Wrecked

by J. B. Salsbury

  He shoves some of his things into a duffel bag and I’m grateful he’s moved his attention off me so he can’t see the battle brewing in my mind.

  “Her name is Kate Something-field. She’s coming by on her lunch break, so she won’t have much time.”

  “I’ll open the place up and be waiting. It’ll be quick.” It’ll have to be. Because I haven’t set foot in Celia’s place since the morning after I held a gun to her head.

  Just the thought makes me want to punch myself in the chest to push away the ache. Talk about showing my ass. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

  Cal swings his bag over his shoulder and grabs his keys. “All right. I want to hit the road before traffic gets bad. I’ll try to get back down before the holidays.”

  I grunt and nod.

  First Jenkins.

  Then Celia.

  Now Cal.

  I always thought being alone was what I wanted, but the thought of being truly alone is fucking depressing.

  He squeezes my shoulder, then pushes past me to the door of his cottage. “The key to number four is on the desk.”

  The screen door shuts behind him and I stare at the brass key remembering the way Celia’s fingers closed around it the first time I gave it to her. God, was that only a month ago? Feels like a different lifetime.

  There’s a bottle of Jack Daniels under the seat in my car and as much as my throat longs for the heat of booze that’ll take away the sting of my thoughts I can’t show up at Celia’s—number four—with a buzz and the stank of liquor on my breath. I also can’t step foot into that cottage with an audience.

  A quick walk-through should help to desensitize myself to the place.

  I snag the key and move from Cal’s cottage out into the bright sun. Such a perfect day to fish—my stomach aches with the loss of Jenkins. Never thought I’d miss that crabby old man giving me shit about nothing.

  When my feet hit the porch I’d swear I could smell Celia’s perfume in the breeze. Internally shaming myself for being a jackass, I distance my mind from my emotions and unlock the door.

  At first glance, the space looks no different than any of the other cottages, but as my eyes track around the room I can see her everywhere. On the couch with her legs folded up beneath her, in the kitchen sorting through her ridiculous food, by the bookshelf defending herself in those photos as I implied the worst.

  I assumed when I came through the door that it would smell of her. But the only thing that permeates my senses is the over-pungent scent of wood polish and Clorox.

  A glutton for punishment, I allow my feet to carry me back to the bedroom. I stare at the spot where her bed used to be and thinking on that brings back all the memories of what we did on that bed. The room seems to shrink a little and I open the window for some fresh air. Standing with my back against the wall I’m hit with all that happened the night before she left and the shame and humiliation is suffocating.

  I owe her an apology.

  That’s the least she deserves.

  That, and an explanation.

  But if I called would she even want to hear from me?

  Should I give her more time— A loose floorboard creaks beneath my foot.

  Figuring I have time to grab my nail gun and fix it before the prospective tenant gets here, I bend over and grab the loose plank to see how much work will be involved in repairing it only to see the piece comes all the way off and easily.

  Below the wood is an empty space, roughly the size of a laundry basket. And in that space lies a shoebox.

  I pull it from the hole. It smells a little like mildew from being kept beneath the floorboards but looks untouched by any kind of water damage.

  Popping off the top I peer inside to see what looks like some kind of memory box. Keepsakes, journals, and letters—both opened and unopened—litter the small space. There’s a generic trophy, a blue ribbon and—“Hello?”

  I swing my gaze to the open doorway to see a woman cautiously peering inside. “Yeah, come on in.”

  Putting the top back on I slide it to the side of the room and am placing the floorboard back on when the woman I’m assuming is Kate steps into the room.

  “You must be Kate.” I offer her my hand.

  She smiles up at me, her bright blue eyes twinkling and her cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “Yes, and you must be Aden.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand and when she doesn’t take her eyes off me I redirect her attention to the room. “It’s not much, but . . .” Some of my best memories were made here. “Can’t beat the location.”

  She finally studies the room and walks over to the window to peer out to what I know is a sliver of ocean view that if the bed is placed just right can be seen from the comfort of pillows. Her foot hits the loose floorboard, making it squeak.

  “I’ll fix the loose board today.”

  Her high heels click against the wood as she moves into the kitchen and then out into the living room. “And you’re the property manager of the place?”

  I follow her out and lean against the wall. “I am.”

  She turns sending her long dark hair to cascade over her shoulder and grins in a way that’s so openly flirtatious I almost roll my eyes.

  Trust me, woman, you don’t want none of this. I’m fucked up beyond repair.

  “So? What do you think?”

  She runs her finger along the countertop with long manicured nails. “I’ll take it.”

  There’s a storm coming. I’ve watched the clouds build over the last hour as I sit anchored somewhere off the coast of Mexico. With a bottle of tequila in one hand and an envelope in the other I feel connected to the turbulent sky as it matches the feeling in my soul.

  Finding that box in Celia’s floor was like opening a parallel universe. Everything I thought I knew . . . I didn’t.

  At first its contents seemed to be nothing more than a catchall for old memories. Concert ticket stubs, old faded photos of a younger Celia, school report cards, and a photo of an older couple, her mom and dad, I assume.

