by Kacey Shea
“You’re driving back on Sunday?”
“Yep,” Callie says. “That gives us all of tomorrow to soak up the sun and each other’s company.”
“They’re actually predicting rain. I’ve been stalking the weather report all week worried that tropical storm was going to ruin our trip.” Jill corrects. “But I don’t even care. We’re sitting on the beach all weekend. Even if it’s under an umbrella and blanket.”
These two are too good to me. “That’s exactly what I need. Thank you.”
“Of course. You’d do the same.” Jill winks.
“We miss you.” Callie smiles. “It isn’t the same without you.”
The heavy guilt in my gut swirls with a fresh wave of shame.
“Oh!” Jill’s eyes widen. “I ran into your mom last week.”
At the mention of my mother, my stomach twists. “Oh?” She hasn’t called or checked on me once. Neither has my father. They’re still pissed. Probably waiting for me to give up and move back home.
“She asked how you were doing.” Jill twists the glass of water between her hands, her smile uncomfortable. “She was kind of weird about it, actually. Did something happen?”
It certainly did. “We aren’t really talking.”
“I’m sorry, babe.” Callie reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“They’re still upset about you taking this job?” Jill asks.
That and my plans for grad school. “It’s beneath my position.” I roll my eyes. “Whatever that means.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Callie’s brows furrow as if she’s trying to make sense of their disapproval. “What with all the charity work she does.”
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s only acceptable if it’s something she can brag to her friends about.” I shrug.
“Privilege really astounds me.” Jill winces. “Thanks for not being a spoiled brat.”
“Oh, I’m still spoiled.” I lift my bag from the back of my chair to show off the designer logo.
Callie and Jill laugh.
“But it’s not like you went to live in a big city or something.” Jill scrunches her brow and glances around. “This is, like, one of the safest places you could work.”
I love that she assumes my parents’ concern has to do with my personal wellbeing. I wish it did. “I think they’re most upset I won’t play doting daughter. That I have a mind of my own.”
“Well, they’re missing out.” Jill scoops a bite of cake to her lips and smiles. “It’s one of the best things about you.”
Right now, I don’t feel deserving of that compliment. If it were true I would have the courage to be honest with these two, completely and without fear. Instead I force a smile and play a part that my heart’s not all in. Probably because I left a piece of it behind when I walked out on Chase, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it back.
57
Chase
I’m furious when she leaves. How could she just walk out? On me. On us. But that anger soon morphs to worry and regret. She left emotional and upset. I hope she’s okay, but is that even possible after our fight? Does she regret this last week with me? Maybe she’s already over it, having a good time with her friends as though I never existed.
Does she feel guilty for the things she said? I certainly do.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Her quick escape after Callie and Jill’s call sets off an avalanche of deep-seated fears. Rejection has always played havoc on my self-worth. The love I’ve experienced in this life has always come with stipulations.
But Alicia’s different. She wasn’t a drunken hook-up. I didn’t idolize her or try to create some fairytale romance. We were kindred souls, a little battered and bruised. In her company, I felt accepted and cherished in a way I’ve never experienced before. This week meant everything. The best of my life.
But I was the one who broke the rules. We made a deal to take things one day at a time. She never offered a bigger commitment, yet I started to hope. Yearn for a future that included this beautiful, strong, brilliant woman. I’m the fool, and it’s not her fault. I owe her an apology for the cruel things I said, but more than anything, I want to beg her to come back.
Not that it would change her mind. No, the look of panic on her face as she left should be all the confirmation I need. When it comes down to me or her friends, she’ll always pick them.
In a feeble attempt to distract myself, I spend a ton of time with the kittens. They’re curious now and it’s entertaining to watch them play. In a few weeks they’ll be ready for new homes. I should probably start finding them, but the thought of giving them up is too much. Caring for them has given me purpose. Even now, as shitty as this is, I’m not alone. Not yet anyway.
