets. A devious blanket of lies. An agonizing blanket of pain.

  As I look at those gathered here to support me, my family born not of blood, I know I’ve finally landed on the road I was meant to be traveling all along.

  I was plucked from that path, thrown into a free fall for years, but eventually I found my way. All it took was a pair of blue eyes, loving arms, my own strength, and the unwavering support of those around me to help me land strong.

  What will it be for you?

  Everyone has a story.

  I can only pray mine has helped someone come to terms with their own.

  Are you that person?

  And if so, what do you plan to do with your story?

  If you hear me, if I’ve spoken to you, then I leave with you the same four words that changed my life.

  The choice is yours.

  The End

  Want to know more about Aubrey’s story? Turn the page for an excerpt from The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller!

  THE RESURRECTION OF AUBREY MILLER

  PROLOGUE

  “UM, HI.

  “My name is Aubrey Miller, or Raven Miller, depending on what part of my life I’m referencing, and this is my story.

  “I’m not going to bore you with every single detail, not yet anyway. All you need to know at this point is that, for many years, my life was a dark, endless abyss of death. It followed me around like I was some sort of knock-off, subpar grim-reaper. The overwhelming guilt of the role I played in each death reigned over my life, and many of those days consisted of me just trying to keep my head above the grief that consumed me.

  “But that is neither here nor there. What is relevant for you to understand is that this is my story—my fight to emerge from underneath the shroud of death that I was fearfully hiding behind for so many years. And it happened over the course of four years, my college years.

  “Those years, while for most are defined by constant partying and keg stands, with the occasional random hook-up—well, maybe more than occasional for some people—for me were just another pitiful reminder of my lack of social skill and personal grace. In the beginning. By the end, I had acquired life-long friends who helped guide me through some of the darkest parts of my life. In them I found the strength to lie to rest the person who walked onto campus that very first day, the one cloaked in death and darkness, and become the person speaking to you today.

  “I am here to finally share my story.

  “A story of discovering not only myself, but the meaning of true friendship and unconditional love. A story of some of the most challenging, yet most beautiful and awe-inspiring years of my life, in hopes that you will take something away from my journey.

  “After all, when life gives you lemons, aren’t you supposed to make lemonade or some shit like that?

  “Wait. What? I can’t say that?

  “Oops. Sorry about that, folks.

  “Anyway, back to why we’re here.

  “Drumroll, please.

  “So without further ado, here is the story of my resurrection.”

  FRESHMAN YEAR

  CHAPTER ONE

  FIRST DAY JITTERS . . .

  “THE BLUE . . .”

  Glancing over, I see lips moving but hear nothing else so I gently tug the earbuds out of my ears. After pausing the Hole playing on my iPod, I look at my legal guardian as she concentrates on the road in front of her.

  “What?”

  Linda breaks her stare from the seemingly endless highway to look in my direction. “I said the blue looks good on you.” Removing her hand from the steering wheel, she reaches across the space separating us to touch the lower layers of the hair barely brushing the top of my arm, and pieces a section between her fingers before lifting it up in front of my eyes. The electric blue tips of my blackened hair bend fiercely toward my face as the breeze from the air conditioning blows against it. The corners of my mouth tilt downward as I take her wrist, removing her hand from my hair, and lean forward to place it back on the steering wheel.

  Safety first, Linda. Always.

  As I recline back into my seat, she adds, “The cat eyes kind of freak me out, though.”

  “Good,” I respond. “That’s what I was going for when I bought the contacts.” I snatch up the layer of the hair she has just released and hold it up again, inspecting the blue. “Anyway, I thought Blue Goth Punk Emo # B 000 would be a nice choice for today, seeing as though I’ll be meeting all sorts of new people. I wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression,” I say, sarcasm coating the last words spoken.

  Linda snickers to herself, her shoulder length blonde hair falling across her shoulders as she dips her head in laughter. She’s so not looking at the road right now.

  “Eyes on the road, please.” Releasing my hair, I watch until she lifts her face to focus on the grey pavement. Once satisfied that we’re not going to drift into oncoming traffic, my head finds the back of the seat and soon the sound of the humming tires almost lulls me to sleep. “God,” I moan as I stretch my arms above my head, attempting to release the pressure of my aching back muscles. “How much longer?” Even shifting in my seat does absolutely nothing to alleviate the throbbing.

  “Not much. Half an hour, maybe,” she responds, her green eyes once again breaking away from the very important highway to meet mine. “Seriously, the cat eyes are creeping me out. They make my eyes water.” Right on cue, moisture brims the base of her dark lashes.

  Pointing my index finger in the direction of the windshield, my blackened eyebrow lifts and I narrow my stare. “Then stop looking at them and focus on driving, please. I would like to get there in one piece, limbs intact, preferably alive if you don’t mind. Living and breathing is kind of crucial to attend college.”

  Turning her head away, she inhales deeply and then releases a long sigh. “You’re so morbid.”

  No return remark is necessary. That’s like saying water is wet. Morbid and I go hand-in-hand.

  Flipping down the visor above my head as she continues to drive, I glance at the reflection in front of me, taking note of my latest physical manifestation. Deep black dye covers the top of an entire base layer of electric blue, fulfilling its purpose in concealing my naturally light blonde hair. The contacts in my eyes are comp
letely white, with the exception of the black pointed ellipses right in the middle. A 16-gauge circular barbell crosses through the septum in my nose, the newest addition to my piercings.

  I run my tongue across the back of the tiny skull-shaped stud currently residing in my left dimple piercing, a mirror image of the one on the right, while my fingertips graze over the 12-gauge mini-curved barbell in my eyebrow on the same side. The sight of the skulls serves as a constant reminder of the permanent loss of my once beaming smile, its grave marked with silver.

  After pinning the hair to the nape of my neck, I glance briefly at the industrial piercing at the top of my left ear, and then at the seven silver closure rings that line the side of the right.

  I look like a freak.

  Sometimes I wonder if I overdid the attempt to deter anyone and everyone from ever getting near me.

  Well, if the piercings don’t work, the cat eyes should definitely get my point across.

  Sigh.

  While releasing the hair from my grasp, my other hand lifts toward my face and extends a finger, touching the surface of the contact before moving it aside to reveal a bright, sky-blue iris staring back at me. The color suited me at one time. Happy and alive, sunny.

  No longer though.

  Death becomes me.

  I release the contact, and after it slides back into place I bend at the waist, feeling for the backpack that’s just beneath my feet. After locating it and zipping open the front pocket, I blindly finger through the items encased inside: eye drops, (wearing contacts day in and day out tends to dry out my eyes, go figure), a tiny notebook (which contains the ramblings of my journal), a full can of mace (forced upon me before leaving by Linda earlier this morning), until I find what I’m looking for nestled in the corner. Extracting the pot of pigment based cream eye-shadow and a round tube of lip stain from the pocket, I lay them in my lap as I scoot back into my seat, centering my face in the mirror.