“I don't care.” Tears streamed down my face. “I don't care.”
“I do,” he hollered back at me. “You may not care, but I fucking do. I love you, Georgia. I fucking love you, and I care.”
My eyes flashed open in shock. I opened my mouth to say something but wasn't sure what. “You don’t, Tristan,” I said.
“I do, Georgia. I care and I love you and I want you safe. I want to take care of you. I don’t want you to leave. I don't want to leave.” He still held his palms on either side of my face, his thumbs pressed on my cheekbones, his fingers threaded through my long, wet hair. I averted my gaze, refusing to acknowledge what he’d said.
“Turn your emotions back on. You told me you loved me, and yet you’ve done nothing. You’re more broken than ever. Come back, Georgia. You’re sinking; the pain is taking you.” Tristan dipped his head to make eye contact with me.
“I don't deserve it, Tristan. I don’t deserve you. I’m broken.” I sobbed and dropped my head in anguish.
“Yes, you do, you deserve it. You deserve everything. I’ve waited so long to feel anything and you make me feel, so I’m not letting you go without a fight.” He tipped my head up to look in his eyes.
“I’ve broken everything. I’m toxic, everything I touch―”
“That's not true―”
“It is. It is, Tristan, you have no idea.” Hot, wet tears streamed down my face, mingling with the cool raindrops.
“Then tell me. Tell me why you think that.” He raised his voice again.
“My parents. It’s my fault. It should have been me too, but I was a coward, and I hid, and I’m still hiding,” I rambled inconsolably.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan's stormy eyes blazed into me.
“They’re dead and I should be too. But I hid under my bed. I fell asleep. There were boots, and voices, and my dad―” I choked on another sob as the painful memory overtook me.
“What the fuck happened? Tell me what happened to you, Georgia.” He fingered the strands of my hair soothingly.
“They were murdered. And I hid under my bed the whole time. They were tortured, all night, while I was asleep under my bed.”
“God, Georgia.” He pressed me to his chest and held me so tightly the breath could hardly escape my lungs.
“My parents were murdered when I was twelve, a break-in, and they didn't even get away with anything valuable. They found some jewelry and a couple hundred dollars. My dad tried to save me and my mom, he tried to fight them, they were angry that they didn't find much, so they tortured them.” My heart shattered on the wet sand at my feet. Pain raged inside me, beat through my chest just like the waves on the shore. I was dizzy with suffering and exhaustion and devastation.
“They didn't get much because my parents had a safety deposit box. They left it all to me, everything―an insurance policy, inheritance. That's how I bought the house. I refused to touch the money―blood money―for years, until now, until I finally started to live, so I bought the beach house,” I whimpered. I’d had some sad hope that buying the beach house with the blood money would be therapeutic in some way, that it would help me heal from the tragedy of my childhood.
“I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” He rocked me back and forth in his arms as the rain pounded us. We were knit together, his arms encircling me, as we stood in a cocoon of pain and devastation while the storm raged around us.
“That's not the worst part. The part that haunts me―that I dream about,” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I saw them. When the cops found me, they tried to shelter me on the way out of the house, but I looked up and I saw them, I saw their bodies. And every five years it comes back. One of the murderers killed himself, but the other―he’s in prison―but every five years he’s up for parole. Every five years they send me a letter. Every five years I’m faced with the notion that he might be released.” Sobs wracked my entire body and I fell to my knees on the beach. The rain and tears mingled together down my cheeks, and my eyes hurt from the crying, and the lump in my throat wouldn't go away.
“Fuck, Georgia. Please let me take you inside,” Tristan whispered in my ear as he slipped his hands under my knees and around my back to carry me through the driving rain and into the house. He laid me on the couch and wrapped his body around mine, holding me so tightly it helped to calm the shaking of my body.
“That's why I can't leave Kyle,” I finally whispered once my sobs had subsided.
“Why?” he mumbled in my ear, his breath kissing my wet neck. It chased goosebumps down my skin and I rolled over to face him, tucking my head under his chin. I inhaled the fresh, clean scent that soothed me and pressed my hot cheek to his neck.
