by Melody Grace
Jace’s room.
I catch my breath, my heart pounding fast in my chest. It’s quiet up here, away from all the other bedrooms; the windows overlooking the side of the yard, with a tree in easy reach for all those times he snuck out to go fool around with a girl, or grab some beers with his buddies out at the lake.
I look around. They haven’t touched a thing. It’s like a shrine to him: sports trophies still lined up on the mantle, school medals and his college diploma framed proudly on the walls. The bed is made with fresh navy sheets, and his computer is sitting there with a stack of magazines on the desk, like at any moment, he’s just going to come strolling in the door, back from playing tennis at the club, yelling at me to get my ass in gear.
I sink down in the desk chair, memories hitting me like a tidal wave. Mom never let us pin up posters or photos, but there are pictures of him everywhere, framed in heavy gilt and black. Jace with the lacrosse team, celebrating a win. Jace in his cap and gown, looking bashful up on stage. Jace and I, laughing together on the docks, that last summer in Beachwood Bay.
My brother.
Damn, I miss him. I feel it every day, but now—here—it’s more than I can stand. Some siblings have a love/hate thing going on, but we were always tight, even when I felt like I could never live up to him. He drove me crazy with his confidence, acting like there was nothing in the world he couldn’t get once he decided he wanted it. I used to joke that one day he’d meet a problem too big to charm his way out.
I guess I was proved right, that terrible night when we both discovered that all the wanting in the world won’t un-break bones, and mend torn flesh. No amount of swagger and easy smiles will re-start a heart that’s stopped beating.
A noise comes from the doorway. I look up to find my mom.
“I’m not coming back down,” I tell her, my voice gruff in my throat.
“Dinner’s over,” she says softly, stepping into the room. “They left hours ago.”
I jolt with surprise. I didn’t notice the time pass, wrapped up in memories, but the sky is dark outside, and it must be late.
My mom looks around the room, and I can see her thin body strain with tension.
“You should pack all this away,” I tell her. “It’s not healthy, keeping it here.”
“I know. I keep calling them to come, but then…” Mom swallows. “I guess I’m just not ready to let go.”
That makes two of us.
There’s silence for a minute, the two of us alone with our ghosts. I look at her, and a terrible thought creeps into my mind, the one that haunts me only at my darkest ebb.
Does she wish it was me?
I get up. “I’m leaving in the morning,” I tell her abruptly.
“But what about the party next week?” she asks. “It’s our anniversary.”
Shit, I totally forgot. “The party will go great without me. I’m sorry, I need to get home.”
“This is your home.” Mom looks wounded.
“Not anymore.”
She moves to block my path. “Please, think of your father. He’s been so proud, showing you around, introducing you to everyone.”
Guilt twists in me, hard. “Mom—”
She grips my hands. “It’s all he ever wanted, to build something and pass it on to you both. And now…”
“I’m not him, Mom.” I plead. “I’ll never be him. Just look around.”
“We know.” Her voice breaks. “But you’re all we have left now. We need you more than ever.”
She collapses into sobs against me, and I stand, holding her up, feeling the loss sweep through her body. She’s trying to manipulate me with grief, I know—more of the same family loyalty stuff they’ve been holding over me for years, driving me through college and internships and every other milestone on the map laid down from birth. I want to fight it, Goddammit, I want so bad to be done, but all the fight has drained out of me now. The sad truth of the matter is, she’s right.
I’m all they have. And whether it’s my fault or not, it’s because of me.
I thought I could escape all this, and build a life of my own. Beachwood, the horses, Brit. But standing here in the wreckage of the past, surrounded by broken dreams––dreams I smashed with my own damn carelessness––I wonder if I’m ever getting out. Hell, maybe it’s what I deserve. The punishment for my crimes, to live here in his shadow forever, and never be free.
“Fine,” I whisper, missing Brit more than I can stand. “I’ll stay.”
“Will you put that thing down for like, five minutes?” Garrett complains, calling over from behind the bar.
