Lying in the middle of Mama’s bed, the pillow that still smells of her catching my tears—I choose to be still. At least here, I can freeze time. Just for a little bit.
I pretend I don’t hear when the door creaks open, the tap of shoes walking across the wood floor. I close my eyes when Jax’s warm body sinks down behind me, cradling me in his arms. He’s silent. He knows what it’s like to hate the noise.
It’s impossible to explain this feeling. No words to express the pain of losing the one person who loved you most in the world. No way to describe the devastation in knowing no one will ever love you that way again.
If you’ve never lost a parent, you won’t understand. But Jax does. Because Jax has. I stay strong in the face of everyone else, but for him, I can break. And I do. Over and over, I break.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips and catches on the rough, chapped edges. I swallow down tears, the burn from my scratchy throat making me flinch. A physical reminder that I can, in fact, still feel.
“Alina,” Jax whispers. “We have to go soon, do you need help getting ready?”
I shake my head, but I don’t move from my spot. I don’t open my eyes. Once I do, time will start again. I’ll have to wear my black dress and wave my white flag of surrender. Pretend to give a damn when people cry crocodile tears over Mama’s casket. If I open my eyes, I’ll have to watch them bury Mama six feet underground. I’ll have to hear the strongest man I know sob because half of him is gone forever. I’ll have to taste the bitterness knowing it took Mama’s death to bring my brother Eli back to town.
So, I think I’ll just keep them closed.
The service is beautiful. Yellow Chrysanthemums and pink tulips line the pews. White stargazer lilies surround her casket. Bouquets and baskets sit on the floor in front of her picture. Altogether, it’s a moving image.
I’m numb.
While Becca’s daddy preaches about the restoration of innocence for the departed and God’s love, I sit in the front row with my head down. My hands wring my handkerchief so tight my knuckles turn white. Jax is on one side, his hand on my knee. Becca is on the other with her palm on my back. Pillars of support holding me up while my family crumbles beneath my feet. I feel their touch.
Still, I’m numb.
The service ends, and I stand between Daddy and Eli, lost in thoughts of who the masochist was that thought up the idea of a receiving line. My sweaty palms grasp a hundred different hands as they whisper their condolences. I keep my head bowed as I mumble my thanks. But then a different hand grasps mine, a flicker of static running through my fingertips. I don’t look up right away. But eventually, I do.
Chase’s face is relieved. Like being in front of me is all he needed to feel whole again. Lucky for him—how that’s still a possibility. His hair is a knotted mess, the strands fighting over which direction to lay. Yet, he’s nearly perfect, of course. He always is. But his beauty doesn’t move me.
“Goldi.”
I blink.
“Goldi, I am so...” His voice cracks with emotion, lower lip trembling as he wipes his hand over his mouth. “Your mom. I can’t even—”
“So, don’t.” The words come across as flat as they feel rolling off my tongue.
He swallows harshly. His eyes bounce to Eli, then Daddy, until they land back on me. He takes a deep breath, his free hand sliding through his dark, silky hair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. But, fuck… I just want you to know I’m here. Take all the time you need, but baby, I’ll be here.”
Laughter bubbles up inside of me, and as inappropriate as it is to laugh in the middle of a receiving line, I can’t stop it from spilling out. It’s brash. The sound echoes off the walls, reverberating, mocking me with its tone.
“I don’t really give a fuck where you’ll be, Chase.”
His eyes grow wide at my curse.
I drop his hand. “Are we done here?”
Daddy doesn’t even look at us, too busy taking sips from his flask of whiskey. Not that I blame him.
Chase stands still as I walk away. His hand rubbing his chest and his eyes glassy. I should probably feel somethin’ after leavin’ him there that way. But I don’t.
I feel nothing.
I drive aimlessly around town for what feels like hours. Until the sun disappears and darkness blankets the ground. Eventually, I find my way home. Tonight is the first night I’m sleeping at my own house. Ten days of avoidance, not wanting to surround myself with the memories, choosing to hide in Jax’s shadow instead.
I go straight to my room and lay in bed, staring up at the glow ‘n stick stars on my ceiling. They make me think of Chase. Anger licks at my insides making me gasp. I’ve found comfort in the numbness. The rush of fiery emotion is a jolt to my system.
How dare he come to Mama’s funeral.
I grab on to the rage, marveling at how it grows inside me. Jumping out of bed, I pull my desk chair to the middle of the room. My shin hits the leg as I clumsily climb to stand on the seat. I reach up and rip a star off the ceiling, watching as it falls to the floor.
I repeat the action. Fingernails tearing as I dig deep into the plaster. Again and again.
Rip. Watch. Repeat.
Breathing heavily from exertion, I collapse onto the ground. A graveyard of stars surrounds me.
I smile.
Heartbreak is easier to hide in the dark.
17
Chase
Twenty-Two Years Old
I have this nasty habit I’m trying to break. I dissect every part of my past until the pieces are so skewed, I can’t put them back together. Countless hours are spent trying to fit square pegs into round holes—deciding who I’m going to hold liable for my failings. I’m the fucking poster boy for the blame game.
When I lost my mom, I raged.
