The Twenty-One (Emerald Cove #2)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  That face, so still.

  Those lips, so warm.

  The sun changes intensity, creeping in under my bedroom window curtains. At some point, day turns to night, and I should sleep.

  I can’t.

  The gnawing at my stomach keeps me awake.

  At some point, Hope comes in again. She places a peppermint tea on my bedside table and pushes my hair back. She gives me some ibuprofen, as if that will help me heal, but I take it anyway. At this point, I’ll try anything,

  My eyes are dry from being open so long and crying so hard, but it seems I can’t let go.

  Not until Hope leaves the room and I remember his shirt in my dresser from camping so long ago.

  Feverish desperation takes hold. I can’t open the drawer fast enough, and I curse as my hands fumble with the knobs. Finally, I grab the soft blue material, shake it out, strip out of everything I’m wearing and place the shirt over my head. His sandalwood scent floats over me and I close my eyes, relishing the softness and the peace this one simple thing brings.

  This time, when I slide back into bed, sleep takes me in its embrace almost straight away.

  My dreams are of boys with striking cheekbones and heart-warming smiles, and a life that is completely beautiful.

  ***

  I cuddle his warmth closer to me, pressed firm against my body. It’s so peaceful lying here, the afternoon sun streaming in the window.

  I squint open one eye. The second flies open straight after that.

  My hand reaches out, stabbing around the bed. Where—

  Reality crashes down on me like a strike of lightning.

  He’s not here.

  He’ll never be here again.

  A fresh onslaught of tears attack my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the shirt, which makes me cry harder. I can’t dilute his scent with my tears. This could be the last thing of his I have.

  Like a crazy person, I rip off the shirt and jump out of bed, tearing open the top drawer of my dresser. I empty the socks onto the floor and reverentially place the shirt within, as if somehow having its own compartment will mean it never loses that smell. It never loses its very Joel-ness.

  When that’s done, I go back to bed. Because there’s nothing else I can do. After what happened at Mum’s place, I’m not going to work for Colin. I don’t have any events to prepare for, or paper bags to stuff.

  And I don’t have Joel.

  I close my eyes and sleep.

  ***

  This time when I wake, Lia and Hope are in my room. Lia’s sitting at the chair to my desk, her long pianist’s fingers elegantly draped one on top of the other. There’s barely a bump from where Smith broke them. You can hardly tell.

  Hope sits cross-legged on my black and white striped matt. Her hands rest on her knees, as if she’s about to break into yoga at any moment, and for all I know she could be.

  I pull the quilt up closer to my chin. I feel so exposed. Naked, due to lack of clothing and emotional armour.

  “Hey hon.” Hope reaches up and squeezes my foot through the quilt.

  “Hi,” I croak, then cough to try and clear the darkness lodged in my throat.

  “How are you feeling?” Lia asks. Her face is the picture of concern.

  “Y’know ...” I shrug, and trail off. Just peachy doesn’t seem to cut it, but I don’t know what other answer she’s looking for.

  Hope lifts my phone up from the floor in front of her. “Joel’s dad’s been calling you.”

  My heart twinges. I can’t speak to him now. I’m not ready to face him just yet.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, sweets.” Lia chews at her lip for a second. “Is there anything we can do?”

  There’s only one thing that comes to mind. Only one thing that will help me right now. “Yes,” I say, my voice clearing as I speak. Tears prickle my eyes as I think of how much love I have for these two girls, these two women who have helped me through so much—who are here for me now, even if I haven’t leaned on them as perhaps I should have before. “Please don’t die.” A sob lurches and tears fall, and soon Lia and Hope are dabbing at their eyes and sniffing.

  “Fuck, Ellie,” Hope curses on a sob. “We’re supposed to be comforting you. Why’d you have to go and ruin it for?” She smiles. Lia picks up a balled up sock from my floor and throws it at Hope’s head, knocking her right in the middle of her 50s coif.

  “What’s with all these socks anyway?” Hope asks, picking up a pair and narrowing her eyes. “Do you want me to put them away?”

