The Wallace Girl: The Feud Series

by Scott, Eliot

  I deliberately close off my expressions.

  “I remember everything.” If I were feeling anything but her hatred, I’d add, “I’m sorry for your loss.” But I’m not a liar, and even though she’s as dark as they come, I would assume she’s not sorry for her loss one bit.

  “I hope you’re not planning to stay long.“ Her eyes graze my whole body—up and down like she’s evaluating me, then she swallows and her gold-brown eyes, eyes that match Alex’s, flick away to track the line of people filing out of the parking lot before she returns them to me. “You’re staying with your Aunt in that tourist-trap antique store in Old Town?"

  I don’t answer. I’m sure she knows where I’m staying.

  "Well..." She sniffs, stepping away from me, lips parted, breath held as if she has more to say. There’s a note that lingers there between us, something hidden, tense. And for a moment when she looks back at me…the voice in my head whispers “she knows” while my stomach clenches in irrational fear.

  If she does know—what will I do?

  It would be so like her to shake me down like this, to draw it out of me, to pretend she doesn’t know. She breathes deeply, nodding at me like she can read my mind, and she closes her lips in this tightly protective, sinister and curious smile before turning away and following the long empty pathway to the church, where the rest of the demons in suits pretending they’re upset that Michael Sinclair is dead have gathered.

  I watch her walk away, and for a moment, I consider getting back into the tiny Kia, driving back to the airport, and charging whatever it costs to get back to Ohio to the credit cards I can't afford to pay anyway just so I can undo this decision I made when my Aunt Shelly called me four days ago. All of my fears from the past—the voices of these Sinclairs, this town, and the fears about the feud I’ve come here to end—come crashing in.

  Is it dangerous here for me? Is any of this safe? Is it worth it to be here…is it really?

  “They can’t hurt me anymore.” I say the words out loud while my core, my heart and my soul screams…but they can, they can…and if they find out, they will try!

  As shivers prick the back of my neck and my stomach rolls as I remember fully what these inhumane people are capable of, I resolve to go with plan B: To retreat to the car and escape.

  But then Alex pulls into the lone parking spot next to mine—and I can’t move.

  I'm frozen, suddenly afraid that somehow he'll know I was just looking at the lure and the stolen rods, even though they're tucked inside the trunk.

  He sits in his car, engine turned off. His hands grip the wheel for almost a minute before he rummages in the back then gets out. His profile is obscured by the height of his car, so I watch the shadows and reflections in the nearly blacked-out windows while he opens the back door, pulls out a black suit jacket, and slips it on.

  I'm terrified to actually see him.

  I want to see him.

  I want to run.

  I haven't seen him since my eighteenth birthday. Since he made love to me. My words. My experience.

  Since he finally fucked me—his words, his lies.

  Then, he called me a whore and told me to leave town and not come back.

  I haven’t seen him since I obeyed that order.

  All I can make out are angles of his form, but even just seeing those stabs at the center of my being with a hot, sharp knife. He’s exactly as I imagined, the real-life man that I’d stolen glimpses of online and in tabloids. He’s the prodigal son, the real bad boy and playboy that the media says he is. Except I know he’s not. I know it, with that very aching center I feel burning with hurt right now.

  His feet shuffle on the other side of the SUV, and I wring my hands in front of my body, kneading the collar of my sweater, nearly tearing a few of the threads. I hold my breath, just so I can hear him, and listen to the flicking sound of the lighter, the glow of fire now shining through the tinted layers of windows I'm looking through. I smell the smoke before I see him, and he passes without as much as a glance at me.

  He knows I'm here.

  I feel him feel me.

  I could always feel him—see him—find him, and vice versa.

  But seeing him now, like this—his tall body cloaked in the same black suits his father wore, his light brown hair curled at the ends, long enough to tempt my memories but short enough to tell me this isn't the same hair I once pushed my fingers through while I felt my heart beat faster because I knew he was going to kiss me—it makes that cold feeling that accompanies being alone only grow chillier.