By Saturday afternoon I can’t stand my own company. The weather outside is reflective of my mood. The sun barely breaks through the clouds, and the storm on the horizon threatens to steal it away. As much as I want to wallow, I decide some exercise would do me good.
I lace up my running shoes and head down to the beach for a run. My chest is tight with each inhalation, and I can’t tell whether it’s more from stress or the fact I’m completely out of shape. I push through the struggle though, refusing to give up or give in. My shoes press into the ground, leaving prints in the sand. In a few hours they’ll be washed away with the tide, a clean slate for someone new to leave their mark. But for the moment it’s proof I’m here, sober and alive, fighting to be a better man.
I run farther than my usual route and soon the landscape of million-dollar beachfront rentals changes to that of more modest housing. I wonder how long it’ll be before the properties are sold, knocked over, and replaced with something grand.
I’m out of breath when I come up to a dock. The churning waves rock the boats, knocking into the sturdy structure. The wooden planks groan under the pressure. I walk out to the end, taking in the view and needing a short rest before I jog back.
I didn’t notice at first, but there’s a person at the end of the dock. Sitting along the edge, legs dangling, and leaning against a sturdy post, he or she is easy to miss from the shore. I allow my footfalls to hit heavy on the decking so I won’t startle whoever it is.
The person glances up at my approach, the hoodie falling away from his face. It’s Tyler!
His eyes light with recognition.
“Hey, Tyler,” I say, still a little out-of-breath.
“Hey.” He glances behind me as if looking for someone else. He probably wonders what the hell I’m doing here. It’s not a good day for boating, not with this weather.
“You live around here?” I ask, rubbing my hands along my arms. The wind cools the sweat on my skin and sends a chill down my spine.
“Not really.” He shakes his head and frowns. “We’re in the apartment complex near Hawk Market.”
I don’t want to intrude on his space, but there’s something in his stare that causes a tinge of alarm. He always appears a little lonely, a little moody, but there’s an indifference that causes real concern.
“Mind if I sit for a minute?” I nod to the empty deck.
“Whatever,” he mumbles, turning his gaze back to the waves.
“Not a good day for surfing?” I tease, plopping a few feet away.
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Or sailing.”
I grin. “You come out here a lot?”
His lips press together and he ignores my question.
I don’t know what to do or say, but alarm for his well-being surges back. I don’t want to pry, but I also can’t leave him so I just sit. I don’t know how much time passes. Us resting there, silent, as the wind blows and the tide rolls.
“My dad used to bring me here when I was little,” he says, gaze trained out toward the ocean. “We went fishing out here. He talked to me about life. Those were good days.” He picks at the sun-baked deck, tossing a splintered piece out into the ocean. “Both my parents were alcoholics. Did you know that?”
“I did
n’t.”
“It’s why my mom’s really strict about that stuff, you know? She got sober when I was five. Says she did it for me, but I don’t remember her drinking, ever. But like, she’s so paranoid I’m going to do something stupid, and it’s fucking annoying. I can’t be a normal teenager like everyone else.” He kicks out at the air, his legs swinging in frustration. “She won’t even let me go to parties.”
“Sounds like she really cares about you.”
“I guess.” He shrugs and goes back to picking at the deck. “I think she’s scared of me being like my dad.”
“That’s fair.” It’s not as if I’m qualified to dole out advice and I’m not a parent, so I don’t quite understand. But I do know a thing or two about being an angry young man. “I can see why that’d be hard, to feel you can’t disappoint her. If it’s any consolation, she’s probably keeping you from making a stupid decision. Drinking isn’t all that great.”
“I hate that I don’t get to make my own mistakes. I never even got to be a kid. It’s always been about taking care of my mom. I love her, I do. It’s just . . . it’s a lot, and sometimes I just want something for myself.” He glances up and meets my stare. “That’s selfish, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He used to hit her.” He pulls his hoodie back over his head. His voice cracks. “Me, too, sometimes.”