  I shake my head, mute.

  And then, like the good friends they are, they don’t question it further. They just let me be.

  “So how’s Jase, Lia?” Hope asks.

  “He’s good. Well, not perfect. We’re having some long-distance issues.”

  “What? You only live an hour apart,” Hope says.

  Lia sighs. “I know, but with him at the bar and me at uni, it really doesn’t work ...”

  The girls chat for the next hour and I listen, occasionally smiling, occasionally drifting off. Every time my mind thinks of a certain blond-haired boy with chilling blue eyes, I snap back to the present and get lost in the girls’ stories again.

  And then, once more, I sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  On the third day, when I wake the sun isn’t shining. It’s raining, tears from the clouds battering against the windowpane, and I want nothing more than to stay in bed.

  But Joel doesn’t let me.

  He never could stand for me playing it safe.

  Hope deposits the letter on my nightstand and steps back, her arms folded across her chest, her forehead lined with worry. “This came for you.”

  At first, I don’t know why she’s so concerned. When I flip the paper, I see the return address. The name printed there in scratchy blue pen.

  Joel Henley.

  Air is hard to suck into my lungs. It’s thin, as if a giant cloud hovers in the air, stifling and choking all the way down my throat. My hand shakes as I pull the envelope to my chest and stare at it for the longest time. I measure its weight with my hand, a little heavier than what I’d expect of a normal letter. I run my hand from one side to the other, noting the soft texture of the cream paper and feeling the little lump in the corner.

  The letter is postmarked the 25th. Four days ago.

  Back when Joel was alive.

  Did he do this himself, or did he have his dad write the letter for him? Does his father have one, too?

  Then I don’t wonder anymore, because Hope snatches the letter out of my hands. I claw at her but she steps back, and I can’t reach her without leaving my bed, which so far I’ve only done for bathroom breaks and to make tea and toast, bringing it back to eat in the solitude of my room.

  “Give.” I snatch at the letter, but she lifts it high out of my reach. She’s holding my heart out on a limb, and in that moment I hate her with a fierce intensity. “What the hell, Hope?”

  She takes a step back and parks her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrow into angry slits and her mouth is a slim line of toughen up. “You listen to me, Miss Mayfield.”

  The way she refers to me by my surname hurts.

  Joel used to do that.

  “I know you’re going through something incredibly tough right now. I know you’re hurting, and sweetie, we love you and we’re here for you.” At that, Hope softens, and a fleeting glimpse of pain crosses her face. “If I could make your pain go away, I would. Trust me.” She inhales, and her chest rises and falls in one fell swoop. “But there is someone else out there who’s hurting, too. Someone you’ve been shutting out.” She reaches down and lifts my phone from the floor.

  I frown, knowing exactly who she’s talking about. Henry. Joel’s dad.

  “You lost your lover, but he lost his son, Ellie. And he desperately wants someone to share those last moments with.” She shakes her head sadly and tosses the cell at the end of my bed. I scramble back to the headb
oard and hug my knees to my chest, as if touching the phone would be poison. There is too much there I don’t want to see. Too much I don’t want to do. “He’s been calling, Ellie; surely you can at least let him know you’re okay. There are also around six missed calls from your sister—”

  “Joel would be proud of me for not calling back.” I straighten my back, defending myself.

  Hope shakes her head. “Joel wanted you to seize the moment; to live in the now and take every opportunity you got with both hands.” She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. “Not running to rescue her is a part of standing up for yourself, but ignoring her entirely? I wouldn’t be so sure that’s what he wanted.”

  Her words cut me. They’re worse than the sadness, the never-ending devastation that’s been tearing at my soul for weeks because they’re so much sharper. Those words mean I failed him—the one thing I never wanted to do.

  She pauses and gives me one long, hard look. “You’re allowed to grieve, Ellie; you have to. But right now, you’re just denying what’s happened. And sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the world head on.”

