by Kim Roshell
“No.” Ashley wraps her arms around his middle, gluing herself to his other side. Lifting on her toes, she presses her lips to the thick vein pulsing angrily in his neck. “Listen to your mama, Whit. What happened last night wasn’t your fault.”
No. It really wasn’t.
Someone rubs my back in what should feel like soothing circles, while someone else kneads the tension in my shoulder. I’m not surprised to see Aunt Katie next to me, a box of tissues in hand. I am surprised to find Mark behind me, looking equally concerned.
This is all wrong.
I must have spoken out loud, which is why the guy who liked me last night, but hates me now, finally locks his eyes with mine. I can’t hold back an involuntary shiver.
He doesn’t utter a word.
I don’t either.
My bottom lip trembles.
So does his.
I want to cry.
I think he does, too.
Neither of us wants to give in, but it’s me who breaks first.
Mollified, he leans in, places a chaste kiss on my cheek. Or, at least I think he did. It happened so quickly, I’m not sure if the sensation I’m feeling is from the press of his lips, or from my fingers now covering the spot.
“I should go,” he mumbles to no one in particular.
With that, he breaks free of Ashley’s bear hug. Steps around our awkward huddle, heads for the den.
This is how I know I’m a stupid, stupid girl, because I don’t even think before falling in step behind him, silently daring anyone else to do the same.
“I’m so sorry, Whit. So, so, sorry.”
My apology falls on deaf ears. He doesn’t spare me a glance as he paces the room, searching for things that are right in plain view.
“Want help?”
He shakes his head, pats his pants’ pockets.
“Your keys are—”
“I see my keys.”
I flinch. The dam holding my tears at bay, bow under the surge of a new wave. “Sorry.”
“Quit bein’ sorry,” he snaps. His wrinkled dress shirt is draped over the back of the couch where only a short time ago we lived in my fairy tale. Whit picks it up, shoves his arms inside the sleeves, careless. I hear threads pop under the force. “This is on me. I knew I’d ruin everything, told myself not to hurt you anymore. Go back to the party. Don’t be selfish.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Can you please, please not say anything right now, Simone?”
“Okay, but this isn’t on you, Whit. It’s my fault. Not yours.”
He turns, primed with barely leashed fury. Nostrils flaring, his chest rises, rises, rises. “What the fuck,” he asks deathly low, “are you talking about, Simone?”
Despite the sharp edge of his tone, I know Whit won’t hurt me. Knowing doesn’t make me feel any less scared. Not for me. For him. “Had you not come here last night, you would’ve been there at the party, then Ryan—”
“Shut. Up.”
“—wouldn’t have gotten in the car with someone else because he would’ve rode with you. Had I done the right thing, told you to go back, none—”
The sound that rumbles from his chest is something else I’ll never forget.
Wes Craven couldn’t muster a rage like this.
An emotionally out of control Whit is a real nightmare.
“I told you to shut up!”
This wave is too much. Tears overflow before I can wrestle them back. They make me gag. I swallow. Over and over.
Whit came here last night, asking me when bad things stop happening when I’m involved. Here’s his answer.
It won’t stop. Ever.
I whisper another apology.
“I don’t want you—” He whirls away, unable to look at me anymore, which I’m sure would make his mom proud. The buckle of his belt clanks against the side of the coffee table as he grabs it along with his shoes from the floor.
He sucks in a breath. Exhales on a shredded rasp. Sucks in another, struggling for control he can’t find. Grabs his keys, squeezing them like he wants them to split open his palm. Flings them full-throttle at my favorite fuzzy pillow when they don’t. The fabric rips.
“Shit!”
“Whitney! We’re leaving! Right now!”
“Oh, Whit.”
Ashley.
Me? The girl he doesn’t want? I comply, don’t say another word.
Mark enters the room, equally as quiet, glancing around, casing the joint. His gaze lands on my pillow, skim over every other surface. Probably cataloguing what else a grief-stricken, angry boy might’ve destroyed. When his eyes finally land on me, they soften.