  It makes me so unsure…

  "So you're smoking now?" I blurt out when he's several paces away. I don't say, “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” I don't say I've missed him. I don't ask how he is, or tell him I hope it's okay that I came. I don't say any of those things because those things won’t reach him.

  His feet stutter to a stop, the loose gravel beneath them sliding around, mimicking the sound of a drumroll for the leveling he is about to deliver. He pulls his cigarette up to his lips, looking to the side, to the full lot of expensive SUVs and sports cars, all driven here by people pretending to care, pretending they aren't already plotting to destroy Alex Sinclair, the heir to the Sinclair fortune, next.

  He looks…furious.

  Annoyed.

  Handsome.

  I hate that my belly is already swirling with longing, that my lips are involuntarily tingling with some sort of hope.

  He surveys the cars around us and takes a long drag, holding the smoke hostage in his mouth, almost as if he's mocking me, then he steps closer to puff out a long trail, filling up the air between us before saying, "You came back for more? Still so stupid, huh?”

  His voice is all gravelly heat, and nearly too much for me. The words he’s uttered cut me, but not too deep. I’ve come to terms with who I am—and my dyslexia— and I’m not stupid. He’s being mean to me on purpose. Salt in old wounds.

  “Make my life easy and drive away, here and now, would you, Jojo? I deserve that luxury, because as you probably know, I didn’t have that the first time we all got you to leave this place. I was forced to deal with you, and you kind of fucking owe me for saving your life, so…just go, would you, before one of us finally kills you.”

  I manage to shake my head, a massive wall of sarcasm buckled on my face. I’m proud of myself, because I’ve even rolled my eyes as though his words are a joke.

  His face stays frozen. The warm golden brown eyes I remember so well are hooded behind this squint he’s maintaining through his next mega puff of smoke.

  I expected this.

  It hurts all the same.

  He pulls in another drag off the cigarette, and I move my stare to where it rests, smoking in his big hand.

  "You know my mom died of lung cancer,” is all I respond, letting him know the cigarette hurts way more than everything else.

  His eyes travel to the horizon like they always did, but instead of flickering bright to my challenge, they remain away from me. Dead and cold, shutting me out. This is his defense, and I can break it. I must.

  "Since we all get that your family has a history of being a little slow, I'm going to say it clearly in some of those shorter words you can understand. Get the fuck out of here, Jojo. No one wants you anywhere near here. I can guarantee my father didn't ever feel an ounce of guilt. Not about you, or your mom. Nor did he have you added to the will, if that's why you came."

  His words do their intended job. They insult, they cut, pummel, and they wound me deeper than a fist to my gut. But I'm not a kid anymore. I know what he's doing. I'm better than he is at this game now. After all, the Sinclairs taught me how to play, and I did learn all of my best poker faces straight from Alex.

  "I'll go.” I nod. “After we bury your dad, after I do some...fishing. See…I’m here…” I shrug, keeping my eyes on the cigarette dangling from his hand, because being this close to his beautiful face has rattled me. “I’m here,” I repeat—locki
ng eyes with him then.

  As if he knows what I'm trying to do, I feel him pull back. Before he can escape I drop my voice and finish quickly and clearly, "for a little adventure.” I smile openly at him then, instantly regretting it because I wonder if I’ve revealed too much of how I’m longing for this to work. I just uttered words meant to scratch at our past, memories I wish to flood his chest and revive the man I know still breathes inside of this beast.

  I watch as his whole body tenses and his brown eyes tangle into mine—this time they’re hard and wild. I’ve cracked him. I can tell. It takes every effort I have to open my eyes wider. I try to let him see all the way to my heart, working to let him see me. See that I’m keeping my promise—pleading, asking, loving and searching for the boy who used to love me back.