“He was the only one… I moved in with my aunt and he lived next door. I didn't talk for months after they were―after what happened. Kyle was the first person I talked to. The only person I talked to for months. He's the first person I ever told, and he didn't care. And by not caring, he cared completely. He didn't ask me about it all the time like other people when they found out. He knew, but it didn't matter to him. He's been my best friend since I was twelve.” My lips ghosted against his neck as I spoke. I was glad I could finally tell him why I couldn't leave Kyle. The lump in my throat finally broke up and eased away.
“I understand,” he murmured and stroked my hair.
“You do?” I looked into his breathtaking, green eyes.
“Yeah.” His eyes shone with emotion. “But don't you think it's unfair to be with someone just because of the past you share with them?”
I stared at him for long moments, our gazes locked as I processed his words. “That's why I took off the ring.” I held up my naked ring finger.
“I noticed,” he whispered and pressed his warm lips to my hand in a reverent kiss. Then the lights flickered and the house fell under a cloud of black. Minimal light passed through the windows as the storm blazed outside.
“You okay? Want me to get a flashlight?” Tristan asked. I shook my head in response as I curled into his warm body and fell asleep, feeling all cried out and lighter than I had in months.
* * *
“GEORGIA, WAKE UP.” Tristan ran his palm over my forehead soothingly. “You had a nightmare,” he murmured as my eyes flew open. I searched his face, needing reassurance he was really here, I was really wrapped in his arms. I tucked my head into his chest, nestled my nose into the crook of his neck, and inhaled his familiar, fresh scent
“Wanna talk about it?” He continued to swipe his fingers through the damp hair at my forehead.
“It was about you. I’d lost you. I was so afraid. We were swimming and then you were gone. Just disappeared. You slipped under the water and you were gone and I searched and it was too late. I was too late.” Tears leaked down my cheeks. He swiped one away with the pad of his thumb.
“I’m here, Georgia. I’m not going anywhere.” He folded me into his arms and rocked me back and forth. He held me in his arms as the nightmare of seeing Tristan slip away from me played on repeat in my mind. Finally the dim morning light shone through the windows. The weather radio crackled to life and a warning went out over the airwaves.
“It’s getting worse,” Tristan murmured. He hadn’t slept after my nightmare either. I sighed deeply. I knew what this meant. “The storm’s moving closer, we have to evacuate.” Tristan moved from his position behind me on the couch. I finally stopped to listen and heard the wind howling outside, the storm coming through the cracks of the house causing a haunting whistling noise.
“Is it mandatory?” I sat up on the couch and wrapped the blanket around me.
“We have to leave now.” he nodded. “Grab a few things and we'll go to a hotel.”
“Okay,” I whispered, my brain thick with the fog of exhaustion. I'd bared my soul to him and the pain in my heart had fallen at my feet and splintered into a thousand pieces. I felt like I didn't know who I was anymore, the pain I'd worn like a shield for so long was gone. He affected me like
no one I'd ever met, no one since Kyle and I had first gotten together when we were teenagers. It terrified me.
“Pack up some things and meet me back here.”
“Okay.” I plodded to my bedroom and threw a few changes of clothes into my suitcase. I tossed in Tristan and Isolde and headed back to the kitchen. Tristan stood jangling my keys off his finger and a small smile lifted his face.
“Ready?”
I nodded in response. I gave the house one last glance before turning and making my way out the front door with Tristan's hand locked with mine.
We drove into Wilmington and every decent-sized town up Interstate 40―“no vacancy” signs at every hotel we passed. We were too late; we'd taken too long to evacuate and it was my fault.
“We’re not going to find anything,” I frowned.
“We will, we'll just keep moving inland, we'll find something, Georgia.” He squeezed my knee through my jeans as he pulled onto the interstate heading further west.
After a few more towns I finally insisted we turn around.
“I should go back to D.C. We’re not going to find anything, Tristan.”