Harden when they land on Whit.
The faintest smile touches the corners of his mouth as he walks over to the couch, scoops the keys. “Your son’s clearly not in the best condition for driving, Mrs. Devereaux. It’ll be better if I follow you, deliver your son and his vehicle safely to your home, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
Whit‘s jaw makes an audible pop! His body goes rigid, cheeks puffed. I’m surprised the paint isn’t peeling off the walls, his anger is so hot.
He stands his ground, literally vibrating. “Don’t need help.”
Mark rises to the challenge. Moves in front of him until they’re eye to eye. Shrugs. “Giving it anyway. You’re hurting. Let us help.”
His appeal falls on deaf ears. At least, it looks that way until something in Whit seems to break. The battle to be for him what he’s been to me, to jump in and rescue him from drowning against the acknowledgement of his obvious wishes, is a civil war in my head. He doesn’t want anything from me. He rejected my touch. Rejected my apology. Said he didn’t want me. Told me where we stand, like last night never happened.
Once again, Ashley moves in to give Whit what I can’t. Soothes the tension in his back with confident strokes. The fierce ire, building into a massive inferno only moments ago, dims. His shoulders slump.
Mark sighs. “Kate, follow me?”
“Yes.”
Shoes still in hand, Whit pummels the side of his head with the hard-bottom soles. He breathes in pants, oxygen channeling through his airways in uncontrollable explosions. He turns his head, the white of his eye disappearing just a fraction. Searching for something? Someone? Me?
The silly girl in me hopes he’s about to take back what he said.
Until he doesn’t.
He turns away. Bends, snatches the belt he’s managed to drop, off the floor.
The rejection kicks me so hard, the room goes hazy.
See? This is why I needed to keep my distance. From the start, I knew better than to let my guard down even the teeniest, tiniest bit, but did I listen? Nope. And like the worst reckless girl, I jumped in with both feet.
And this time, Whit doesn’t save me.
He walks away, leaving me to drown.
Honeybee: I won’t lie and say the pain gets easier. I won’t promise you’ll feel better with time.
Honeybee: I won’t keep saying words you don’t want from me.
Honeybee: But I am. For everything.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Simone
“I’m here for my son.”
Four nights in a row, the most memorable dialogue of my nightmares has included that very statement, only instead of the maniacal laughter and a violent shove to the floor that usually follows, my nightly tormentor’s gaze zooms in on the skin puckered between my thumb and finger as I pinch myself.
She frowns.
I’m awake. Figures.
Mrs. Devereaux is still on her game. Even on a day like this, she looks the perfect balance of chic and respectable First Lady. Dressed head-to-toe in a black Kate Spade—fit n’ flare, if I had to guess—sheer black nylons covering her legs, her feet encased in matte pumps of an appropriate height for the day’s somber occasion. Hair pulled back in a bun, not quite as tidy as before. A few loose curls frame her face today, softening her a bit. Her lo
oks, anyway.
“Whit’s not here.”
I dare not give her another thrill by confessing how after a ten minute-awkwardly timed safe sex lecture from my aunt, I pretty much ceased to exist for her son.
Calls? Texts? All of mine went unanswered. Hurt, though I was—and against Aunt Katie’s wishes, might I add—I hiked the distance to his house that night. Got drenched by a torrential downpour, only to have the woman standing in front of me, blatant scowl plastered on her face, make it clear she wasn’t too fond of me stopping by uninvited. With a cool impoliteness I’m writing off as pure Southern misconception, Mrs. Devereaux informed me her son was lying down and shouldn’t be disturbed. Exception given to Ashley, apparently. Her car was there, parked directly behind Whit’s Jeep.
Pains me to add the rest, knowing I’m about to give her at least a sliver of joy on an otherwise horrible day.
“I haven’t seen him since he left with you.”