  She slaps the envelope against the palm of her hand and then turns and walks out of the room. “Letter’s on the sideboard in the hall. On the condition that you’re showered when you want to read it.”

  As she leaves with that letter, my mind churns. Guilt batters my soul, and for the first time in three days I wonder about the afterlife. The what ifs. What if he’s watching me right now? What if he sees that I’m not making an effort, and that I’m just ... being?

  What if he regrets loving me?

  It’s that final thought that picks up my phone and reads the texts from Henry, asking me to come and see him. That thought throws the covers from my bed—that thought that twists the mixer tap in the shower—that thought that lathers fresh pomegranate-scented shampoo through my hair, massaging it into my scalp, and then letting it all wash out onto the floor. That thought finds clean jeans and a white tee that smells of soap and fresh and life, and that thought that brushes a little blush on my cheeks to stop the death-white look I have going on.

  It’s that thought that takes the letter from the sideboard, along with my keys, and yells to Hope as I walk out the door. “Love you!”

  “I love you more!” she calls back from her room.

  I place the letter on the seat next to me. There’s a white piece of paper screwed up in a ball on the floor, and I pick it up, unfolding it.

  It’s a parking fine from the other day at the hospital.

  For $554.

  “Crap,” I mutter, then scrunch it back up again and throw it to another spot on the floor. Who fines someone while they’re obviously visiting someone in pain?

  An overwhelming sense of helplessness weighs down my limbs again. With shaking hands, I turn the letter over once, twice, as if trying to read its contents without actually opening the seal.

  Then I put the letter down and reverse out of the driveway. If this has taught me anything at all it’s that the clock doesn’t stand still when you want it to. You can’t take time out of life just because you’re emotionally in need.

  You have to tackle it head on.

  One hour and twenty minutes later, I pull up outside of the two-storey cream-rendered house that Henry mentioned in his last text. A Jacaranda tree weeps in the front yard, purple flowers littered over thick green grass. Four cars are lined one behind the other in the long, twisting driveway, and there are another six parked flush against the curb, all surrounding his house. I stop my little crap-mobile behind a BMW that has to be worth at least four of my cars. It’s for that reason that I leave enough room between him and me to almost park a third vehicle.

  The walk up the driveway is like everything else in my life these days—both long and incredibly short. It gives me time to think about what I’m going to say. The sort of condolences I can offer.

  So far, my script is shaping up nicely. I’m sorry for your loss and how are funeral plans going and is there anything I can do all feature heavily.

  When I get to the front door, I raise my hand to knock. I freeze, my fist balled, ready to make contact with the navy wooden door. I can’t do this. Why am I here? I barely know the guy, and he just lost his son. He doesn’t need some kid who’d only reconnected with him a few months—

  The door flies open before I have a chance to finish that thought. A woman with curly ash-blonde hair stands there, a kindly smile plastered over her face. She looks older than Joel’s mother, Ms Armstrong, but still seems very youthful. She’s bubbly and effervescent, yet her eyes seem focused and crisp. A champagne of a lady.

  “Of course, Ellie Mayfield.”

  Looking into those crystal blue eyes, so much like his, makes my heart pang. It’s a hot poker to the soul.

  Instead, I look behind her. Women mill around, conversation buzzing between them. There are a lot of champagne glasses and dainty fine china tea cups, and a line of people around five-deep wait by what looks like a table, all with big baking dishes in hand. The scent of pastry and herbs wafts over to me.

  Quiche.

  That’s what you do when you visit someone in mourning. You bring quiche.

  My pulse races. The air is thick again, and I pull at the collar of my T-shirt, as if it’s too tight. The world is closing in on me, and I have nowhere to run to.

  “I ...” I shake my head. “I should have bought quiche.”

  My hand drops and I back away. I can’t be here. I have no place amongst these people.

  “Don’t be silly, dear. You didn’t need to bring ...”

  She could be telling me about the quiche ingredients or describing how to do the Macarena. Her words blend into the high-pitched chatter drone going on behind her. I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with—

  “Hey, Ellie. Don’t tell me you’re leaving—we just got here.”