I lower my phone, looking pointedly around the empty room. “What, so I can serve all our imaginary customers?” I ask. I’m perched on the empty server’s station, drumming my heels against the cabinets. “I hate to break it to you, but summer season’s over. Lunch is going to be dead until next May.”
“Which means I can get by without another waitress,” Garrett points out.
I roll my eyes. “If you fire me, you’ll be stuck hanging out here all alone. You’ll die of boredom.”
Garrett shakes his head with amused exasperation. “At least try and look like you’re working, instead of just killing time until you hear from lover-boy.” He pauses wiping down the surface and gives me a sympathetic look. “Still no word?”
I shrug, self-conscious. “He called a couple of days ago. Said everything was fine, that he’d try and talk to me today…” I trail off. “I’m sure he’s just busy with family stuff.”
“Sure,” Garrett agrees, too quickly.
I look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he replies. “You’re right, I bet he’s got a ton of shit to catch up on. It’s just…” he makes a face. “I hate seeing you like this. It’s been a week now. How long does it take to send a damn text?”
I grit my teeth, trying not to flinch at the sharp blade of insecurity that slices through me at Garrett’s words.
He’s right.
He’s right, and I wish to God he wasn’t. It’s been forever since I left Hunter in that hospital, and even though I told myself everything was going to be fine, with every day that passes, my reassurances sound more like naïve hope than the truth. He said he would call, but every time Hunter picks up the phone, he’s distracted and distant, and we barely have a chance to talk before he gets cut short by some plans he’s got with his folks. He says it’s important for him to try and build bridges with them, and I know it’s true, but every night I lie awake longer, waiting for his response to my goodnight text to come.
Last night, it didn’t come at all.
“That thing works both ways, you know,” Garrett notes. He pulls out a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and slides it down the bar to me.
I shrug. “I know, but whenever I do call it’s a bad time. I feel like I’m intruding.”
If there’s anything worse than the nervous anxiety of waiting for his calls, it’s dialing his number, and feeling the crash of disappointment when he makes his excuse to hang up. It sends me straight down a spiral of self-doubt, wondering if all the things he told me were just pretty lines to get me falling at his feet; if he only ever liked the thrill of the chase, and now that I’ve given it all up to him…
I stop that thought dead in its tracks. I believe in him, I have to.
“Any plans later?” Garrett asks, blatantly trying to change the subject.
He means besides waiting on Hunter to call? “Nope, nothing much.” I reply. “I’m nearly done with my mock-up pattern on the dress though.”
“That’s awesome!” Garrett congratulates me, and I let myself feel a small glow of pride. With all my nervous energy to burn, I’ve made tons of progress.
“I don’t know,” I hedge, “Something’s still not right with the drape. I want to get it perfect before I risk cutting the pattern on the fabric for real.”
“Wanna take a break, watch a movie or something tonight?” Garrett asks.
“I figure on shutting this place down early. Maybe grab some takeout.”
I give him a smile. It’s clear he wants to distract me from my silent phone. “Don’t you have a girl coming by?”
He shrugs. “No girl right now.”
“What?” I exclaim, teasing. “There’s always a girl!”
Garrett looks bashful. “I don’t know, I guess I could use a break. So many women, running me ragged,” he jokes. “A man needs some time to recover!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I laugh. “More likely, they got together and decided to post a warning: Beware, manwhore!”
My phone suddenly lights up, sending my heart skipping. “It’s him!” I slide down from the counter and answer. “Hey, what’s happening?”
“Hey,” As usual, Hunter’s voice sounds distant, in a way that has nothing to do with the quality of the cell line. “Sorry I didn’t call last night. My parents had tickets to the opera, and I couldn’t get away.”
“That’s OK,” I swallow back my disappointment. “How’s your dad doing?”
“He’s great,” Hunter says. “He dragged me out for a morning at the country club playing golf. It’s like nothing ever happened.”
“I’m glad,” I say, sincere. “So when are you coming home?”
There’s a long pause.