  He tears his eyes off of mine to take one more huge drag of the cigarette, and he puffs out enough smoke to choke us both. I wonder if I’ve seen him wince slightly before he flicks the butt to the ground between us, crushing it with the weight of his black, leather shoe before walking away without another word.

  I cling to the idea that he winced because I can’t fathom the idea that there might not be a heart still beating in there somewhere. Will it be enough for me to reset its rhythm?

  But, oh God. My chest twists and I feel my knees threaten to buckle. Those blank eyes. His obvious anger that I’ve come. I’m not going to lie. I’m terrified. Have I come too late?

  I won’t run again. I repeat my promise to myself over and over in my head, working to regain the edge and calm my nerves. He scared me once. I can’t be scared for this to work.

  He follows the same path his mother took into the Memorial Hall, and I wait, heart thrumming in my throat with hope as he turns the corner. He never once looked back at me to see whether or not I heeded his warning or stayed put.

  Counting extra seconds in my head, I will my legs and limbs to finally move, and I walk back, open my trunk and stare at the fishing rods. The lure he gave me. My necklace. And I think about how he just acted…and us at the lake, his voice full of love for me always saying: Our lake. Our lake. Our lake.

  3.

  Jojo, spring break, sophomore year of high school.

  It’s a hot spring break night, and because of the unseasonably warm weather, we’ve been doing this lingering, making out thing at the lake every evening.

  Our lake, that’s what Alex always calls it even though it’s actually only his lake.

  He’s been saying that ever since he officially asked me out just before freshman year started. It's perfect here; a total of sixteen miles around the beautiful shoreline. No one’s sure how deep it really is. Alex's father sent divers in once, but after 300 feet, they had to stop measuring. The divers said it may be as deep as Lake Tahoe is down in California. One thing for certain is it’s the deepest in this region, which makes it the only privately owned freshwater lake of its kind in the Pacific Northwest. And it does, truly, belong to Alex. A gift from his father…if you can imagine a gift as big as that. I still can’t hardly wrap my mind around giving something so big to someone. Though if I could, I would…to Alex. I would give him everything.

  Alex’s fingers trail over my bare arm absentmindedly, sending shivers of hope down my spine. I can tell he’s all languid and relaxed like I am. How much I love the lake, our lake. I love me and him here together, doing all of this kissing and—touching—under this endless sky.

  I’m late getting home tonight, and he hasn’t argued about it yet. This is not like Alex, so he’s giving me even more hope that he also wants to go to the next step with me.

  Please. Let tonight be the night. We’ve waited nearly two years. Two years. And I love him. He knows that I do…

  He turns to rain kisses down on my face before pulling me up next to his body so I can snuggle in closer to him again.

  “You warm enough?” He nestles me next to him, my back against his chest.

  I nod my answer and he sighs, and I sigh, but still we both remain quiet and contemplative. He doesn’t try to make out with me more, even though I can feel his desire for me, now pressing against my backside.

  The lake is the place Alex and I always hang out. The place we feel safe—where Alex feels free from his family. It's where our friendship started, and it's where Alex asked me to be his girlfriend. Where I think it would be perfect to finally do…everything.

  I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. I’ve been pretty clear with him that I’m ready. I think he knows that, but I always wonder if he also holds back because of all of the negative stories that are out there about the Wallaces and the Sinclairs.

  People say it’s taboo that Alex and I are dating. Dangerous. All of Tacoma has this superstition that a Wallace and a Sinclair are fated to never work out. Fated, at the very least, to destroy one another.

  Those are the whispers. Worse, people in town know who we are, and that we’re dating which has caused all kinds of scandal. We’ve even been approached by strangers who ask us about it. Ask if we’re afraid. As if he’s a vampire dating a human like the books and movies and how strange this must be for us.

  They always want to know if I’m afraid. Of what? We always answer just like that. I think they just like the drama.