When I lost Lily, I grieved.
When I lost Goldi, I did both of those things.
I went to her mom’s funeral with the stupid idea she would need me. Not realizing I had taught her how to not need me long before then. I held her limp hand and stared into her vacant eyes, searching for the love she had always given. The love I didn’t deserve. How fucking selfish of me. Now, I realize the love I offered in return was twisted and warped, bathed in my insecurities and modeled after the dysfunction I was born into.
I didn’t go to her again. I stayed that night at Sam and Anna’s, knowing I wouldn’t return, and drove back to Nashville in the morning. Desolate and defeated, hating myself for how heartbroken I felt. I knew deep down I had no right.
I’m a taker. A controller. These are flaws that exist within me. They always will.
But I’m ready to heal.
So here I am lying on a fucking couch, staring at a popcorn ceiling, wishing like hell I hadn’t made the decision to see a shrink.
“Chase. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’ve decided to come here today.”
He’s an older man, late fifties with dark wavy hair graying at the temples. Round glasses sit on his crooked nose. His ankle is highlighted by orange and blue argyle socks and is crossed over the opposite knee.
I steeple my hands on top of my stomach. “Well, Doc. I’m fucked-up. I chase away all the good things in my life.”
“Hmm… do you feel like you hold on to the bad?”
“I am the bad.”
The room grows quiet when I don’t continue. There’s a small gold clock sitting on his desk, ticking away. It reminds me that I’m paying for these minutes. Apparently, paying to sit in silence. People actually need degrees for this shit?
I shift uncomfortably on his couch, the leather groaning underneath my weight. I expected him to lead me with life lessons or, fuck, I don’t know, maybe pass out a multiple-choice questionnaire? I’m low-key nervous, and I don’t have any clue how this works.
I side-eye him. He has a legal pad in his lap, ready to take notes on all the ways I’m fucked-up. He’s gonna need more paper.
Finally, he speaks
again. “What is it that makes you feel that way?”
I turn my head toward him and quirk an eyebrow. “You want me to give like... examples?”
“That’s up to you.”
I groan, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling my hair. “Fuck, we’ll be here for-fucking-ever.”
He chuckles. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, then. Your first memory of feeling like you were ‘the bad.’”
Huh.
I close my eyes as I search through memories until I get to the earliest hurt. I was a little kid, around four at the time. Desperate for my mom’s attention. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Anxiety crawls up my throat instead of the words.
This therapy thing is harder than I thought.
It doesn’t get any easier as I leave my session and stop at the store. I’m standing in an aisle filled with pads and loose-leaf paper, feeling like a dumbass as I stare at the different options. Doc’s “homework” was to get a notebook and start journaling.
Fucking journaling.
I scoffed at the idea. I told him I was a twenty-two-year-old man, not a thirteen-year-old girl. But he assured me I would be surprised. Said it would help me work through things I couldn’t voice. I’m not convinced. But here I am anyway, picking out a damn diary.
I take my time perusing, finding one that really speaks to me. If I’m going to slice open my insides and bleed out on the pages, I might as well do it in a book that I don’t hate looking at.
Every few weeks, Sam and Anna drive up. While it’s mainly to see me, we usually just grab dinner before they venture out to explore the city. Tonight though, it’s only Sam.
“How have things been at Jackson & Co.?” He shakes the rocks glass in his hand, the ice clinking against the sides as the liquid sloshes.
Here we go.
I knew his excuse of “father-son bonding” was really something else. He’s dying to have me come back home and help him run Sugarlake Construction. No chance in hell.
“Things are great. Busy.”
I’ve been with Jackson & Co. Construction since freshman year. When I graduated with a degree in Architectural Engineering, specializing in Construction Management, Sam thought I’d resign from my position and run back home. Just like we’d always planned. But the map of my life changed course the second I lost Goldi.
He nods his head. “Good, good. Listen, I’ve been thinking. I know you’re apprehensive about coming home.”
I chuckle, sipping from my IPA. Apprehensive isn’t the word I’d use.
“But I really think it could be good for you. I’m planning to do a major overhaul, expand into neighboring towns. I need you home for that, Chase. Let’s build a legacy. Together.”
Fuck. He really knows how to make it hard on a guy.
I set down my beer and sit forward, my elbows resting on the table. “Look, the last thing I want is to disappoint you. And if I thought Sugarlake was the place for me, please believe I’d be there in a second. But it’s not. I’ve made a life here.”
He leans back in his chair, sighing. “Are you happy, son?”
“I’m working on it.”
I watch the hope fade from his eyes, the familiar sting of being a let-down prodding at my back. I owe Sam for everything good in my life. I wish I could be the son he wants me to be. But I can’t.
There’s nothing left for me in Sugarlake. Not anymore.
Journal Entry #1
This is fucking stupid.
18
Alina
Twenty-One Years Old
If you had asked me when I was eleven where I’d be at twenty-one, I’d tell you dancing on Broadway, and still the apple of my daddy’s eye. If you had asked me when I was sixteen, I’d say a college graduate, teaching dance in my spare time, with Chase at my side. At eighteen, I’d have been positive I’d be an instructor at the premiere dance studio in Chattanooga. Planning the wedding of my dreams to the boy who’s always owned my soul.
