by Andrea Joan
Me: Okay, sounds fun. Come over at seven and we’ll get ready. Love ya!
RUN. I FUCKING RUN. It’s how I spend my mornings now, and one of the only things I look forward to anymore, a way to clear my head before the day begins. My feet connecting with the ground in a loud succinct rhythm and my hard breathing tends to drown out the dark thoughts and nightmares left over from my sleepless nights. Since cutting out the drugs entirely and minimizing my weekly booze consumption, I’ve had to replace the source of my adrenaline intake and mind numbing tactics with other more acceptable options. And the second I hit that runners’ high I feel a similar release as when I snort a line or bury my dick deep into pussy. Not that I’ve given that up. I’m not a fucking saint. Although I have fucked some of those in the last few years.
Turning saints into sinners with a righteous fuck. Gets. Me. Off.
With every deep breath I take I let the smell of the island captivate me. Its salty ocean scent mixed with the evergreen trees and some unnamed spice assaults my senses. This makes me sound like a fucking douche, I know, but I read once that the sense of smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers. It can bring on a damn flood of memories because once you smell something new, that scent is forever linked to the person or moment associated with it. I could quote some other scientific shit about the olfactory bulb and its access to the amygdala, which processes emotion, but I won’t because I’m not a pretentious asshole. Just because I can recall every fucking word doesn’t mean I understand every fucking word. The point is, the smell of this island brings me only the good memories. The ones where Trevor was still alive and Shay was just a toddler and we would carry her out to a tiny island when the tide went out, or every year when my parents hosted a huge neighborhood Fourth of July barbecue. Or the day I hung a hammock for Ali in my parents’ backyard because she always dreamed of having a hammock to read her books in, but her parents had no place to hang one. Just like a drug though, these runs are only a temporary fix, because once my run is over, these good memories only prove to be more fucking torturous than the bad because I know I can never experience those feelings again.
Six years ago, I would have been running in the late afternoon, when the island was alive with tourists and friends alike. I was friendly with everyone; no one feared me like they do now. Six years ago I had a much different reputation in Eastsound, the town golden boy destined to make a name for myself in the boxing game. But now things are much different. My reputation has been tarnished by my quick temper, and when I fucking snap, everything goes dark. I lose control.
And in a close-knit town like Eastsound, the gossips in it live to remember your failures over your triumphs and never forgive your past. Not that I want or need their forgiveness. I deserve their condemnatory punishment.
As I turn a corner onto Main Street, named that because it’s literally the only street in the small town of Eastsound, I feel my shoe loosen around my foot. The goddamn thing is untied.
“Fuck!” I fucking hate when my concentration is broken because all the good memories associated with those smells dissipate from my mind as the momentary lapse in concentration allows a chance for the darkness to descend.
Reluctantly I bend down to tie my shoe and hear a door creak open a short distance away. I glance up instinctively and see her. She walks out onto the balcony from a room on the second floor of The Lighthouse Inn like a living fantasy. I take a few steps forward toward the edge of the sidewalk to get a better look. Because I know. I fucking know this is a sight I would be happy to have seared into my memory from now until the day I die. My breath, which just moments ago had been hard and fast from running, halts in my chest as if time and existence has frozen around me because even the universe can sense how fucking spectacular her presence is. She’s quite simply beautiful, breathtaking, and somewhat familiar.
Shit. I know that face. I don’t even need a photographic memory to remember who she is. I just need to not live in a fucking cave. Everyone knows her. It’s Skylar Barrett. I know she’s been filming something around here, the whole island has been talking about it for months, but never thought I’d see her. My sister used to watch that stupid Mandy Mayhem every Saturday morning. It was fucking torture.
And here she is to torture me again, only this time in a very different way, because she’s all grown up. Her auburn hair drapes messily over one shoulder as she stares out at the ocean. She must have just woken up as she appears to be wearing something she slept in and there is a tranquil vibe about her, a type of calmness that comes before the day fucks you up. A pink tank top fits tightly to her petite body and a pair of white shorts hang off her hipbones.