  There were handwritten letters to Celia signed “Love, Mom and Dad” that talked about their missing her and asking about all her adventures. And cards, so many cards for just about every holiday, all from her parents and someone named Sawyer who must be her sister.

  But those weren’t the things that surprised me the most. Those weren’t the items that sent me pointing my boat out to the open sea.

  Who knew a box could cause my already crumbling world to completely dissolve.

  It was the stack of letters from different medical institutions all bundled up in a rubber band.

  Celia was sick.

  She had been for a long time.

  According to multiple neurologists she’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor that has a life expectancy of eighteen months. I did some research only to find out that the location of the tumor would affect things like her balance, eyesight, breathing, and in retrospect I can’t say I paid attention enough to notice any of that.

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  There I was having fits about my past and the entire time she was dealing with a life-threatening illness.

  Terminal cancer.

  I tilt the bottle to my lips and relish the burn of booze as it slides down my throat. Celia, baby . . . what secrets you keep.

  Because I’m a glutton for punishment I open the letter with the most recent date and read it again.

  Dear Miss Forrester,

  There are no words to express our sincerest condolences for your recent brainstem glioma diagnosis. It is extremely rare in adults and as of now there is no cure.

  We’ve attempted to contact you many times throughout the last few months to encourage you to join the group therapy we provide for people with your diagnosis. Knowing you’re not the only one and joining with others might help to cope with the future you face.

  We would love to assist you in any way possible.

  Please con
tact us and know there are resources to guide you through what you’re feeling.

  A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky and I stare at it, welcoming it to take me, begging for it to release me from this torture.

  I let go of the only woman I ever really cared for.

  And she’s out there, suffering, living out whatever time she has left without ever knowing how much I love her.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SAWYER

  “The Monroe file is on your desk,” Dana calls as I pass by her and into my office.

  I snag the file and drop into an overstuffed chair. I’d always thought the thing was for decoration and wouldn’t fathom doing work on it at the risk of it being unprofessional, but that was pre-Aden. The post-Aden me says fuck it. Kicking off my heels I tuck my feet up under me and crack open the folder.

  It’s been months since we buried my sister and though I don’t think anything will ever feel “normal” again, my life is back on track. They say that staying busy helps with mourning. I can’t say I agree, but it has to be better than sitting at home staring at the wall.

  Dana pops her head in through the door. “The property manager from Paseo called and wanted to know if you’re ready to put down a security deposit?”

  I worry my lip. I’ve been living with my parents and as much as I know it’ll hurt them for me to leave, I think it’s time we all move on. Lord knows I’m ready for my own space. “Sure, go ahead and give it to them.”

  Dana smiles sadly but nods. “Will do. Oh, and Mark is on his way up.”

  “Okay.” I go back to my file and force the thoughts of Aden from my mind as everything, even the idea of renting a new apartment, makes me think of him.

  His name alone makes me miss him with a fierceness I didn’t think I was capable of. I’d hoped that over time his memory would fade into wistful thoughts rather than intensify, but no such luck. I only hope he’s doing well, that he’s managed to beat back what tortures him rather than end up alone and angry.

  He deserves so much more.

  My eyes drift to the photo on my coffee table. Celia and me at a holiday get-together a few years before she died. Her nose is pierced and she’s wearing a headband around her forehead like she’s straight out of Haight-Ashbury while I’m flashing a closed-lipped smile looking suffocated in my turtleneck. Her hair is falling all around her face and mine is pulled back in an extreme bun. If it weren’t for our totally opposite styles no one would ever know the difference between us.

  I’ve often wondered if she and Aden would’ve made the perfect couple. If she never would’ve gotten sick and come home would they have met and ended up together, married, babies. God, how could I sit by and watch without having a crush on my own brother-in-law.

  I couldn’t. I’d have loved him.

  I love him.

  “Knock knock?” Mark’s voice calls my eyes to him as he walks through the door and drops down on the chair opposite me.

  “Hey.” I close the folder in my hands, genuinely happy to see him.

  After Celia died, he’s been a great friend. I know he’s hoping for more but I can’t give my heart to anyone as long as it’s with Aden.

  He tilts his head. “How’re you doing?”

  “Good.” I frown. “Why?”

  A shy smile pulls his lips. “Just checking in on you, ya know, with the date and all.”

  “Yeah . . .” It’s the eighteenth. “I can’t believe she’s been gone for two months.”

  “How’re your parents?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “They’re a little better every day.”

  “Good.” He scoots to the end of his seat and sets his eyes on me and I see nothing but sympathy there. “If you ever need anything, I’m here for you, Sawyer.”

  I reach forward and grab his hand, squeezing it in mine. “I know you are and I appreciate that, but I’m okay.”

  His gaze moves from my hair to my chin, then back to my eyes. “You’re different.”

  “Am I?” I lean back to put some distance between us. As much as I do appreciate Mark’s attentiveness, I don’t want to lead him on.

  “Since you came back from your break you’re more . . .” He shrugs and blows out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

  “Well . . .” I smile at him. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.” His expression grows serious, and as handsome as he is he doesn’t light me on fire the way a certain someone does.