Oddly, she doesn’t look too pleased. Deep grooves form between her brows, the only evidence of Mrs. Devereaux’s true age. She’s probably looking at me for signs of a lie. Were she not so anti-me, she’d know I lie as well as I play basketball.
“Has he called? Anything?”
That stark desperation in her tone is the only reason I’m able to steel myself against the painful jabs she’s unintentionally—maybe—issued.
“We didn’t part on the happiest note, Mrs. Devereaux.”
And you made sure it stayed that way.
“Right,” she nods, wrings her hands, “Whitney certainly wasn’t his best.”
That’s one way to put it. “Have you tried Ashley?”
“I tried her first.” Of course, you did. “They aren’t at her home. All of our calls have gone straight to voicemail.”
Sounds like they’re together.
“We’ve searched everywhere. No one seems to have a clue where they may be,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “Some say they left the cemetery at the same time, but no one is sure if they’re still together. Anyway, that was hours ago. His father and I haven’t heard a word since. I’m afraid Ryan’s death has taken quite a toll.”
Guilt boils in my veins. What I feel is nothing compared to what everyone else is feeling, thanks to me. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Miles—yes, Aunt Katie is making me talk out my emotions, again—insists he’ll help me realize Ryan’s decision to get in that car was ultimately his, and his alone. He believes neither Whit nor I am to blame, and the sooner we accept that, the better.
I think that’s a crock. Say what you want, things would be different had Ryan not been in that car. People have approached me in the hallways, bold about letting me know, in no uncertain terms, they fully agree with me. Ryan’s death? My fault.
I skipped the funeral for obvious reasons. Sad, today was the most peace I’ve had during school in weeks, mainly because hardly anyone in our graduating class was in the building. Whit hasn’t been there. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he stormed out. Rumor has it, Ashley was there for a hot second yesterday, grabbed some books,—hers and his, apparently—and copied last assignments due before finals.
The ever-dependable gossip mill churned out the news within seconds. By the end of third period, I’d heard no less than fifty times she looked “skinny, yet ah-mazing in a new pair of Miss Me jeans.”
In other news, Raina Cuberman has decided my cemented social standing as Class Pariah makes me perfect friend material. She’s quick to defend my honor whenever people give me crap. In her book, I’m a total badass for resisting Whit for as long as I did. Come to find out, the rebel punk girl thinks the Devereaux boys are hot, too.
Raina’s admiration does not, however, extend to Ashley. Her lips are sealed on why, insists wanting to know me better has nothing to do with her thoughts on the subject. Quite the opposite, she assures.
Mrs. Devereaux reaches back, gives her bun a light pat, as though the simple act is responsible for maintaining her composure. The move snaps me back into the present.
“I doubt either will contact me, but I’ll try calling them both if you think it’ll help.”
“No, no you’re right. It probably won’t. Whitney has always been so responsible. Leaving without a word isn’t his nature.”
After Sunday, I don’t agree. A whole lot about her son’s nature has changed. She’s right, though. Whit is, for the most part, more mature than the average. Still, everyone has a breaking point. He’s human and he’s hurting. His desire for space in order to not be what everyone expects him to be for one day shouldn’t be so puzzling. Certainly, anyone could understand his need to hide away, go someplace where—
He feels most at home.
Surely, they’ve checked there. Right?
I open my mouth, ready to extend some goodwill despite how she’s treated me, but she cuts me off. “They really do love one another, you know? All I can think is they planned for this, running away together. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Ah, there she is. Glad she let those fangs drop before I said anything. “Right. Hopefully, you’ll know soon.”
“Yes, well I’ll be on my way, then. On the very off-chance Whitney does reach out, you’ll do the right thing, tell him we’re concerned.”
Not a question, a demand. Wow. “Uh, huh.”
I don’t feel an ounce of remorse for shutting the door without a proper goodbye.
What I do feel is anxious.
Scared.
Concerned.
What if I’m right, and he’s there? I want to know he’s okay, even if he is with Ashley. Maybe I’m deluding myself, but there is a possibility he’s there alone. After all, he did tell me he’s never taken anyone else.