Fuck me, she has the most perfect body I’ve seen on any woman. Ever. Trust me when I say I have seen a fucking lot. Unfortunately I’m too far away to see her facial features, more importantly her eyes. Beautiful eyes are my Achilles’ heel. That’s what drew me to her. I shut my eyes to get the image of her out of my head as quickly as fucking possible.
Once upon a time I would have made some grand gesture, like scaling the balcony and asking this girl out on a date, and she would have said yes. Most chicks do, and in less than three hours after meeting one I can have my name replacing God’s while they scream it in my bed.
Or theirs.
Or a bar bathroom.
Or the back seat of a car.
Or the front seat of a car.
Or the hood of a car. I’m not picky.
But this chick, this woman, she is one you wife the fuck up. As quickly as possible. And yes, I can tell this just from looking at her. I’m one hundred percent certain I’m not Skylar Barrett material either. I’m not relationship material in general. I can’t go down that road again. It will hurt too much in the end, and it will end.
Her head turns to her room abruptly; something must have caught her attention, and just like that I am pulled from my self-induced hypnosis. Damn. For a brief second I felt something I have not felt in a long fucking time: alive. Like Doctor Frankenstein just flipped the fucking switch and the monster in me had a fucking beating heart again. I push that shit back down deep because it only stands to remind me of what I’ve lost. Remind me of how human life is so fucking fleeting and disposable, and the people you care about are no exception. So fuck Skylar Barrett. She is just a poster on a wall you jerk off to anyway. With that last reassuring thought I step back on the sidewalk to continue my run. I want to make it home before the island starts waking up and I’m no longer the last man on earth.
As I sprint up to the doorway of my house, ending my five-mile run with a strong finish because I always fucking finish strong, I scare the feral black rabbits that run wild on this island out of mom’s vegetable garden. I manage a smile as the rabbits scamper away because I know when my mom sees the damage they’ve done to her garden she’ll be livid. It’s not that I enjoy seeing my mom mad; in fact she rarely gets angry, I just enjoy knowing the end result is always the same. Dad will suggest setting traps or fencing the garden; once he even suggested poisoning the rabbits, but mom just brushes off every solution with a dramatic sigh saying, “I guess it’s good someone is enjoying those vegetables.”
Truth is, I know she loves those damn rabbits. They make her feel necessary, and her heart is too pure to deny the little fuckers their meal. Not that they would starve without her vegetables.
I open the heavy oak door that allows me entry into my childhood home and I’m hit with the smell of brewing coffee, which can only mean two things: one, I made it home right at eight thirty so I made great fucking time, and two, mom is up.
“Liam, sweetie, is that you?” I hear her ask from the kitchen.
“Yeah, Ma,” I say through a ragged breath. “Is the coffee done or did you just put it on?”
I take my shoes off and place them uniformly on the shoe rack under the gilded mirror hanging in the entryway before I walk down the hallway. Everything in this house is done a certain way out of respect for my mom. And I respect the sh
it out of her, so whatever the hell she wants I’ll do. The hallway walls leading me to the kitchen are lined with family photos of camping trips and backyard barbeques, trips to Seattle, and school pictures of me and Trev and Shayla. Anyone can tell within seconds of stepping through the doorway that this is not just a house, it’s a home.
When I enter the kitchen, I see my mom at the sink washing her hands, and I engulf her in a bear hug, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. I’m not a mama’s boy, I just fucking love and respect the woman who brought me into this world.
Also, I know this hug will gross her the hell out.
“Liam!” she squeals, while squirming out of my embrace. “Come on now, you are all sweaty. And yes, the coffee is done. I poured you a cup,” she says, pointing to the dining room table where a large breakfast spread, complete with bagels, fresh fruit, cream cheese, homemade jam, bacon, and an array of muffins has been laid out. This is a typical Saturday morning ritual, a large breakfast to get the weekend started off right. The strawberries are the best. If that makes me sound like a pussy, so be it, but I love a fresh strawberry. And they come fresh from her garden as long as the rabbits don’t get to them first.
