Curved Horizon

by Taylor Brooke

  “Did you ever ask your dad about it?”

  Chelsea heard her mother’s voice hushed between her ears. You can’t say anything to anyone, Chelsea. It would ruin us. Let it be.

  “No, I let it be. He never touched me again, hasn’t since.”

  “I can’t imagine Shannon being… well, yes I can. I’ve seen it,” Daisy said. She swallowed tightly; her gaze moved away from Chelsea, to the deck, the tree, the sky. “The night Aiden beat the shit out of that guy at 101, Shannon flipped out. I’d never seen him lose his cool like that.”

  “I heard,” Chelsea purred, glad to have the focus steered elsewhere. “I also heard Aiden almost killed that man.”

  “Aiden’s almost killed a few people,” Daisy muttered. “My mom used to tell me he has bad blood in him. She loves him, though.” Her mouth broke into a soft smile. “May not trust him, but she loves him.”

  Chelsea took her time. She looked at Daisy’s wide, hawkish nose, her round face, her cheekbones cutting diagonal lines from ear to jaw. A blush radiated high on her face, turning her pale, olive skin soft pink. Bravery kicked at the back of her teeth, until she finally opened her mouth and said, “Daisy, have you talked to Aiden about this? About Vance, and the guy from the bar, and everything else?”

  Daisy looked up quickly. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Her full lips, painted muted, dead-rose red, pursed.

  “That’s a lot of baggage, Daisy,” Chelsea whispered. “It’s a lot to carry, a lot to juggle. I know I can’t tell you how to deal with it, I do a shitty job of dealing with my own past, but it might be worth talking to him about. I know he’s not easy to talk to–”

  “Aiden? No,” Daisy said sarcastically. White teeth pushed divots into the swell of Daisy’s bottom lip. “But in all seriousness, he’s the easiest person in the world to talk to. For me, at least. Just… Not about this.”

  Chelsea clamped her mouth shut. “Okay,” she said through a sigh. “Why can’t you talk to him about it?”

  Daisy’s choppy pixie cut was choppier today than it normally was, and her bangs were arranged messily over her thick, groomed brows. Her cheeks filled with more color. “Because it happened and it’s over and it’s not worth talking about.”

  “You can’t forgive him,” Chelsea said matter-of-factly. “There’s a reason for that.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It happened. My ex-boyfriend assaulted my best friend, and four years later karma showed up to kick my ass. Is that what you wanted to hear?” She looked smaller. Her talon-nails clicked together, glossy black.

  There it was. Daisy’s truth. Chelsea knew that look; she’d worn it many times. She knew the flare of Daisy’s voice, the defensive, edged grate, because she’d lived in a space that called for it throughout her childhood. “What happened to Aiden has nothing to do with what happened to you, and what happened to you is not a consequence.”

  “Do we have to talk about this?” Daisy fiddled with the zipper on her boot.

  Chelsea shook her head. There was so much to say. It wasn’t your fault. It’s never been your fault. But Chelsea knew how well those words worked; she knew that they would bounce off Daisy and be discarded.

  “We don’t have to talk at all.” Chelsea made a point of focusing on Daisy’s mouth, the curve of her bottom lip, the round edges of the bow below her septum ring. “What shade of lipstick is that? Can I try it on?”

  Daisy cocked her head, then her lips parted and she stammered, “You know, I, I don’t actually, I think it’s…” She paused to rummage through her purse, which was slung over her shoulder. “Maybe Cold Girl or Ammunition?”

  “You’re horrible at flirting.” Chelsea hooked her fingers around Daisy’s jaw. “Can I kiss you?”

  Daisy seemed startled. She blinked, and her mouth opened before she decided to nod, and Chelsea closed the distance between them.

  What kind of noises would gather in the back of Daisy’s throat if she pulled on the nape of her neck? What would Daisy do with Chelsea’s desire if she got a glimpse of it? How deep did they have to go before they crawled through the bones in each other’s closets and found something else? Chelsea eased her down against the deck; Daisy’s breath gusted from her, a warm, inverted gasp. Her eyelashes, coated the blackest black and rimmed in sharp liner Chelsea thought might be named Raven or Chaos or Morgue, fluttered prettily. She gripped Chelsea’s face, let her fingers card through ocean-tousled hair, and spread her legs, making room for Chelsea to lie between them.

