by T. L. Martin
Cindy looks away. Puffs on her cigarette.
Desperation weighs me down like I’m trapped beneath a collapsed building. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since I heard the music. Since I felt any warmth. I won’t last another night without it.
Beverly takes a step toward me, then another.
I don’t flinch.
She doesn’t stop until her decaying teeth are front and center. “You’re always slipping off into the night. What’s so important about this bus ride anyway? You know you miss the best jobs, don’t you?”
I keep my mouth shut. Anything I say will get me in trouble.
“You got a Sugar Daddy I don’t know about?”
“What? No. I swear.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know that look. She’s already made up her mind. “I’ll tell you what, Princess. You give up your bus ride, and I’ll let you keep the money.”
My heart races against my rib cage. I’m running out of time. I have minutes until the bus gets here. “You can’t do that. I earned it. I get to decide what I do with it.”
She laughs. “Not this again.” Then, her laughter abruptly stops, and her blue eyes turn ice-cold. “I’m the reason you have any money, and I’m the only one who decides anything around here. You got that?”
I grit my teeth, but the expression doesn’t mask the wetness in my eyes.
“Do. You. Understand?” Her rotten breath hits my nostrils. “When you chose this life, you chose me too.”
A pop of yellow in the darkness pulls my gaze down the street.
Panic stirs in my chest, cold and fast.
“Okay,” I finally say. “No more bus rides. Just give me the money.”
Beverly looks over her shoulder at the approaching bus and shakes her head. “You’ll get it tomorrow. Some of it anyway.”
“You can’t do that. You never said I’d have to wait.”
“I’m not stupid,” she snaps. “I know a liar when I see one.”
The bus rolls past us, stopping at the bench at the end of the block. I watch longingly as two people get on. Then, the doors close. And it’s gone.
Music. Warmth. Hope.
It’s all gone.
“Good luck getting to your Sugar Daddy tonight.”
I’m not paying attention. My heart is hollow, but my feet are moving.
“The hell are you doing?”
One after the next, my feet move. Faster. Faster.
“Holy shit, she’s chasing the bus!”
Laughter echoes down the street.
“Kids these days.”
“That’s right, girl! Go get your Sugar Daddy!”
“Wait! Tell him I’m here too!”
The bus disappears, but I don’t stop. It’s not the first time I’ve traveled for miles on foot in torn clothes on an empty stomach.
I can do it again.
For miles, I walk, watching the sky darken. My feet blister and bleed, but I hold onto the hope that soon they’ll turn numb. I know these streets like the back of my hand, and I will not stop moving. The trick is to not look too far ahead. Not focus on how much farther you have to go. You focus on one step at a time, and you will get to your destination.
Always.
That’s what I tell myself anyway. When I cross the street—one more step. When the soles of my feet burn—one more step. When my surroundings blur into strange forms—one more step. When I’m a shaking pile of bones . . . one more step. When I feel as absent as a ghost . . .
One.
More.
Step.
I barely register the sun is rising by the time I reach the house. All I know is, I made it. I made it to the music. I choke on a sob. I’m going to be okay. I have to be okay.
I’m disconnected from my body as it carries me across the grass. It’s like I’m floating. The earth tilts below me, the sky flips upside down, and I don’t know if my heart is still beating.
The last thing I see is his face. The boy who makes sad music.
He’s leaning over me like an angel. His warm hand slips beneath my neck. He peers into my eyes.
Then, my world fades to black.
My head throbs, my eyelids are glued shut, and the dry ache in my throat feels like I’ve swallowed ashes.
“In my backyard, for heaven’s sake.” It’s a woman’s voice. “Dr. Aguilar just left. Yes, of course. No, no, he said she’ll be fine after some rest and hydration.”
Who? Who will be fine?
“Well, try paging him again. Don’t stop until you get through.” Pause. “I understand perfectly well, Sasha. Maybe it’s time you remember who is his wife.”
I try to open my eyes, but they don’t budge. My limbs are weighted down, and I feel like I’m lying in the bottom of a well with the echo of darkness and a shrill voice fading in and out.
“What home, David? No one knows who she is. There’s no record of her at all. It’s like she’s a ghost.”
A ghost . . .
Sleep pulls on my consciousness, and I slip deeper into the well. It’s dark. Quiet. Safe.
I don’t know how long I’m lost in the depths before voices pull me to the surface again.
“It’s preferable to putting her into the system, isn’t it?” Silence. “Well, Vincent will return home, I’m certain of it. It will be like when we adopted Isaac. Don’t you remember what that was like? Vincent was home all the time. We were a real family.”
Family.
“We can be like a family again.”
Family.
“A stretch? He mentioned wanting a daughter, remember? After we got Isaac? No, I know that was years ago, but—” More silence. “Hush. It will work again, Becky. It will. Because it has to, dammit. He can’t possibly hold one mistake over my head for the rest of our lives!”
Hush, hush, hush . . .
“Because . . . because it’s my last hope.”
Sleep has never felt so exhausting.