Fuckers.
“Hey, is dad up yet?” I ask, grabbing a blueberry muffin and taking the seat at the table near my coffee.
“I heard someone rustling around up there. It was either your father or your sister.”
“Shay doesn’t even know what eight thirty in the morning looks like.”
“Hey, I heard that!” Shayla announces, right on cue.
I turn and see Shayla stomping down the creaky wooden steps and into the kitchen. I love my sister as an older brother should. Even when we were younger, I adored her. An eight-year difference separates us, and while most siblings with an age difference that significant may find it hard to get along or have anything in common, we make sibling life look easy. Since losing Trevor, my protectiveness over her has only grown.
I pick up a chocolate chip muffin, Shay’s’ favorite, and toss it to her as she plops lazily down into the chair next to me.
“I know what eight thirty looks like, skeez.” Shay tears a small piece of her muffin off and playfully throws it at my face. Only she can get away with this move. “Not everyone feels the need to get up at the ass crack of dawn and go for a three-hundred-mile run.”
“Five miles, drama queen, and maybe you should go running with me. You’re eighteen now, and I read somewhere that the female metabolism starts slowing down at that age.” I have no idea if this is true or not. It doesn’t matter though. Fucking with Shayla is one of my only sources of happiness anymore. She loves it too. It makes her happy, makes her miss Trevor less. I know it.
“Well, I read somewhere that twenty-six-year-old males who live with their parents have serial killer tendencies,” she says with a cute-ass attempt at my trademark cocky smirk.
This comment never fazes me, no matter how many times she jokes about me being twenty-six and living at home. We both know the only reason I came back was to help take care of dad after he got sicker. When I got the call from Shay that dad’s lung cancer was not yet in remission, I left my apartment in Seattle to go home to my family and help keep our bar running while dad recovered. I was doing nothing fucking productive anyway—although I was doing some productive fucking. Bartending and going through every drug and pussy Seattle had to offer was not anything to be proud of. Not even if the chick attached to that pussy came more than once while wrapped around my dick.
Now dad’s cancer is legitimately in remission, and he is back to manning the bar and I am free to go anywhere I want. A place where I can have a fresh start. But I don’t know that I deserve one.
“Children, don’t make me put you in your time out corners. Don’t think you are too old for them. Your mom would agree with me. Ain’t that right, Mrs. Lillian O’Connor?”
Shay and I both turn our heads at the same time to see dad coming down the stairs. Sean O’Connor had once been a tall, hefty, barrel-chested man whose large presence could command a room, but since the cancer and the chemotherapy treatments, his frame had shrunk significantly. His demeanor, however, has not changed one bit, and he proves that, despite his now thin frame, he can still command a room. My dad’s booming baritone and slightly Irish accented voice, while imposing, is always filled with love and kindness. He’s a real life gentle giant who loves his kids and wife more than anything.
I idolize my dad, his skills as a boxer, the way he built a business from scratch, the way he held a family together despite the tragedies, even the way he still worshipped his wife after over thirty years of marriage. True, his wife is our mother, but she will always be his wife and true love first. You ask me, that is what makes a marriage defy the fucking odds. One of the reasons I decided to come home is to prove I can be half the man my dad is, but whether I’ve proven it I can’t be sure. No matter how much time I have dedicated to helping the bar stay afloat, I feel like a fucking disappointment because I failed when it truly counted.
Dad saunters into the kitchen and bends his head down to kiss his wife before he makes a cup of coffee. He whispers something in her ear that no one can hear but puts a coy smile on her face.
“Seriously? Again? You guys were just practically mauling each other in the hallway a half-hour ago,” Shayla says, rolling her eyes. “You two kiss way too much.”
“Don’t be jealous just because you have no one to kiss you in the morning,” Dad shoots back, not missing a beat.
“Shows what you know, dad.”