  “Oh,” Daisy hummed as recognition slid into place.

  Chelsea tilted her head a fraction. Her lips parted to inhale what Daisy exhaled, to turn the kisses they’d shared—few and far between—into things of the past. She wanted to kiss Daisy. She wanted to taste her in all senses, to feel her pulse and her chest stuttering on accelerated breath.

  It had been a long time since Chelsea had wanted to really kiss someone.

  Daisy pushed into Chelsea’s everything: her mouth, her hands, her stomach and hips. Daisy’s claws ran along the back of Chelsea’s thighs. Chelsea’s dress was pooling against her wrists; the fabric dragged slowly across her sunscreen-covered skin.

  The tickle of nails stopped abruptly, high up on Chelsea’s legs. “Did you hear that?”

  Chelsea’s eyes cracked open. “Probably a deer.”

  “Not a deer,” Daisy hummed, accepting interruption by means of Chelsea’s lips, “people. People are coming.”

  “I don’t care. Do you?”

  Daisy exhaled hard against Chelsea’s chin. Her face was the color of a stargazer lily, pink in the center, and pale everywhere else. Knees squeezed Chelsea’s waist, and the hands that rested just below the seam of her underwear dropped away. Inky, dark eyes widened. “The boys are meeting us,” Daisy said hurriedly, as if she’d just remembered.

  Chelsea blinked. “For dinner, it’s only—”

  “You guys are totally making out in our spot.” Aiden’s voice cut through The Hollow. Leaves crunched under another set of shoes, and Chelsea heard Shannon let out a surprised laugh. “They’re making out in our spot,” Aiden said gleefully, lower this time, aiming the words at Shannon rather than the girls.

  Daisy squirmed loose, scooting back until she could tip her head over the edge of the deck and look at the boys upside down. “You’re early.”

  “It’s five,” the boys said in tandem.

  Chelsea shoved her cheek against Daisy’s stomach and heaved a sigh. “We need to stop inviting them places,” she whispered.

  Claws flicked Chelsea’s forehead. “Be nice.”

  “Don’t,” she hissed, and swatted Daisy’s hand. “It’s the truth.”

  “Where are we going for food?” Daisy called down. Meanwhile her fingers wandered through Chelsea’s hair again, and her acrylic nails scraped fondly over her scalp.

  “Shannon wants In N Out,” Aiden barked.

  “Can you eat there?” Chelsea mumbled, curious.

  “They have grilled cheese,” Daisy said softly to Chelsea, before she wiggled her hips, sat up, and pushed Chelsea’s face playfully. “Do you like In N Out?”

  “Never had it,” Chelsea admitted.

  Aiden’s sharp gasp turned into ferocious laughter. “Charm School’s never had an In N Out burger? Never?”

  “Really?” Shannon chimed in. “I thought for sure you’d gone by now.”

  Chelsea glared over the edge of the deck and adjusted the bikini top that served as a bra under her dress. “Well, since y’all have perfect timing, we might as well get goin’.”

  Daisy’s fingertip trailed along Chelsea’s shoulder as she stood up. Chelsea watched her hop from the deck to the rope swing. Her legs and arms were steady as she crawled down, a little black spider against a backdrop of greens and golds and yellows.

  Chelsea Cavanaugh had harbored a secret infatuation wi
th ghouls and gremlins and monsters from old films since she was a young girl, but, like everything else that wasn’t the Cavanaugh standard, she’d kept it stowed away. It was a selfish, obscure secret, the kind she made sure to bury with insults and teasing. She’d been trained to be what the typical wanted, to appease to those who looked like her and sounded like her and lied like her. Looking at Daisy, a woman cloaked in every nightmare story and Halloween tale—an old-world muse and funereal-chic oddity, with the remnant of dead-rose lipstick smeared across her mouth, Chelsea suddenly wondered about her odd lock-and-key habit. She’d kept secrets for a reason, but maybe that didn’t hold anymore.

  Maybe, with Daisy, Chelsea could be free of secrets.

  14

  Daisy leaned against the balcony wall. Mercy flopped across her bare feet.

  “She’s coming over to hang out. Where are you off to?” Daisy watched Aiden lace up his black combat boots as he sat in one of the wicker chairs.