Or, what if he was driving too fast? What if he slid right into that pond? Was that thing shallow? Deep enough to fully submerge his vehicle? We had a lot of rain this week. There’s sure to be water in there.
I have to go. Even if he’s mad at me forever, I need to see for myself he’s not hurt.
Only, Aunt Katie isn’t here to drive me.
I could call Shawn, see if –No.
Walk? I think I can make the trip there and back before dark.
Or, I can drive.
Can I?
No. My arm.
Well, maybe I could. It’s not that far. There aren’t any bridges. No water. Just that pond.
What if I crash?
I grab my purse before I can talk myself out of this.
Frenetic energy sets me right on the edge of breakdown as jitters dance along my spine as soon as I slide behind the wheel. Adjust the seat and mirror a few times—okay, maybe more than a few—then turn the key. Something Top Forty happy blares from the speakers in a complete contradiction of my mood.
I switch it off. Distractions are the last thing I need.
Shifting into reverse, I tap the gas just enough so the car coasts at a snail’s pace down the drive, then clench my teeth as I feed the engine a little more.
Barely twenty feet from the house, and already the road noise is too much. I’d love something—anything to mask the collaboration of road noise and the thunderous terror plucking my nerves like a stringed instrument. Humming, my go-to escapism doesn’t work. I sound worse than one of those reality show rejects. Meditations out. During one of our Combat-the-Fear driving sessions, Whit suggested speaking out loud where I’m going, then confessing I’ll get there, which sounded utterly ridiculous, but I’m desperate.
“Russell Farm. That’s where I’m going, and I’m gonna make it there safely. Russell Farm is . . .” Okay, I feel ridiculous talking to myself. “Please, God. I need to make it.”
Don’t know if He’s listening, but I mumble the mantra over and over for good measure. Sweat pastes my shirt to my skin. There aren’t any bridges on this route, no water for me to go careening into, so I lower all the windows. I don’t remember the drive taking this long, then again, we didn’t pull to the shoulder whenever cars buzze
d by from the other direction.
Thankfully, the road leading to my destination is like the one less traveled so I can ride the middle and bump my speed closer to the actual limit. My eyes water with relief the moment I reach the final turn.
He’s here.
I see his Jeep. Not in front of the pond where we’d parked, further back, nearer to the partially opened barn door. I stop where I am, shift into park, rather than push my luck. Twelve miles is more than I’ve ever driven alone and the return trip awaits.
Shoring my nerves, I wipe away the trickle of sweat tickling my cleavage, push my door open. Worst case scenario? He’ll tell me to get lost, but so, what? That will be two more words than I’ve heard from him in days. My goal is to pass along his mother’s message, be on my way. How hard is that?
Very.
Please, don’t let him be mean again. I can deal with anything else.
A cursory glance reveals he isn’t inside the Jeep. I also don’t see him standing anywhere in the nearby vicinity, which leaves only one of two places he could be. I’m not even trying to consider the second. Small bits of gravel crunch under my toes as I step around muddy divots left in the dirt by tractor tires.
I anticipate a tug-fest with the heavy wooden door, but it swings open with ease, allowing daylight to spill inside. Fresh hay, stacked in bundles, lines the whole back wall. The possible source of those tracks sits in the far left. There’s a ladder off to the right leading to the loft.
The scent of—
Is that beer?
“Whit?”
A rustle of movement is my answer. A field mouse scurries past my feet. Guess who won’t be here much longer?
I swallow my nerves. “It’s me, uh, Simone. I mean, you probably know that. I’m guessing you wanna be alone right now and I’m probably, like the last person you want to see, but people are looking for you. Your parents and others, I think. Anyway, I wasn’t sure you’d be here, so I came to check, you know, in case you were, and maybe needed. . . God, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I won’t stay, if you don’t want me to. I just wanna know you’re—”
Not the owner of the heels lying on a scrape of fabric pooled on the ground.
I know he isn’t because I know who technically is.