“No way, we'll find something, Georgia.” He turned to face me.
“We won’t. I’ll take you back to the house and you can drive Gavin’s truck back to Jacksonville.”
“You want me to go back to Jacksonville? To leave you?” Tristan's jaw tightened.
“It's the only way.” I averted my gaze to the rainy world outside the window.
“That’s what you want?” I could feel his eyes blazing into me.
I knew if I told him anything other than yes he wouldn't go, and we'd run out of options. “Yes,” I said blankly.
“Fine.” Tristan whipped through a service drive and headed back the way we'd came.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE this is what you want to do? ‘Cause it's not what I want,” he said a while later as we found ourselves back in the kitchen of the beach house, Gavin’s keys in his hands, a large duffel bag hanging off his shoulder.
“It’s only temporary,” I forced a smile. It isn’t what I wanted to do either, but we didn’t have a choice. “We’ll be back when the storm passes. You’ve got your boat and I have to come back to lock up the house for the season. Got everything?”
“This is it.” He lifted the bag on his shoulder.
“Okay.” I leaned in and gave him a quick squeeze.
“Georgia, I―”
“No goodbyes, just a few days,” I said before lifting to give him a peck on the lips. “Really.” I squeezed his forearms and gave him my brightest, most reassuring smile. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and I watched his eyes―the eyes I'd been lost in all summer―swirl and darken with emotion. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from begging him to stay with me.
“You could go with me,” he mumbled, dusting the pad of his thumb along my cheekbone.
I shook my head. “No, I can’t. It's only a few days,” I said softly. He licked his lips before dropping his head and breaking eye contact with me. My heart thudded in my chest as a stray, golden lock of hair fell over his eyebrow. I brushed it away with my fingertips and stroked the skin along his cheek.
“A few days,” I said again as water welled in my eyes.
“I'll call you.”
“’Kay.”
“Okay.” He pulled me into a tight embrace, my feet lifted off the ground, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. “This summer was… perfect,” he mumbled in my ear.
“The best,” I whispered and squeezed my eyes tightly to stop the tears from leaking out.
“See you in a few days?” He pulled away from me.
“A few days.” I pulled away and stroked his cheek again, memorizing the sharp angle of his jaw, the stubble that swept his golden skin, the line of his nose, the sparkle in his ridiculously green eyes. “Bye, Tristan.” I couldn't even pretend to smile through the pain that radiated in my chest.
“Bye, Georgia,” he said before he released me and headed out the door and into the driving rain.
I arrived home late that night and let myself into the apartment that Kyle and I shared. It was after midnight and he was already in bed, the house silent. Diva, the cat I’d insisted on getting when Kyle and I moved in together, purred up to my legs and wrapped her tail around my ankle. I picked her up and held her tightly, nuzzling my nose into the pristine, white fur of her neck. She rubbed her head on my cheek and her purring raised an octave.
“I missed you too,” I cooed before setting her down and dropping my duffel bag. It’d been only a few hours since I'd left the beach house and Tristan, but the traffic had been horrendous―backed up for miles―and I was exhausted. I stepped further into the apartment and looked around. It felt like a shell where people pretended to live and go about their lives, mimicking happiness, but it didn't feel like a home. Not my home anyway. I peeked into the bedroom to find Kyle sound asleep, his rhythmic breathing the only sound in the small space. I frowned―there was a time when his presence would have given me the only comfort I needed, but now it brought me nothing. It left a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I padded into our closet and pulled down a blanket before making my way to the couch. Diva curled up with me and I stroked her thick, snowy fur as she purred on my chest and I fell into a restless sleep.
Twenty-Eight
Past
MY CONFUSED MIND wakes up to shrieking. I sit bolt upright in bed, my whole body shaking. I wait for breathless moments, listening, straining my ears. I hear nothing, until everything tumbles down around me. I hear heavy boots, a gruff voice. I know it's not my dad’s. I wonder if this is a dream. I’d watched a movie tonight that I wasn't supposed to on HBO, maybe this is a nightmare. Maybe I should listen to Mom and Dad from now on.