But life likes to throw curveballs. The changeup so extreme it spins you around and knocks you off home plate.
I reminisce on the notions of that young, naive, stupid girl. Wondering what she’d think of the way her life turned out. I’m still living at home, taking care of the only parent I have left. One who can’t stand the sight of me because I’m the spitting image of my mama.
My weeks are filled with teaching dance at the rec hall and waitressing down at Patty’s Diner on Main Street to make ends meet. Someone has to make sure the lights stay on around here. If it were up to Daddy, we’d be destitute by now.
There are moments. Glimpses of the strong man who raised me. The man who told me I could do anything. Be anything. But those moments are stretched few and far between. Lost in a sea of amber liquid and glass bottles.
It has a name, this affliction of his. But I never speak it out loud. If I do, I’ll have to face the truth that another person in my life has failed to live up to my expectations. One more time I’ve been left on the outside looking in. They’re all too lost in their personal demons to care about mine.
Maybe I’m the problem.
There’s a new normal in the Carson family home. The “normal” of starting the day with forced optimism. Today will be the day things turn around. But more often than not, it ends with a phone call from Johnny, down at The Watering Hole in Sweetwater, telling me Daddy is “causing a ruckus, again.”
This morning—like every morning—Daddy looks haggard and worn. His skin is sallow. Whiskey and heartbreak oozing from his pores. I plate his breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, placing it in front of him at the kitchen table. I pick up my steaming mug and take a sip, the aroma of the coffee waking up my senses.
“Daddy, when are you gonna stop this?”
He twirls his fork slowly, never looking up from his plate. Never responding. I’m used to his silence.
The first year after losing Mama was a blur.
Eli was drafted to play basketball in New York, shortly after Mama’s funeral. His new superstar life got too big for his small-town family. But then, he tore his ACL, ending his career before it ever really began. The selfish part of me was hoping he would come back home. But three years later, Sugarlake hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Elliot Carson. Just a monthly phone call to “check-in.”
Last time we talked, he was flying down to Florida. Some big interview for Assistant Coach at Florida Coast University. He was excited, talking about the possibility of being one of the youngest coaches in the division. I can’t find it in me to care and haven’t checked in since to see if he got the job.
In a curious twist of fate, Becca attends FCU. She left yesterday for her senior year. I can’t imagine she spends much time in the athletic department, so I haven’t bothered to tell her about the possibility of Eli being there, too. Still, it makes me smile to think of her giving him a strong tongue lashing and a kick in the butt.
Jax is still around. He’s steady working on his daddy’s dream and doing a heck of a job. He makes enough money restoring classic cars that he up and quit the shop. I’m not complaining, I like all the free time he has now to keep me company. But it doesn’t ebb the loneliness that slithers around the deepest parts of my soul.
Right now, we’re sitting at Mac’s Dive, like we do every week on my only night off.
“You know, I hear that’s a sign of sexual frustration.” Jax points his beer bottle at the shredded, soggy pieces I’ve torn apart on the table.
They’re all that’s left from the label of my bottle. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. I give him a half-smile, too worn out from the late night of wrangling Daddy back home to fake the energy for more. I haven’t told Jax about how bad Daddy’s getting. He’d rush in and take over, just to keep the burden from landing solely on my shoulders. He’s a dang saint. The best friend I’ve ever had. But I need to carry the weight of this one alone.
“You okay, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet all night.”
I squin
t my eyes. “You just think it’s quiet ‘cause we don’t have Becca’s loud mouth runnin’ nonstop.”
He throws his head back and laughs. I swear half the women turn toward the sound, breasts heaving, hoping to be his conquest of the night.
Jax is what you would call a player. It’s truly fascinating to watch. He only has to smile their way, and you can hear the panties fall to the floor. Between him and Becca, I feel like a dang nun in a monastery.
I’ve thought about it, of course—giving in to the chemistry between us. It would be so easy. Things always are with Jax. But the last thing I want to do is ruin our friendship. He’s the only one on Earth who has seen the darkest, ugliest moments of my life and held them as if they were precious. I can’t lose that. So at the end of our night, when he has a girl on his arm and asks if it’s okay that he leaves, I nod my head and encourage him to walk out the door. Even though I can see in his eyes he’s dying for me to say no.
I’ve always been freaked out by walking on the grass at cemeteries. Something about stepping over the bones of the deceased just seems downright disrespectful. But since there’s no other way to get to Mama’s grave, I grit my teeth and bear it.
I visit her once a week, and I always bring fresh tulips. They were her favorite, and I like to think she appreciates her remains being surrounded by things she enjoyed.
I crouch down, laying the bouquet in front of the marble slab. Reaching out, I trace her name, mouthing the words as my finger caresses the letters.
Gail Elizabeth Carson
Your life was a blessing, Your memory a treasure. You are loved beyond words, Missed without measure.
I lie down on the grass, staring up at the sky and pretend she’s next to me. If I strain my ears, I can almost hear her whispering secrets of how to navigate this thing called life. She was always good at that.
Beneath the Stars Page 10