My eyes dart up, down. Left, right. The room is so clean and white, for a second, I imagine it’s Heaven. But then I remember, dirty girls like me, we don’t go to Heaven. A tremble shakes my body, and I sit up on the large bed while clutching a soft blanket.
Where am I?
What happened?
What have I done?
The door opens, and a familiar face appears. Curious eyes, messy brown hair, and two dimples in his cheeks. It’s the boy from the window.
He’s saying something, but the words drown beneath the ferocious beating of my heart. I’ve made a mistake. A deadly mistake. They’re going to find me. He’s going to find me.
Hairy hands. Strangled screams. Blood, blood, pain and blood . . .
The boy steps out of the room, then, seconds later, he reappears with a full plate of food. The scent of bacon reaches my nostrils, and my stomach clenches painfully.
I don’t move. I can’t. Fear wraps around my neck like a snake, trying to suffocate me. He can’t find me. I’ll die before he finds me.
“It’s okay.” The snake loosens its hold, and I inhale a short breath. The boy says it again. Low, and gentle, and slow. “It’s okay.”
His voice matches his eyes, two buckets of smooth, warm honey.
“You’re safe now. I promise. Everything is going to be okay.”
I’ve said those words to myself so many times, but no one else has ever said them to me. A stinging starts in the backs of my eyes.
He sets the plate on the side table next to a glass of water and asks, “What’s your name?”
I stare at him.
A corner of his lips lifts. “It’s just a name. Something to call you.”
Something to call me.
Princess . . .
The taste of bile hits my tongue, and I turn away.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” His head hangs down, then he rubs the back of his neck before he finds my gaze again. “My name’s Easton.”
Easton.
He watches me, and I feel . . . hopeful.
Comf
ortable.
Safe.
I open my mouth to speak, but pain cuts through my throat, and a raspy voice leaves my lips. “Ev—” I wince at the tenderness. “Eva—” Evangeline. My name is Evangeline.
“Eva?”
Eva. No one has ever called me that before. It sounds nice when he says it. Strong. Like someone I want to be.
I nod, and he smiles.
This place, the food, his smile . . . it can’t be real. The comfort puts a weight on my chest and lightens me all at once. My eyes burn. I can’t cry.
“Thank you,” I croak, cross my arms, and shift my gaze to the side in the hope he’ll leave before I humiliate myself.
He takes the hint and clears his throat. “Okay, well, I’ll give you some space.”
I nod without meeting his eyes.
Then, he disappears out of the room, and a piece of me crumbles. Come back. Don’t leave me alone. But another part of me exhales a breath of relief.
A few moments later, I hear it through the open window. The first pluck of a guitar string. I’ve made it to the music. Closer than I’ve ever been. Except, it’s not just any music. It’s Wild Horses. Tears slip past my lashes and down my cheeks. I hear my mother’s voice with every strum. The music and her memory blend to entwine like silk and caress my soul.
He can’t know it’s my mother’s song, but I imagine whoever brought me to this white room of Heaven made him play it just for me.
I cry harder.
I cry for so long I doubt I’ll ever stop.
Easton
(Fifteen years old)
Her olive skin looks tanner up close, her hair darker and her frame smaller. My frown deepens as I watch her sleep with tear tracks still on her cheeks.
Running a hand through my hair, I wince at the guilt simmering in my gut. She obviously wanted to be alone; I don’t think she wanted me to see her cry. But I couldn’t stop myself from checking on her when I heard her tears finally stop.
My gaze slides to the full plate of food on the side table. She hasn’t eaten anything yet.
I’ve never seen anyone so exhausted before. I sure as hell didn’t mean to make her cry. I just wanted to make her feel better—the way music makes me feel better. Instead, I screwed it all up.
I push a breath past my lips.
My gaze settles on her closed eyes, and an ache washes over me. I don’t know why—why it hurts to look at her. Why my hands shake at seeing her up close. I don’t know anything about her. But I feel like I do.
Eva.
A year is a long time to watch someone from your bedroom window. To watch her come back, almost night after night. Sometimes, she’s so tired she barely makes it across the yard. Sometimes, she doesn’t show at all. But when she does, she always pushes herself. Always makes it to the shed. Until last night anyway.
Eva.
“Easton.”
I jolt at my mom’s voice coming from near my room.
“Easton, are you in there?”
“Jesus,” I grouse.
Shooting a final lingering look at Eva, I step into the hall and quietly close the door behind me.
Mom folds her arms across her chest, cell phone in one hand, as always, and narrows her eyes. “What were you doing in there with that girl?”
“That girl has a name. It’s Eva.”
“Eva then.” She glances toward Eva’s door. “What were you doing with her?”
“Exactly what you asked me to do.”
“I asked you to bring her some food.” She looks at her watch. “Even Sasha is quicker than that.”
I roll my eyes at her ongoing feud with my dad’s secretary. “I was just checking on her. Are you done now? I have stuff to do.”
She holds my gaze, her heel giving a thoughtful tap on the floor. Believing the conversation is over, I move to step around her, but her rigid form blocks my path.
I raise a brow.
Her red-painted lips thin. “That girl”—she points to Eva’s door—“will not be a part of your wild escapades.”