  Warm hands wrap around my shoulders, and I stiffen.

  “Sorry.” The hands move away, but the friendliness in the voice doesn’t. “How you holding up, girl?”

  I turn my head to the side. Fiona stands there in a cute denim overalls number. Marc and Kohl linger behind her, both looking even less comfortable than I feel, hands in pockets, eyes averted elsewhere.

  “Okay.” I shrug, because it’s what you do. You lie when people ask how you’re feeling after the man you love has died.

  “Let’s go inside. I’m starving, and there’s bound to be quiche in there.” Fiona takes my hand and leads me back toward the house.

  “There’s quiche,” I quietly confirm, and Fiona squeezes my hand.

  The lady who’d welcomed me is no longer at the door, and we walk straight into the throng of mourners.

  “Fiona’s here!” someone exclaims, and soon the heads of thirty women flip in our direction.

  Questions fly at us in a flurry. They’re all concerned for her wellbeing, how she’s holding up, how her mother is, was the traffic bad getting here, would she like some quiche. It’s like a well-meaning flock of hens all chirruping and bock-bocking at her.

  “Where are all the guys?” I ask Kohl, keeping my eyes on the swarm as they walk closer.

  “They’ll be upstairs with Henry. But there’s always more chicks than dudes with this crowd.” Kohl shrugs, and a wry smile crosses his lips. “Single dad. Lots of money. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”

  I can now, even if I wish I couldn’t.

  Kohl taps Marc on the shoulder and they both slink though the crowd, heading for a staircase I hadn’t noticed before at the back of the room. Fiona fields questions with ease, and I’m left feeling like I don’t belong. I was a part of his new life, not this in between one. Not the one full of people reminiscing about things like his hockey team—hockey?—and the suit he wore when he went to his cousin’s wedding.

  I shift uncomfortably, and am seriously considering leaving when a hand grips my wrist. “Hurry.” Kohl widens his eyes and I scoot along after them, thankful th
at this invitation included me.

  We reach the top of the stairs. The crowd is closer around Fiona now but she’s holding court like a pro.

  “They like young blood,” Kohl mutters. “Freaking vampires.”

  I turn to see Henry Henley standing to the side of the landing, his thin arms folded across his chest. Deep purple bruises shadow his eyes, and he looks tired, so damn tired.

  Maybe he’s tired of grieving.

  Maybe he’s tired of pain.

  “I’m ...” He clears his throat and starts again. “I’m glad you came.”

  The words could apply to all of us, but his gaze focuses squarely on me. Kohl and Marc mutter lame excuses and walk past him toward a doorway where a television plays.

  Henry walks alongside me and places his hands on the railing, overlooking the crowd below. He gives a small shake of his head then turns to me again, staring straight into me, just like Joel used to do.

  Joel.

  A wave of pain washes over me, but I steel myself against it. I can’t fall to pieces right now. I just can’t.

  “This has been the hardest week of my life.” He studies his hands. “A parent should never have to lose a child.”

  I reach out and touch his arm. The contact startles him, but I think it startles me even more. “I ... I can’t even imagine.”

  He gives a low, throaty chuckle and smiles. “Here I am, inviting you here to make sure you’re okay and telling you how I feel. Shame on me.” He shakes his head. “The thing about grief is it’s all relative. You can only compare it to what you know. And I have no doubt that right now, the pain you’re going through is the hardest damn thing.” He winces and brings his hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing either side, as if to alleviate some tension. “I know things happened fast during these last few months between the two of you. I just ... I want you to know that he really loved you. Always had. Right from the day you started dating.”

  It’s the validation I didn’t know I was seeking. As soon as he says the words, a small knot unfurls inside my heart.

  “Do you want to see his old room? Of course, you can take anything you want,” Henry says, as if it’s a souvenir shop of his son’s life. I think of the T-shirt in my drawer and wonder how many more like it I can smuggle away, then give a slight shake of my head. What the hell is wrong with me?