“They want me to stay a while longer,” Hunter says at last. “There’s a bunch of stuff to deal with at the company. Mom was right, he’s doing too much on his own. The least I can do is help out, after everything that’s happened,” he adds, and it sounds as if he’s parroting his mother’s words straight back to me. “It’s family.”
“But what about the ranch?” I ask, feeling a cold chill sweep through my body. “Don’t they need you there too?”
“I can have my guys take care of things.” Hunter says.
What about me? I want to cry. I need him, too.
I swallow back my protest, I’m just being selfish. “How long do you think it’ll take, to get things figured out there?” I try my best to sound supportive. “Another couple of days?”
He doesn’t answer.
My heart catches. “Next week?” I try.
Hunter exhales a long breath, sounding stressed. “I don’t know, Brit. It’ll take as long as it takes.”
I clench my fists into my palms. “I miss you, is all,” I tell him softly.
“I miss you too.” Hunter’s voice softens for the first time. “I’m sorry about all this bullshit, Brit, I really am. My family is a fucking mess.”
“It’s OK.” I pull myself together. “You do whatever you need. I’ll be here.”
“Thank you.” A voice comes, muffled in the background. “Look, I’ve got to go, I have a lunch with some of the partners. I’ll try and call you later.”
“OK.” I feel a stab of disappointment. “Love you.”
“You too,” he tells me, and then the line goes dead.
I slowly lower the phone.
Garrett looks over. “I’m sorry,” he grimaces, my disappointment clearly written all over my face.
I shrug, helpless. “I just wish there was something I could do. I mean, he’s just a couple of hours away, but it feels like he’s been sucked into a whole other world.”
His world, full of wealth and privilege, where girls like you don’t belong.
“So, if he can’t get away, why don’t you go to him?” Garrett suggests. “Take my truck.”
I pause, uncertain. “I don’t know, I don’t want to intrude…”
“It was just an idea.” Garrett shrugs. “Even if he’s busy, you’ll get to see him face-to-face. That’s got to be better than this, right?”
I stare at him, torn. It goes against all my instincts to go chasing after some guy—especially when he’s told me he’s got it covered. But this isn’t just some guy—it’s Hunter. Even if he needed me, I realize, he would never think to ask.
And to see him in person, look him in those beautiful blue eyes… I can make the distance between us disappear, I just know I can. It’s got to be worth a shot.
“You’re right,” I decide, my heart pounding. “I’ll go. I’ll take some things from his place, we left in such a rush, he’ll be needing clothes and stuff for sure.”
Garrett tosses me the keys. “Drive safe.”
“Now?” I pause. “But, it’s only half-way through my shift.”
“Like you said, I’m not exactly rushed off my feet.” Garrett gives me a warm smile. “Go get him. And good luck!”
I head out of town to the ranch. One of Hunter’s guys lets me into the main house, and I fill a duffel bag with toiletries from the bathroom and some clothing from his closet. I pause in his bedroom, overcome with a wave of sweet, sexy memories. The bed is still rumpled, sheets tangled from our last night there, so I strip it down and put them in the laundry, making the bed with crisp new linens that smell like fabric softener and him.
Hunter.
I breathe it in, finally feeling a sense of peace flood through me, calming all my insecurities and fears. Just being back in this place sets me right again, takes me back to the equilibrium I haven’t felt since that night. That night, that gorgeous, earth-shaking, soul-mending night together, when I felt him moving inside of me, and looked up into his eyes, and saw stars.
He was right. I have to grin at how smug he would be to hear it, as I grab the bag and head back to truck. But Hunter was right, making me wait for him. All these years of hook-ups and cheap flings, I’d become so desensitized to sex, I didn’t even know what it could be like when it mattered: sharing more than just your body with someone, when every movement is a revelation; every whisper, a song.
There’s no going back now, I smile to myself, turning onto the highway. Even if I wasn’t deeply, hopelessly, irreparably in love with the man, I could never give up the way his body makes me feel. And I know that once I’m with him again, holding him close, everything will be OK between us again.