Oh, shit. This poor fucking kid. I’m livid he’s been put through that kind of pain. The emotional stress. I wish I could take it away. “But he’s not around anymore?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, a disgusted scoff leaving his parted lips. He swipes at his face, wiping away his tears before they can fall with quick movements. “He never got sober. I think he hated my mom for it, but she finally left him for good. Once the courts granted her full custody, he was out. He never loved either of us, at least that’s what I think.” His jaw clenches, his body ridged. He wipes his face again, sniffling every few moments as he silently cries.
I feel helpless, at a loss for what to say, because nothing will make this better. So I just sit there, present to his vulnerability and a witness to his pain.
“You know what’s a bitch?” He tosses another broken fragment of wood into the ocean.
“What’s that?”
“I still come here.” He barks out a laugh but there’s no humor in the sound. “I still fucking sit here like a little lost child every time I want to give up.”
“Hey.” I scoot closer and clasp him on the shoulder. I meet his stare, taking in his bloodshot eyes and red nose. There’s a slight scar above his left eyebrow, but it disappears into the crease of his furrowed brow. There’s so much pain in the depth of his eyes. I feel that the most. “Our past doesn’t define us. It shapes us, it fucking breaks us in ways we shouldn’t have to be, but we’re fighters. We get back up. We don’t give up.” I swallow hard. “No matter how hard it gets, you have to promise me you won’t give up.”
“It all fucking sucks. You know?” Anger radiates with his next words. “What’s the fucking point?”
“Tyler.” I don’t like what he’s hinting at. I’ve been there. It’s a lonely, desolate place. I wait for his gaze to lift. “You matter.”
“No, I don’t.” His eyes roll as he brushes off my sentiment.
“Tyler. You. Matter,” I say, my tone as angry and commanding as his. “You do, even if you can’t see it right now.” It’s so easy to miss what everyone else sees. “You care, and that’s why it hurts. That’s not a weakness, it’s your power. I’ve seen how you are at the center. You stick up for people. You do the right thing. There’s a litter of kittens that wouldn’t be alive right now if it weren’t for you.”
He doesn’t argue. I only hope what I say breaks through.
“And about your dad. It’s okay to still find comfort in the things you did together. Don’t let him ruin what you love.” I swallow hard, emotion hitting me square in the chest. Recalling how for years I avoided Kitty Hawk and my uncle’s beach house because of what happened with Tiff. How I’ve avoided Maverick since the crash. How easily the cycle of self-harm continues, no matter how much we attempt to outrun it. This summer has been an unexpected gift and my sobriety has been a lifeline, but I still have work to do and apologies to make. “This place is kickass. He doesn’t get to take that away from you. I’m sure he’s stolen enough.”
“Yeah,” Tyler says, his spine straightening as he wipes his face once more. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am,” I tease and knock my shoulder against his. “I’m old and wise.”
I think he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.
In the distance, the storm that’s been brewing all day seems to bear down with a vengeance. The clouds race overhead, moving with the wind that stings my face. Even the waves below lap more aggressively at the dock. The small boats lean and pull, fighting against where they’re tethered to the structure.
I push back from the ledge and stand. “Why don’t we get out of here?” I hold out my hand. “Grab dinner or something.”
He places his hand in mine, allowing me to help him stand, and then brushes off his jeans. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well, I want to.”
“You don’t have plans?” he asks skeptically.
“No.” I blow out a long breath. “The only thing I have waiting back at the house are the kittens, and they’ll be fine for another hour or two.” I wave him toward the shoreline. “Come on. I haven’t spoken to a human in twenty-four hours and I’m tired of my own cooking.”
He grins and a slight smile teases his lips. While it’s more at the expense of my pathetic Saturday night plans, it fills me with satisfaction knowing I put it on his face. Getting through life is hard; no one should have to do it alone. Sometimes, all it takes is a gentle reminder that there’s always something to live for.