  I've met Alex’s family many times now, and yeah, they're strange, even a little...unfriendly sometimes, but it’s all been fine. They’re just people, after all. I do hate his older brother, Grady. I think he’s an ass. Even Alex thinks Grady’s an ass. Alex and I are great character judges so I think we’re right about him. Sometimes people are just born to be slimy, snake-eyed jerks. Grady wears it proudly.

  Ass.

  As for the rest of them, May, Alex’s mom—and his father, Mr. Sinclair? They’re normal enough. Except for the part where they’re super rich. They were worried I was too poor to date Alex—dirt poor is what May called me to my face when she first met me. She wasn’t being insulting, just literal. That was her label for me, and it was something I told her I’m never going to be ashamed about. And I told her that to her face. Alex says that earned me some respect in her eyes.

  At first I wasn’t welcome near them or their house, but they seem to be warming up to me now. I’ve been over to his house all summer without a problem. I eat dinner with them sometimes, too, but I try to avoid it because I don’t know what all the extra forks and tiny spoons are for, and they both watch me as if I’m a zoo animal.

  They allow me to watch movies with Alex in the basement anytime I want—even when they’re home now, which is a big change. I used to have to sneak in. I think it’s because Alex and I are about to hit the two year mark on our relationship. Like my own parents, the Sinclairs have relaxed about us dating. They all probably realize we’re actually in love for real. This isn’t pretend or some fling.

  I’ve directly asked Alex about the Wallace and Sinclair rumors that fly around town. The feud is what my father once called it when I asked him about it, too. But Alex always swears he’s never heard anyone mention anything called an official feud. Not in his family. He also didn’t know any of the stories I’ve heard from my side of the family. He was actually shocked when I told him about the stories.

  Where my parents have been pretty open about the past, Alex apparently grew up without one whisper of it on his parents’ lips.

  Not one. Never.

  But that could be because his father and mother rarely interact with him. Not how my parents do with me.

  Although it’s incredible to me and my family that the Sinclairs never brought it up, I do believe Alex. That’s mostly because Alex is a terrible liar. I can see right through him when he’s trying to hold something in, my father has that ability, too. My father thinks the Sinclairs’ silence about the past was maybe their way to bury the feud and move on with life. Why bring it up, if it’s over and done? It would be like adding fuel to a fire that’s long burned out.

  Problem is, the Tacoma History Museum has an entire display about the Wallaces and
the Sinclairs. They talk about it—the feud—and keep it alive. Every generation around here was raised on the story about how our great-great grandfathers were the first settlers in this region. The Wallaces were (and we still are) farmers. The Sinclairs were (and still are) owners of the ports and the entire shoreline in the area, from Tacoma all the way up to Canada.

  In the past, the Wallaces owned as much land as the Sinclair family empire owned, and both families used to be really big. Where the Sinclairs had the shorelines and the shipping industry locked down, we Wallaces had the farmlands and the lakes—probably even this lake, too, once…long, long ago, I’ll bet.

  We also had the streams, and more importantly, all of the water rights, which was a very big deal my father once said. All of this was more than a hundred years ago. It’s common knowledge the Wallaces sold everything off to the Sinclairs, little by little. During the Great Depression and after, the Wallace lines died out or moved away. Life here was hard, and opportunities made it impossible not to move. The family lines dried up, though, as men were lost to war and women married into other families. As far as I know, me, my mom and my dad are the last ones—not counting distant cousins back in Ireland.

  When oil and gas came into play for the growing US economy, the Sinclairs made even more money because there’s tons of oil in the tide flats off the coast of Tacoma as well as up to the North. The Sinclairs own it all, and they’re still making money off of those ports and pieces of land today.

  We weren’t so lucky. Everything was sold off to the Sinclairs except my parents’ small farm where we live now. I figure what we’re living on must be junk land—or we’d have sold it off long ago, too. Either way, it just barely supports us; it’s enough to hold the most comfortable farm house in the world and it has a giant garden that feeds us all year long. We survive thanks to some huge wheat granaries left over from the 1950s where we charge a fee to store wheat for other farms in the area when there’s overflow.