by Ellie Hall
“I’m going to assume you’re not afraid of the water, considering you walked right into the ocean.”
“I realize now that I’m only afraid of drowning and alligators.” She shivered despite the heat. Being so near to Blake went against her better judgment.
He went over some safety tips then had her practice arm movements and treading water while holding onto the side of the pool. He was patient and playful, teasing her a few times and splashing her, but it made her feel more at ease.
He instructed her in how to float as well. Over the next few days, they built up to her swimming across the shallow end before moving to the deep end. They’d also built up tension between them like they each held the end of a rope and like with swimming, hand over hand, tightened the slack.
Him in his board shorts.
Her in her bathing suit.
Him in the sun.
Her in the water.
After their lessons, she routinely took a cold shower.
“Today is the day we’re going to leave the safety of the shallow end,” he announced on a partly cloudy morning.
“I don’t know,” she said, standing up to her shoulders in the water.
“I’ll be right there alongside you. Trust yourself.” The way he said the words almost sounded pained like it was harder for him to trust than swim into dangerous waters.
“You can do it, Cecelia,” he encouraged. His eyes never left her.
She kicked off and felt herself dipping into the water, struggling to stay afloat. Blake coached her, reviewing the skills they’d covered to help her create buoyancy and power as she moved through the water. She was halfway across and for a moment she felt like she’d slip under. Her heart pounded and she was nearly out of breath. Blake’s eyes caught her but not his hands.
“You got this,” he urged.
She thrust her legs under her, kicking hard, slicing her arms through the water. She pushed herself with a half doggy-paddle and half breaststroke. She dug deep for strength until she finally made it to the tile wall on the other side.
Blake cheered as though she’d climbed Mount Everest or found the cure for a rare disease.
Suddenly cold and tired, she shuddered.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She worked to catch her breath.
“You did it.” A prideful smile slid onto his lips.
She should’ve been proud of herself, but a heaviness settled over her that threatened to sink her to the bottom of the pool. “I should go,” she said suddenly.
Throughout the lessons, she’d found herself enjoying his company, their banter, and the time they spent together. He was careful to keep his distance, but she was drawn to him. It would be so easy to fall back into his arms. She didn’t want to make that mistake again.
He’d talked about trust, but the real issue was that she couldn’t trust herself around him. She had to distance herself. She lifted herself out of the pool and hurriedly dried off.
He stood in the center of the shallow end, the water dripping from his hair and onto his broad shoulders. Despite the warmth of the day, he appeared frozen. Confusion drew his features tight. “I hope you have a good afternoon,” he called. His voice was strained as though irritated or battling with rejection. The word good dropped like a stone into the water as if he hoped she didn’t actually have a particularly good afternoon. Was it because he felt rejected?
“I hope you don’t let anyone drown.” She hurled the comment a little harder than she’d intended. No, who was she trying to kid? She meant to push him as far away as possible.
His lips pressed together as though trying to make sense of the comment as he came up with a reply. “I hope you don’t get a sunburn,” he fired back.
“I hope you don’t get food poisoning,” she said, wrapping her sarong tight.
“I hope your sandal doesn’t break and you have to walk across the hot ground.” His tone turned sarcastic.
“I hope you don’t dive into a group of jellyfish and are all alone and there’s no one to pee on the sting,” she said in one breath.
His mouth dropped open. “I hope you don’t lose the match to your sock. I hope that both sides of your pillow aren’t warm and that you stay nice and busy for the rest of the day. Relaxation is overrated anyway.”
She huffed as she gathered her things, eager to flame his sudden shift in mood. “Your wish is my command.”
A week passed. Cece experienced withdrawals from her cell phone and Blake. But she’d never admit it. She continued her swim lessons on her own, practicing the strokes then doing laps. After the first day, an actual lifeguard was posted by the pool.
Without her phone, she felt disconnected from the outside world and feared she was missing out on everything that went on in her absence. She found herself reaching for the phone at random moments when she was lounging on the beach or wanted to do a social check in even though it was locked safely in her cabana.
With her newfound swimming ability, she felt empowered, capable, and free, especially when she submerged under water. Floating in the silence, there was a kind of spaciousness and unburdening that she almost didn’t know how to respond to.
Apparently, Blake finally took seriously the dare to leave her alone because he was scarce for the next week. The only times she spotted him were at a distance. If they were on the same trajectory, he’d disappear down one path or other. If they were in the main building, he’d take the nearest exit. If she could give up her phone, she could give him up too. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Cece followed her routine of watching the sunrise. He remained vigilant during the sunset. Her afternoons were spent tucked away in the studio, goofing around with the piano, guitars, and the recording equipment. She’d been in the industry long enough to have a general idea of how the devices worked. Although her recordings weren’t professional quality—and if she was honest, she only had the scantiest of ideas for tunes and lyrics—, the equipment was top of the line. When she returned to LA, her studio techs would be able to replicate and enhance whatever she managed to capture. That was proving to be the hard part. She had writer’s block and singer’s block. The emptiness she felt over losing Serena took her creativity with it.