  “I got called in,” Aiden said, shooting her an exaggerated frown. “I’m off at six. We can still make the movie if you and Charm School want to go?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to. I know she has work in the morning, but if we catch a showing before nine we should be fine. Shannon’s coming, right?”

  “Fuck if I know. He and Karman are losing their shit over this homicide case. I’ll text him, but he’s been working late the past week.”

  Daisy grimaced. “You can always tag along with me and Chelsea if he has to work late.”

  Aiden’s brows furrowed. A sly smile curved his lips. “I really don’t feel like being the third wheel, but thanks for the offer. If Shannon can’t make the early showing, I’ll probably pick up takeout and wait for him at his place. You good to feed Mercy if I’m not here?”

  “You wouldn’t be the third wheel,” she hissed, wrinkling her nose at him. “But yeah, just text me and let me know what the plan is.”

  He nodded and went inside. Daisy watched him stop, helmet dangling from his hand, to look at Catalyst before he opened the front door and almost collided with Chelsea.

  “Jesus!” Chelsea slapped a hand over her chest and exhaled sharply. “Aiden Maar, do you have to do everything with such…” She waved a bottle of wine at him. “… force!”

  “Nice to see you too, Charm School. If you guys get bored, come down for a drink!” He shouted the offer as he disappeared, boots thudding against the concrete stairs.

  Daisy ushered Mercy inside and closed the sliding glass door. Daisy thought she should probably kiss Chelsea hello. She also thought she shouldn’t. Had they been at this long enough for hello kisses? Or were they still in the place where only goodbye kisses were okay?

  “Hi,” Chelsea mused. She put the bottle on the kitchen counter with her purse and sunglasses. “I brought white wine. What’s wrong? Am I early?” She pursed her lips before pressing them against Daisy’s.

  Apparently, they had been at this long enough for hello kisses.

  Daisy shook her head. “No, you’re right on time. Bad news, though. I sort of have to finish something for work, but we can still hang out and cook lunch and everything. It’s just a couple sketches and a short proposal. It’ll take me an hour, probably less.”

  Chelsea nodded. Her hair was tied into a fancy braid and hung loosely over her shoulder. She brushed her hands across the front of her blouse and kicked off her wedge heels. “That’s fine. Why don’t you work, and I’ll start cookin’?”

  “Are you sure?” Daisy winced, glancing at the angel hair pasta in a box on the counter with lemons, spinach, tomatoes, onions, and a variety of spices. “I don’t want you doing all the work yourself.”

  “It’s fine,” Chelsea assured. She didn’t sound bothered and smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “I like being in the kitchen.”

  Daisy’s mouth twisted into a half-frown, but she listened. While Chelsea danced around the kitchen, Daisy turned the TV to a music station and opened her sketchbook.

  She tried to focus on her work, on the scenery sketches she needed to finish by Monday morning, which happened to be a mere seventeen or so hours away, but Daisy’s gaze kept leaving the page to wander up the backs of Chelsea’s bare legs. She kept pausing to watch Chelsea dip her finger in the skillet of lemon sauce and taste. Every movement became a trail for Daisy to follow: the brush of Chelsea’s toes against the back of her calf, the soft sigh before she lifted her wine glass to her mouth and took a sip.

  Midday light came through the sliding glass door, illuminating Chelsea in a soft, lazy glow. She leaned against the counter and stirred the pasta with a flick of her wrist. “What is it?” She glanced at Daisy; a fond expression was stitched on her brow and in the quirk of her smile.

  “Nothing,” Daisy assured. She cleared her throat and looked at the sketchpad.

  Rolling hills didn’t look back her; neither did the waterfall piece she was supposed to construct. Instead, it was a charcoal version of Chelsea, her braid frayed and tumbling down her back, jaw tilted over the curve of her shoulder, lashes swept down as if she was looking at something behind her. Daisy inhaled a deep breath and closed her sketchbook.

  She couldn’t concentrate with Chelsea here. She couldn’t work or draw or keep her thoughts to herself. She slid that particular sketchbook into her suitcase under the table and joined Chelsea in the kitchen.

  “Want a glass?” Chelsea tilted an empty wine glass at her.

  She nodded. “Please. Lunch smells good.”