  “Do.” His cheeks flush a little and he stands to leave, but turns before passing through the doorway. “Listen, do you want to grab a bite after work?”

  “Oh, um—”

  “As friends. I swear, no funny business.”

  Friends.

  It seems I finally have some, thanks to Celia.

  My lips pull into a grin. “I’ve been dying for sushi.”

  “Sushi?” He looks confused but nods. “Okay, I’ll be back to get you around six?”

  My eyes land on the photo of me and Cece. “Actually, I wanted to swing by the graveyard first, drop off some flowers.”

  “I can go with you.” There’s a hopefulness in his expression.

  “That’s sweet, but . . . I need to do this alone. Why don’t you go grab us a table at Stingray and I’ll be there around six-thirty?”

  “Sure.” He grins and it really does seem sincere, then he passes through the door to leave me alone with my thoughts.

  I’m going to have to move on eventually.

  The problem is . . . I don’t know if I can.

  ADEN

  CELIA MARIE FORRESTER BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER.

  MAY YOUR ADVENTURES CONTINUE ON INTO ETERNITY.

  I stare at the tombstone waiting for a clarity that never comes.

  She’s gone.

  According to the date etched into the stone she died two weeks after she left.

  That must’ve been why she took off with no contact. She knew she had only a limited amount of time and I was her final hurrah. But she seemed so healthy, and staring at the proof with my own two eyes doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

  The wind kicks up, but even though it feels like a blowtorch of hundred-degree air it cools my sweat-sticky skin.

  It’s hard to trace my steps back to what brought me here. I was staring between empty bottles of booze and a full one in my hand and it hit me. Drinking myself to death wasn’t going to solve a single fucking thing. It wouldn’t bring Celia back to my boat, wouldn’t put her back in my arms, wouldn’t bring her lips back to mine when all I’ve ever dreamed of was to kiss her one last time.

  Or even more, just to tell her I love her.

  I loved her.

  I gave in and I tried to call, even texted, but everything was a dead end. I pulled out her old rental agreement and dialed the number on there, but it had been disconnected.

  Desperate to hunt her down, I logged on to the Internet and Googled her name and that’s when I saw the obituary.

  Celia is dead.

  I lost my chance to tell her how much she means to me.

  I had to come here, to prove to myself she was really gone, and to admit out loud, even if to only her tombstone, that I loved her.

  I crouch down and place a bouquet of violets at the base of her tombstone, my mind reeling with all I should’ve said.

  I’ve attended burials for more people than I can count and always felt cheated. Life taken too soon has become an ongoing theme, but the one woman I loved, the one woman I could’ve spent the rest of my life with is gone and I never got to say goodbye.

  “Aw, freckles . . .” I bite back the pain that claws at my throat at the thought of her beautiful skin six feet below me in a dark coffin. With a heavy heart I drop back to my ass and stare at the fresh grass. “I should’ve told you before, but I’m a coward. I love you. I know, it sounds crazy, but I do. I wish I’d known how sick you were, I would’ve been able to tell you . . .” I drop my head forward feeling the rush of emotion that I’m so used to being a
ble to drown out with liquor. I haven’t touched a drop in weeks, forcing myself to feel for the first time in a long time. “I should’ve been there for you.”

  I sit in the quiet cemetery hearing nothing but the wind through the trees and the cars passing by on the nearby street. It’s in that stillness that I sense movement at my back.

  Paranoia pricks at my nerves and I jerk my head around to see—I go light-headed as the blood drains from my face.

  “Celia?” I hop to my feet so fast she squeaks in surprise. My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out because—I’ll be damned—but Celia, the woman I’ve fallen in love with, the woman whose grave I’m currently standing on, is staring at me with eyes so wide I’d swear she’s just as shocked to see me as I am to see her, which is saying something since she’s supposed to be dead!

  “You’re here.” Two words spoken so softly as if they were whispered into the breeze.

  “I don’t . . .” My eyes skate between her and the gravestone. “What is this?”

  Her eyes dart to the bouquet of flowers and I’d swear the corner of her mouth tilts up a little. “Violets.”

  I swallow and take a step closer, half thinking she’ll disappear into thin air. “They were her favorite.”

  She licks her lips, those perfect thick lips, and I rub the center of my chest as something works fiercely behind my ribs.

  With our eyes locked she steps closer and holds out her hand. “You must be Aden.”

  “Yes. And . . .” I blink and fight the faintness in my head. “You’re Celia.”

  “No.” Her smile falls. “I’m her sister, Sawyer.”

  “Sawyer.” Of course. Her sister, but they’re identical. I had no idea Celia’s sister was her twin. “You . . . wow.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out to her and study the gorgeous woman before me. Dress slacks that hug every curve of her legs, white button-up shirt ironed to perfection, her clothes a complete contradiction to her hair that falls around her face and dances in the wind.

  “You look just like her.”

  “We were identical twins.”

  I look down at the headstone hoping to sever the connection I feel to the stranger in front of me. “She never told me she had a twin.”