Later, when she was back in her cabana, she picked up her phone to text Lauren, her manager, the good news about having access to recording equipment. Then her finger wandered over to one of her social media accounts. She made the mistake of clicking the button.
The phone lit up with notifications. Some of them offered condolences about her sister’s death. Apparently, word got out despite her best efforts to keep it quiet—she’d carried on as usual because her sister never wanted to be in the limelight. The funeral had been quick and private. Only a select few people outside their immediate circle were invited. She had respected Serena’s wishes about her privacy.
It was as though Cece’s absence online caused everyone—fans and foes alike—to run wild with speculation. The rumors ranged in their degree of scandal, including one of Cece guiltily escaping to the island with her new beau, who was not Jaxon—sure enough, the drone had leaked the images. There were overhead snaps of her seated in the sand beside Blake. That meant Jaxon might have really been behind the whole thing even though he knew the truth of what had happened with Serena and the real reason she’d fled to the island. She didn’t want to believe that about him.
A dreadful, murky feeling pooled in Cece’s stomach. None of it was right. They had it all wrong. Except for the guilt. That was real, but it wasn’t what they thought. Rather, she felt guilt over losing hope in Serena’s recovery.
Hours passed and Cece was glued to her phone. Alone. She scrolled mindlessly, stopping to read an insult here, a kind word there, going back and forth between praise and criticism at the hands of her fans and the media.
Over time, Cece cracked open, letting the comments become truths. As pleasant as the previous week had been and as successful as she was
at keeping her head above water, she slipped under.
Then the tears came.
For the next twelve hours, she laid in bed, reading and responding to the messages, trying to explain what had really happened without betraying Serena’s request for anonymity. She bawled her eyes out, missing her sister. Serena would’ve known how to handle it all.
She didn’t sleep.
She didn’t eat.
She didn’t see Blake or anyone else for that matter. She considered leaving the island but wasn’t sure where she’d go. Back home was rife with reminders of Serena. Dozens of people had left candles and flowers at the gates to her mansion—she’d seen the photos. She couldn’t bear it.
Instead, she recalled her conversation with Blake.
His dare, his comment about her fear of remaining still, of being alone. She set her phone aside. She got back on her knees, prayed, and then didn’t move, reach for a distraction, or try to escape.
She sat with her grief. It took her under again and again, much like waves that first day on the island. Only, instead of him coming to her aid, she held her own. Eventually, the storms subsided. The tears slowed then dried. She felt hollowed out but still breathing. Still alive.
It was in the silence, the solace, that the bridge to the song came.
Then the chorus.
Then the lyrics.
She scrambled out of bed and pulled on shorts and a tank, rushing to the studio.
It was as if a dam broke, releasing the tears, and then when the waters settled, the music followed. Like a miracle, her writer's block was gone. Her voice returned, full force, streaming from her grandly, triumphantly, melodically.
What she wrote could’ve been a love song, but when listened to carefully, it was a love letter to her sister, to sisterhood. She poured her heart into it, and all the while, her eyes remained dry. She’d cried herself out and had released the immediate pain by channeling it into something meaningful. Something her sister would’ve loved, been proud of, and sang along to.
In the following days, Blake kept his distance and she remained off her phone. Except she and Jaxon texted a bit. She couldn’t help herself and had to tell him she was writing music and singing again if only for him to know that he hadn’t broken her. He was trying to win her back; she was mostly using the interaction as a distraction from being alone even though deep down she knew they’d never get back together. Cece was used to attention. Without it, she feared she might slip into the emptiness.
During that time, she slept, ate, swam, and wrote music. Her life was so simple. There wasn’t any pressure. No harassment. No stress. No Serena.
It still hurt. She still wept from time to time. But she’d proven to herself that she could swim. That she could withstand it. But the guilt over having given up hope stuck with her and that wasn’t something she was sure she’d survive. She knew eventually it would catch up no matter how hard she tried to out swim, out sing, or pretend it wasn’t there.
She’d have to talk to Blake about getting some tips about ignoring things because he seemed good at that. He’d avoided her for three weeks, marking a month of her stay on the island.
After lunch one day, she went to the studio, ready to perfect part of the song when she heard the faint strains of music coming from inside.
A guy with close-cropped hair sat at the mixing board with his back to her. His foot tapped to the beat. Did someone at the resort hire a sound engineer? She closed the door softly behind her.
“Sounds good. Soulful.” Blake turned in the swivel chair. His hair was newly cut with a messy bit left on top. Freshly shaven, the planes of his face with his strong jaw were revealed. His gaze locked on her.
Her breath caught. “Wow.” Blazing sun streamed through the window and she felt herself turning liquid, like gummy bears or M&Ms melting in the sun. It was the same feeling as the first day they’d met at the ski resort. Butterflies swooped in her belly. Her chest lurched. Her knees felt wobbly. “What’s the occasion?” she managed to ask.