“Escapades?” My jaw clenches. “It was a few small incidents, Mom.”
“Small incidents?”
I glance away because even I know I’m downplaying it.
“Do you remember the embarrassment you brought to this family?”
“You’ve brought it up so many times, how could I forget?”
I know my actions last winter were stupid, and if I could take them back, I would in a heartbeat. I’m slowly beginning to learn nothing gets my dad’s attention anymore.
Mom’s cheeks redden with irritation. “Was it not enough for you to get obscenely drunk? No,” she huffs. “You just had to skinny dip with that Kristy—”
“Britney,” I correct.
“And that was after I had to hear from the mayor—who just so happens to be her mother—that you were caught with your pants down in Britney’s bedroom!”
Not my finest moment . . .
“The point is, there are pictures of you two jumping into our pool naked still circulating online. And you knocked over my swan ice sculpture!” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Hell of a Rutherford Christmas party, don’t you think? How will I get anyone to show up this year?”
I sigh. “I already said, I’m sorry. All right? I’m sorry.”
She only stares me down, so I move to brush past her, but her reply stops me dead in my tracks.
“I will send Eva away, Easton.”
I compose my expression before turning to face her. “She just got here a few hours ago.”
“Yes.” She slowly closes the gap between us. “And she will continue to stay here . . . as long as you stay away from her.”
I open my mouth to argue, but with her eyes on her pinging phone, she beats me to it.
“She’s a pretty—if not dirty—looking girl. The kind of pretty that could get boys like you in trouble. The last thing I need is you two getting close and creating more gossip.” She taps her screen, muttering, “I can just imagine the next tabloid cover. Not to mention, a scandal between the two of you would defeat the entire reason for taking her in in the first place—” She shuts her eyes, presses her fingers to her temples, and sighs. “Never mind. That’s beside the point.”
“What the hell would you like me to do, Mom?” I scoff. “Pretend she doesn’t exist?”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You know what? That’s a great idea! I’m already stressed out enough as it is without having to worry about this. If you so much as speak to the girl, I will ship her away to live with your Uncle Perry in California. Do you understand?”
Red-hot heat spreads through my chest. “Perry? Are you serious?”
She stares at me, dead serious.
This is fucking crazy.
“You can’t do that to her. Perry’s a total creep. After everything she must have been through—”
“She will be fed. She will have a roof over her head. She will be fine, Easton, but if it concerns you so much, simply keep your distance, and there will be no need to worry.”
My voice is barely restrained. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. Eva is not just some girl from school. Once her adoption is finalized, she will be your sister. Do you grasp the significance of that? I will not let you, or her, tie any more scandals to our name.”
I glance away, trying to ignore the discomfort settling in my chest. My sister. The full weight of that hits me now. “You don’t know if the adoption will go through. She probably has someone looking for her. Parents, or something.”
My mother blinks. “She has no one. As far as records go, she doesn’t exist. It will go through, and when it does, she will legally be my daughter, your little sister. If I catch even a whisper that either of you are up to anything—anything at all—she will be on the first plane to California. I can promise you that.”
My throat constricts, and my eyes scream with everything I can’t get past my lips. She’s not cargo. You can’t ship her o
ff.
For the first time since Christmas, my mom’s expression softens. She exhales, letting her arms relax at her sides.
Her voice is butter. Raw, liquid, slippery butter. “Easton, darling. I admire that you care. I do. But I need you to trust me that this girl is important for our family’s future. If you really want what’s best for her, what’s best for all of us, you will keep a thick wall between the two of you at all times.”
She steps close and pats my arm. I can’t even bring myself to shrug it off.
“That’s all I require, sweetie. Is it really so much to ask?”
My heart pummels in my chest as my mom walks around me and disappears down the hall. Her chirpy voice taking a call sounds, but I can’t hear past the ringing in my ears.
Is it really so much to ask?
For a year, I’ve watched her.
And now, that’s all I’ll ever do.
Eva
(Fifteen years old)
Blaring music, wandering hands, and the overpowering smell of beer.
It’s just a party, I tell myself as I walk farther into the living room. My first party. No big deal. For once, just be normal.
A blond guy across the room spots me and nods. Carter something. A sophomore, a year older than me. I nod back, and he smiles before saying something to the person in front of him.
That was easy. I can do this.
Someone bumps into my shoulder, and I gasp as the drink in their hands sloshes onto my shirt.
“My bad!” the guy shouts over the music. He turns sideways to pass me, having to slip between the hordes of bodies around us. His chest rubs my shoulder in the process, and I tense. My pulse sprints. The floor tilts.
“You good?” he asks, looking at me funny.
I only stare back because I can’t get my throat to work while he’s standing this close. Does he know? Does he know what I’ve done? What I’ve let guys do to me? His shoulder is still touching mine, and the contact feels like fire ants biting beneath my skin. I hold my breath while I fight the urge to push him away.
“Uh, okay . . . See ya.” Shaking his head, he walks off.
My lungs release, and I inhale. Well, that went swell. Cringing, I turn away from the crowd in embarrassment.