Just then a dark figure bursts into my dark room and I lurch back into the headboard causing it to knock loudly against the wall.
“Honey, listen to me. Be very quiet, okay?”
I swallow the lump of fear that’s lodged in my throat. It's Dad. He's still in his pajamas, but his breath smells like toothpaste, like he's just brushed his teeth and is getting ready for bed.
“Mom,” I squeak.
“Mom's okay. You have to promise Dad you'll be very quiet and no matter what you hear you won't come downstairs. Can you do that for me?” He's holding me in his arms tightly and I know something still isn't right because his whole body is shaking as he holds me. I hear him suck in a breath and I wonder if he's crying.
“Dad.” I choke out the word.
“Hide under the bed, okay, baby? Promise me you'll stay hidden under your bed and no matter what happens, no matter what you hear, stay under your bed, okay?”
I nod my head as he hauls me off the bed, gives me one tight squeeze, and then drops to his knees. I lie flat on the floor and shimmy under my bed. Dad lifts the pink dust ruffle with lace trim and dips his head to look at me.
“I love you, Georgia. Forever.” His voice quavers on the last word.
“I love you, Dad,” I whisper but it's too late. He's gone. I want to follow him and hold him and tell him I love him.
I wait for long minutes. I hear Dad’s heavy footfalls on the stairway; he's running down, I can tell. It sounded just the same when I cut my hand on broken glass when I was eight and I bled all over the kitchen floor. Those comforting thump, thump, thumps on the stairway were a rhythm that calmed my heart knowing that he was coming to save me, to make it better, but now the feeling is entirely different. He's leaving me. Every step increases the fear in my heart and the pounding in my ears as I strain to hear over my own soft sobs. I wipe the tears off my face angrily and lay my hot cheeks against the freezing cold of the wood floor. The tactile sensation helps to calm me until I hear a large thud and my mother's scream.
I know now it wasn't a dream. It sounded as if something's hit the floor. I don't hear Dad's footsteps anymore, I don't hear his voice, but I can hear the voices of others. Two m
en, speaking roughly, slurring, using bad words that Mom and Dad scolded me and Jenny Baker from using.
I hear Mom's sobs, uncontrollable sobs that are now matching my own, but mine are silent where hers are interspersed with shrieks, and then I hear another thud and a groan before it sounds like something else has fallen. I wait and wait and wait to hear what's going on. I pray that whoever was down there fighting with Mom and Dad has left. I keep waiting. Then I hear mumbling between the two men and they’re getting closer. Fear leaps back into my throat, threatening to choke me. I feel the need to cough, to swallow, I think there's bile rising, I feel like I might be sick but Dad told me to be quiet. Where is Dad? Why do I have to stay here? I want to see that he's okay. Why did he leave me? I could have helped him. I’m a fast runner. I won first place on field day in fourth grade for the sprint. I could have run to get help. Doesn't Dad know that?
“Anyone else?” A deep voice shakes me from my thoughts. I lay stock-still and pray that whoever is here can't hear the thudding of my heart. I hold my breath for as long as I possibly can, I’m afraid they'll hear me breathing. Heavy footfalls echo along the wooden floor of the hallway outside my bedroom. My door is closed, and I pray that they don't come in here. I know they'll find me if they come in. I also pray that Mom and Dad will come back. I don't understand why they left me here by myself. I’m afraid of the strange men outside my room. The footsteps stop outside my door, and the old doorknob shakes for a moment before the door creaks open slowly. I flatten my cheek against the floor and narrow my eyes to squint underneath the dust ruffle. I see heavy, black boots standing in the hallway just outside my door. The moonlight shines in from my bedroom window and I see something dark and wet glisten off the toe of the boot. My breath catches in my throat when I realize it looks like blood. The urge to cough or swallow or cry or run hits me. I can't sit so still when something so horrible has clearly happened. I open my breath to taking heaving pants, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation that I can't breathe as one boot turns toward my room and takes another step in.
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