He rubbed his hand over his chin. “It had been a while. I thought I’d clean up.”
She moved to smooth her own hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious and unkempt. But it wasn’t there. Although it was growing in, she assured herself it would take time.
“As I’d said before, you look beautiful.”
Her gaze dropped at the reminder of what she no longer had. She shook her head in disagreement.
He nodded to refute his claim and his eyes burned deeper into her. “It’s been a few weeks. I figured you needed space. Good to hear you singing though. You’ve spent a lot of time alone. From personal experience, I know how important it is but also dangerous. Grief and guilt can be tricky.”
“Guilt?”
He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned back in the chair. “Yeah. For being the one who survived.”
The words, the acknowledgment was like a punch in the gut and a hug at the same time. He’d recognized exactly what she was experiencing.
“I’d trade anything for it to have been me and not my father. I want to give him back to my brothers. Had there been a choice, him or me, he’d never allow it. I have a feeling your sister wouldn’t either.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“You can’t let survivor’s guilt get ahold of you. It’s toxic.”
“What did you do with Blake?” she asked.
The soundproof studio buffeted his chortle of laughter.
“That first night, you reminded me of something I all but abandoned. I’ve spent some time this week with God and He reminded me a thing or two as well.”
“Wow.”
“For a singer with a vast vocabulary, you sure say that a lot.”
“I’m just…” Her eyes scanned the room, anywhere but on him. He sat there…smoldering. That was the only other word she could think of it and it clouded her mind.
“Shocked,” he filled in for her.
“Surprised,” she managed.
“Um, let’s see, what are some other synonyms? Flabbergasted,” he teased.
“Astonished.”
“Amazed.”
“Dumbfounded.”
“Let’s stop there. You’re no dummy. You’re—” It seemed he was suddenly short on words or hesitant to say them. “I missed you these last few weeks, Cecelia.”
A softening occurred in her heart but a voice in the back of her mind piped up, cautioning her.
“I want to start over if we can,” he said.
“The first time five years ago or more recently?”
“We both know we can’t actually go back, but how about you meet me for dinner tonight? Beachside. We’ll try again.” He got up and brushed past her, gusting her with a mixture of sunshine and aftershave and summer.
She stood there, definitely dumbfounded.
Cece had been prepared to spend the afternoon in the studio, but she couldn’t focus, not with the cleaned-up version of Blake imprinted in the chair by the mixing board. She returned to the cabana and stood in the closet, still dumbfounded.
She’d packed plenty of outfits, a ton of makeup, and her favorite pairs of heels. She fretted over what to wear before settling on a white sundress with eyelets and a rose-colored scarf in case it got chilly after the sun went down.
Her hair had about six weeks of new growth since she’d shaved it, which meant there was nothing she could do to make it look cute. Serena would have said otherwise and would’ve somehow made it look adorable. Instead, Cece played up her eyes and lips, slathering on the makeup, lining her eyes, lengthening her lashes, and perfecting her pout.
She took a selfie but unsatisfied, deleted it and took about a dozen more.
Blake knocked on her door, interrupting her critique session of each of the photos.
His lips pouched when he took her in. “You look…Wait. One thing.” He disappeared into the bathroom and she cringed, waiting for him to comment about the mess. Housekeeping came once a day,
but in her whirlwind of getting ready, she’d tried on at least ten outfits and had a habit of leaving her products uncapped and scattered on the counter.
Instead, he emerged with a washcloth in hand. He passed it to her. “Wipe it off.”
“What?” She wondered if she’d smudged her eyeliner or something.
“Wipe off your makeup,” he clarified.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you, the real you, beneath the glamour, Cecelia.”
It was a habit, always having to be camera ready. Frankly, without the veil of her hair, she felt on display and believed she had to enhance all of her other features.
“Plus, the paparazzi won’t be looking for the real you.” He winked.
“Are they still looking for me?” He’d followed up on the drone incident but hadn’t said much else. He assured her she’d be safe on the island and no one else would bother her.
“We managed to get the film off the drone and it matched some recently posted images of you. We traced the source and have our legal team on it.”
“My manager always told me to ignore it.”
“That’s an option, but as your bodyguard, I designate it as harassment, endangerment, and a violation of the law.”
“Who said you’re my actual bodyguard.”
“I did. It’s part of the deal when you come here,” he said simply as if that were the end of the discussion.
“Is that true for all guests?”
He smirked. “Listen, it was likely Jaxon leaked your whereabouts or someone else did in the string of inquiry. That’s unacceptable. As I’m concerned there are consequences to doing so.” Blake sounded professional and intimidating.
“Don’t they just want the attention? If I don’t give it to them then does it even matter?” A creeping feeling slithered through her stomach. On the one hand, she knew the social media and digital news machine was toxic, but she also relied on it to remain relevant. Who’d she be without her legion of fans? Then again, it seemed many of them turned on her post-Hair-Gate.