by A. L. Tyler
Except that now, she did.
You have a cell? Let me see…
Nearly breathless, Ember remembered the sparkling excitement in Asher’s eyes as he had taken the phone from her hand to program in their numbers. The glow on the screen had been magical in the dark, misty night; the moon had been out and full, and with Acton’s arm tight around her shoulders…
The moon? In a bar?
Ember closed her eyes, squeezing them shut until stars popped in front of her eyes, trying to press out the story of the evening prior. There was the bar, and the drinks, and then…Kaylee had braided her hair. Yes, because she hadn’t used any hair ties, and it had been a mess in the morning; knots all over.
But at least the braids had kept it out of her hair when she had thrown up.
“Better get her home before she turns into a pumpkin.”
Ember had laughed when he said it; Asher always said the funny things. Isaac was a poet. Acton didn’t laugh; it took her hours to realize that when he smiled, it never touched it eyes. His lips had smiled, but his eyes hadn’t.
“I’ve got time, and so does she. I want to take her for a tour.”
The tour of the island—that’s right, they had left the bar. People had clapped for her, and whistled, and she had made a grand bow at the door as they exited.
Ember cringed, pressing her face into the pillow. She had bowed.
After the bar, everything was bathed in icy moonlight and freezing mist. Laughter boomed through the forest. There was a fire, something old and rusted, and the feel of Acton’s suede jacket against her cheek.
The feel of the grass in her hair.
Ember raised her hands to her hair; her eyes shot open. They had been lying down in the grass.
She rolled over onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. It was there, somewhere in her mind, buried deep.
“Where are we?”
“Are you one of those shallow girls? The ones who never think about life?”
Ember wasn’t one of those girls. She would have said so.
“Do you love your mother? Does she love you?”
She remembered staring up at the stars, trying hard to think of something clever to say, but all of her wits seemed to have evaporated. The air around them was so cold, but the mist was hot. Not mist—steam, from the ground, was rising in wisps all around them. The mist was making her eyes water, and then she had started to cry.
“I wish she was dead…”
Fortunately, Acton was happy when he was drunk. He had started laughing, and then she had started laughing.
“You’re not afraid of anything.”
“No.”
“And you really wish she was dead.”
“Sometimes. Most times. It would be easier than explain, or wondering…”
And Acton had looked her in the eye; the two of them, lying on their stomachs facing each other in the tall grass. The steam was swirling around them, and the night sky was above them, dawn making a pink fringe on the horizon.
“Okay.”
That’s all he had said about it. It took her breath away how simple his acceptance was.
“Okay.”
*****
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A.L. Tyler is a longtime writer. She lives in Colorado, and started her writing career in high school by creating plays for the drama department. She has a BA, MA, and MLS, and has worked for pay or life experience at a water park, a candle dipping enterprise, a federal research agency, and an evidence room. Through it all she has written several novels.
She can be found on her blog at http://addisynltyler.blogspot.com/.