“Yeah right, Shay. Over my dead body,” I warn with a wink as Shayla sticks her tongue out.
I’m only half joking. Shayla happens to be gorgeous—both of us are goddamn winners in the gene pool, and I know how guys look at her. Petite like our mother, and standing at a tiny 5’5”, she’s thin in the right places and curvy in the wrong fucking places with ice blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that could light up a fucking galaxy. Not to mention, Shay has a way of making people feel like they’re the only person in a room of hundreds, which can be a dangerous attribute for a girl like her. I know this because I’m a guy and because I’m not as naïve as her, and as her older brother I know it’s my job to make sure no one takes advantage of her.
“Liam, I know you have the day off today, but I need you to come into the bar tonight if you can. I got a call late last night that we have a party of twenty people coming in. Maybe more, I can’t be sure. I want to put you behind the bar and have Shayla serve. I have Bobby T coming in to help bartend and serve too.” He gives me a brief rundown as if only to assure me he really does need me.
“Yeah, I can come in, but a party that large, what happened? Did one of the ferry boats to the mainland crap out?”
“You know that movie they’ve been shooting here? Well, I guess they’re done filming and want to have something called a wrap party. They should be getting to the bar around eight, but I don’t know how these actor types are. They may be late or early, who fucking knows,” he shrugs.
“SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!” Shayla screams as she jumps off the chair, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
“Skylar Barrett is coming into our bar? I can’t believe it. I have to start getting ready, like right now!”
“Shay, you’ve roughly eleven goddamn hours before you need be there. I think you have time,” I remind her.
“Liam, language! And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Sorry, Ma.” My mom scolds us O’Connor men on our language at least ten times a day. But we are like the rabbits: uncontrollable, unresponsive, and loved too much for any real punishment to occur.
“Yes, but I have outfits to look through and makeup to buy. Many, many important things to do. You never know, I could find myself an actor that will whisk me away to L.A. with him. Plus, there’s Skylar Barrett to think about. She’s Hollywood royalty, and I must impress.” And with that last
word she runs up the stairs.
“Boy, oh boy, apparently I’ll be missing out tonight,” my mom says, seemingly still amused by Shay’s flair for the dramatic even after all these years.
Shay gets excited about everything. And I do mean fucking everything. I could tell her the sun came out this morning after days of rain and she would flip the hell out, acting like she just won the lottery. But that’s what I love most about her. She’s a rainbow brightening this bleak fucking world with her color.
I finish my coffee as I reflect back to seeing Skylar Barrett no less than fifteen minutes ago. I feel this jump in my heart for a split second at the mere thought of seeing her again, up close, and in my fucking bar. As I get up to leave the kitchen table and head to the bathroom for a quick shower, I feel a sensation begin to creep up on me. One I have not felt in years: a type of hopeful anticipation. It doesn’t make sense. Seeing her would not lead anywhere or mean anything, but fuck me I am going to ride this high as long as I can.
I TAKE A FINAL look in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet door in my hotel room. Noah just finished my hair and makeup, and of course he did a superb job. My hair hangs over my shoulders in effortless curls, and the light smoky eyeshadow I’m wearing brings out the blue in my eyes. Instead of lipstick, which would be too obvious for someone as brilliant as Noah, he swiped a clear lip gloss across my full lips and brushed a shell pink eyeshadow over the gloss. The lip color looks pronounced against my sun-kissed skin, making me appear more angelic than I actually am. Noah knows how to make me look appropriate for the occasion, and this occasion calls for simplicity, somewhere between Hollywood and backwoods. I decide to wear my favorite pair of pastel colored Navajo printed shorts and a loose-fitting gray tank top, the buttons coming down just enough to show a hint of cleavage. The mirror in front of me reflects the image everyone else sees. A Marie Claire interviewer once described it as chameleon-like beauty. That one minute I can be the girl next door, but with a tweak to my hair, some well-applied makeup, and a slight wardrobe change I can morph into the vixen sex kitten stealing the boy from the girl next door.