It has to be.
I drive for hours, following directions out to the address Hunter left with his guy at the ranch. The route takes me through the city and out to one of the richest neighborhoods on the outskirts of town. Here, sycamore trees swathe the street with a green canopy and the road winds past huge estates, the kind where you can’t even see the house, just tall, wrought-iron gates and perfectly manicured hedgerows guarding against unwanted guests.
I feel a flicker of nerves as I reach the Covington turn-off, and find a set of gates at least twice as high as the rest, flanked by stone columns with matching gargoyles.
You’re here for Hunter, I remind myself. Just ignore all the rest.
I approach the gates, rolling my window down to call up through the security system. A moment later, a reply buzzes.
“Yes?”
“I’m, umm, here to see Hunter? I’m a friend. From home. I mean, not home home, this is his home,” I hear myself babbling, but I can’t stop. “Anyway, my name is—”
There’s a buzz, and the gates swing open.
I catch my breath. I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even stepped foot inside! I wipe my palms on my skirt, and put the truck back in gear, slowly driving through the gates and up the winding road leading back from the street.
At least this time, I’m dressed for the part. I stopped to change after leaving the bar, and now I’m wearing my most conservative outfit: a pale green 1950s sundress I cut from a vintage Vogue pattern. I usually wear it with a hot-pink bra peeping out, and chunky boots, but today I have on gold strappy sandals, my hair smoothed back in a neat braid. I look like a stranger, but I’ll do whatever it takes not to feel like a common tramp—or whatever it is his ice-queen mother thinks when she looks at me.
I drive around a wide bend, emerging from the trees, and see the house rising up in front of me for the first time.
Holy shit!
I gape up at it, dumbstruck. I always knew the Covingtons were wealthy, but this is something else: a huge, Antebellum-style mansion w
ith columns and balconies, and white trim running around the whole place, like icing on a cake. Perfect beds of roses line the driveway, manicured lawns rolling gently away from the house to… I blink, squinting in the distance. Is that a lake?
By the time I pull up outside, my nerves have blossomed into a full-on panic. This is a long way from Beachwood, and I am so far out of my league. I put the truck in park beside a line of vans. There are people milling around in uniform, carrying trays and flowers like they’re setting up for something. Nobody gives me a second look as I get out of the cab and slowly climb the front steps.
“Excuse me,” I ask a passing man, with his arms piled high with paper lanterns. “Do you know—”
“Out back,” he waves me through. “And watch out, someone ordered lilac instead of mauve so Her Highness is on the warpath.”
I frown. “I’m not—” I start, but he’s already hurried away.
OK then.
I walk slowly through the house, my eyes wide at the luxury. Everything is silk-covered and gilt-edged, huge rooms opening up into each other with polished floors and thick Persian rugs, like something from a glossy magazine. I can’t believe that Hunter grew up in this place. Now that I’ve seen him in his jeans and boots, I can’t think of him any other way, but the family photos lined up in the halls show him in tennis whites and preppy blazers, reluctantly posing with his parents.
With Jace.
I stop to look at a picture of them together. It must have been taken right before the accident, because they both look fully grown, towering over Camille’s bird-like frame. Jace’s hair is darker than Hunter’s, his smile wider and less strained. But they both look like a matching pair, two bookends holding the family up: solid and full of life.
I swallow back a pang of heartache, and keep moving, stepping out of a long, gallery-style room to the wide verandah at the back of the house.
It’s chaos.
The immaculate gardens are a hive of activity. Staff in black uniforms scurry around, laying electrical wiring from the house all the way to the huge white canopy tents being constructed on the lawn. People are setting up a wooden dance floor by a half-built stage, and marking out the location of tables with ribbon and seating charts. Gardeners are on ladders up the old sycamore tress, stringing lanterns and tiny bulbs, and a dozen workers dismantle an elegant fountain in the middle of the lawn and move it to the edge of the gardens.