58
Alicia
Twenty-two months ago
I don’t remember how many drinks I’ve had, but I don’t think it was enough to feel this drunk. It’s difficult to tell where the ground meets the wall with all the wood paneling. Who the fuck puts wood paneling on the floors, walls, and ceiling of a bar anyway? An overwhelming dizziness trips up my step, and I’m thankful for the nearby barstool I use to steady myself.
Fuck. I’m so wasted. My feet feel like lead. It’s a challenge to remember where I’m going and what I’m doing. Friends. That’s where I’m headed. They seem a million miles away when I attempt to lift my chin and focus on my destination. I got this. One foot in front of the other. I make it to another table of blurry strangers and grant them one of my megawatt smiles. I love to smile. “Too much wood in this place. Can’t find the floor.” The words tumble from my mouth not exactly the way I meant, but I giggle anyway.
“I’ve got some wood for you, baby. Why don’t you come sit on daddy’s lap?” An arm reaches over, wraps around my waist, and pulls me close.
The room blurs the harder I focus on his face. I don’t like that I can’t tell if he’s even attractive. I narrow my gaze again, using all my concentration, and that’s when I catch two dimples pop. His rumble of a laugh washes over me and heats my skin.
“What’s funny?”
“You’re studying awfully hard for someone who’s been taking shots harder than a UFC pro.” Those dimples pop again.
“I like your face.” I smile again but the room spins and the dimples get lost in the haze. “I think.”
His boom of laughter rattles my core, and his hands wrap around my waist so I feel his hardness against my backside. His voice, deep and seductive, rasps in my ear, “Let’s get out of here.”
I love to drink. Everyone always says that, but I really do love it. I’m not picky, either. Wine, beer, the hard stuff—just give me a few glasses and I’m the fun-loving girl everyone expects, wants, desires. It’s easy to get lost outside of my head after a bottle of liquor. But I don’t know this guy’s name. I can hardly stay awake. I
’m not going home with a stranger when the room keeps spinning. Now, if I could only regain my equilibrium . . .
“Maybe later. I’m good.” I try to wriggle out of the stranger’s hold, but he doesn’t release me. The room tilts again. Shit. Where did Callie go? Why can’t I find our table? My eyelids feel so heavy. Am I about to black out?
“I’ll show you good. I’ll show you better than good,” he rasps into my ear. Only this time instead of excitement, the tingles that work their way down my spine come from a spike of fear. “Come on, I want to show you something, beautiful.”
I open my mouth to say something. Anything. Only my lips don’t work and my face feels heavy. He takes my silence as unspoken agreement, pressing his lips to my neck in sloppy kisses. He walks us forward, practically dragging me from his table. My heart gallops in my chest. I need to leave, but not with him. My eyes won’t focus. My feet can’t step away. The weightiness threatens to take over my consciousness and I tug, pull, and twist to try and stay awake. Fuck. What the hell did I drink?
My mouth opens again, and this time I use all my fear to try and speak, scream, something. But the man who’s caught me drags me away from the hollers, hoots, and cheers of the overcrowded bar.
We turn the corner to where it’s much quieter, the light softer, and he shoves me back against more of this God-forsaken paneling.
“No.” I get the word through my lips, but I already know he won’t listen. The need to give in to the darkness—and the heavy, overwhelming impulse to sleep—almost wins out, but fear keeps me lucid. I clench my eyes shut. I don’t want to witness this. No, no, no. I repeat the words, but he doesn’t hear them. I don’t even know if they make it past my lips. I can’t scream. I can hardly stand. I don’t want to be here. This stranger is going to take something from me, and I can’t stop him.
His heavy breath and hard body hold me to the wall. Each touch nails me to a fate I never asked for. I stop fighting. I give over to what’s happening. I close my eyes and allow the fog to pull me under. I want to fade to black so I won’t remember any of it.