  “Does, doesn’t it?” Chelsea handed Daisy a glass of wine. “I used to cook all the time with my mom. We’d make pies and cookies for Christmas, bake lemon bars and mint tangerine turnovers in summer. I helped her in the kitchen all the time when I was young. Well,” she shook her head and grabbed the pot of pasta, draining it into a colander. “Not all the time. When I wasn’t working on homework or at squad practice or out with Shannon, but I still tried to spend as much time with her as I could.”

  “I helped my mom in the kitchen too,” Daisy said. She hoisted onto the counter next to the sink, pulled her feet up, and hugged her knees. “I have a huge family, so we’d take turns. I was always the designated Monday and Friday helper—me, Ma, and Grandma in the kitchen together. That’s how I learned most of the old recipes from back home. Grandma used to make us drink this horrible, noxious green stuff every morning and she cured my flu by boiling a hunk of ginger in cola once.”

  Chelsea lifted her brows, amused.

  “True story,” Daisy piped. “But most of the time we cooked with lots of vegetables, made soups and rice dishes since that’s cheap and filling. Do you miss cooking with your mom?”

  “I do, sort of, I mean…” Chelsea paused to mull over her next choice of words. “I love my mother, but I orbited her, because I didn’t want to be around my daddy, and I didn’t want my daddy around her. I never really knew I was doin’ it, circling her, surrounding myself with someone who understood, but that’s exactly what I did. Tell me about your family. You’ve got siblings, right?”

  “Two sisters and two brothers. The girls are still little, but the boys are in high school. We’re all sort of weird, artistic, theatrical. My dad says it’s from him, but my mom fights him on it.”

  Daisy wanted to press harder, to find out more about Chelsea’s childhood. She wanted to know why she’d stayed, why she’d ever consider going back. But she couldn’t just come out and ask a question like that. Why’d you stay with your abusive father for so long? Why’d you let yourself go through that? The idea alone made Daisy’s stomach turn. Asking those questions felt grossly inappropriate and wouldn’t—couldn’t—end well.

  Chelsea was such a put-together woman: her mannerisms, her walk, her stance. She radiated strength, and Daisy wanted to know how she’d managed to do so after years and years of trauma.

  Daisy wanted to know how Chelsea did it, so she could do it, too.

&
nbsp; “Did you see a therapist?” Daisy asked. She immediately wanted to retract the question, but it was there, circling them.

  “No,” Chelsea dragged the word out. “I should’ve, but I didn’t. I’ve never talked to anyone about it, if we’re bein’ honest.”

  “We are.” She pushed the wine around with her tongue instead of swallowing.

  Finally, Chelsea said, “Why can’t you forgive him?”

  “Which him?” Daisy drank the rest of her wine.

  Chelsea refilled her glass. Her eyes, hard and unwavering, settled on Daisy’s face. “The one you live with.”

  Daisy rested the rim of the glass against her mouth. Memories flashed by, instances she’d stored in the attic of her mind where no one could reach: Aiden’s downward spiral, Vance’s abuse, and her own desperate, silent plea for help that she never received. Aiden had been dying. Vance had been a crutch. Daisy hadn’t been allowed to fall apart.

  “I can,” Daisy admitted. “But I’m not ready to talk to him about it yet.”

  “Because?”

  “Same reason you aren’t ready to talk to Shannon about your dad.”

  Chelsea stayed quiet. Her mouth tensed, but, instead of answering, she mixed the spinach into the lemon garlic sauce, followed by the angel hair. She twirled a spoon in the skillet and took a bite. A pleased hum followed.

  “Here,” Chelsea gathered another spoonful and held it in front of Daisy’s mouth, “tell me if it’s good.”

  Daisy realized as she opened her mouth and let Chelsea push the fork past her lips, that this was a Chelsea Cavanaugh she hadn’t seen. Chelsea wasn’t wearing a smidge of makeup; she was calm and receptive, relaxed in a way that Daisy never imagined Chelsea could be.

  “It’s delicious,” Daisy mumbled.

  Chelsea winked. “Course it is, I made it. C’mon, let’s eat on the balcony. It’s too pretty to stay inside.”

  Daisy laughed under her breath, grabbed the plate Chelsea made up for her, and walked onto the balcony. They sat in the wicker chairs, and Chelsea set the skillet of leftovers between them.