by Hazel Grace
Make me proud and take care of yourself.
I forgot to mention that the blade you stabbed me with, along with a gun, is in one of the drawers in your room.
I love you, sweetheart.
Always and fucking forever.
— Marty.
I hate him.
I do.
And to make it stick, I’ve been repeating it in my brain every time it skips and skids into that dangerous dark hole each time I think about him.
I’m consumed with memories and unwanted emotions, scared that the life I wanted wasn’t going to be what I dreamt up in my head—because Marty became part of it.
My future plans and the things I craved involved him, and he never asked me what I wanted to do. Our “relationship” was one-sided, he made the executive decision to cast me out and force me into a new future without a say so in any of the details.
Everything I have, right down to the air I’m breathing, was his decision. How would he know if I wanted to live by a lake that would only create memories of us having sex for the first time?
Maybe I imagined living in a valley surrounded by mountains.
Maybe I wanted thirty pet goats and a few sheep. My new occupation could’ve been a farmer for all he knew. And what’s even more frustrating is that he knows exactly where I am, able to pop in and show up after so much time has passed.
That I’m always readily available to him, whereas I have no clue where to find him.
I’ve spent days as a wreck, each a new feeling or mundane reflection on past events that I can’t change or form into my own.
Day one consisted of crying profusely into his pillow, the one he slept on from the night before. I read his letter multiple times, trying to decipher in my brain what I did wrong. What I maybe could’ve done differently that would’ve resulted in him wanting to be with me. I came to the unwanted conclusion that my feelings for him were way stronger than his. I would never be capable of leaving him behind, no matter what I did for a living. Maybe I’m more selfish, but it doesn’t change the fact that I had no say.
Day two was more crying, sitting outside on the swing overlooking the lake. I was plagued by more flashbacks, that created more tears, blubbering, and tossing and turning for hours in bed.
Day three, I ate for the first time—barely—and showered. I finally looked over the documents he said he left in his letter. A bank account of over fifty grand, the title to the house I’m staying in as well as the car, and my new state ID.
My new name was Raine Ivanov—I see what he did there, still not amused—and if he really cared, he’d give me a last name that I could actually pronounce correctly. Because no matter how many times I repeat it out loud, I still don’t think I’m saying it right.
Day four, I received a call on a cell phone that Marty forgot to mention that he left. I quickly answered it, my brain playing the perfect scenario in my head that he changed his mind, but it was a job offer. A man named Matteo Gibbs who said he loved my resume and wanted to offer me a position at his tiny book store in town.
A resume I never sent in and an arrangement I had no say in.
Day five, I spent pacing the floor, determined to get my head on straight. Telling myself that I’ve been through worse. That this was my first opportunity to do something important with my life and not waste it wallowing. I ordered a pizza and watched an old black and white movie on TV, falling asleep on the couch with tears trailing down my cheeks.
Day six, I wasn’t feeling so hot. My brain couldn’t function out of my own head, and I missed Marty. My chest hurt, my eyes burned, my body felt weak from sobbing, worrying, and experiencing so much sorrow that never leaving the couch was the best plan I had in days.
Day seven, I explored the house thoroughly for the first time. The idea of it being completely mine sinking into my brain. However, I didn’t want to stay here forever. Everything in this home was Marty. Our last night was here. His words were still imprinted in the walls, and I can’t get his face out of my mind. His heart may have been in the right place, I just wished he never would’ve stepped foot in here and ruined it for me like he did everything else.
Day eight was today—the start of my new job. Also the first time I sat in the car that he bought me.
I bang my palms on the steering wheel and suck in a sharp inhale to keep myself from losing my mind again to my feelings.
I’m not nervous about beginning my first day, honestly, couldn’t care less if it didn’t work out. My stress level is at an all-time high for another particular reason, and it overpowers everything else that could possibly happen right now.
Using the GPS in the car, it’s only an eleven-minute drive. The book store, Smudged Pages, is wedged between a dainty coffee shop and an old drug store. The tattered blue sign above proves the store’s age and neglect as I park out front in one of the few spaces available.
The moment I open the door, I’m greeted by an older gentleman with gray hair and a matching beard. His kind blue eyes and warm smile welcomes me inside, and he immediately knows I’m his new hire.
And he’s excited.
Rattling off a mile a minute about the history of the place and how he moved here with his late wife and two sons forty years ago.
He’s proud, obviously so, as I breathe in the musky scent of old books. The walls are covered in shelves with novels neatly placed together. In the window, I notice the owner’s recommendation propped up for the public to see, and the cashier’s countertop has bookmarks and colorful pencil erasers in plastic containers.
Apparently, we’re in the days before kindles.
After my tour—which took a whole five minutes—Matteo lays out more of my job description which took the same amount of time as my tour. Cashing people out and restocking was all I needed to do in a nutshell. It was perfectly okay for me to recommend reads and encourage kids to pick out a bookmark.
In a nutshell, this job was either going to be mundane or right up my alley. My emotions are too in my way to decide.
“I’m so happy to have you, Miss Ivanov,” Matteo offers, saying my last name differently than I have. “The last girl that worked here wasn’t a fan of the small city life and moved on to greater and better things.”
“Happy to be here,” I reply, attempting to have some sort of gratefulness in my tone. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
“Don’t mention it—” He throws his hand in the air. “—I’m going to go do the accounting in the back and make us some coffee. Feel free to look around on your own and holler if you have any questions.”
I finger gun him—yep, like an idiot. “Thank you.”
He disappears into the small office that barely holds a desk and filing cabinet, giving me the space that I so desperately want.
It’s short-lived when a man walks through the front door, the generic bells ringing behind him, as he strides towards one of the bookshelves positioned in the middle of the room.
His dark blonde hair is long in the front but short around the edges as he quickly peruses through a hardcover. I notice that he doesn’t look much older than me. His oval face is clean-shaven, and he’s well put together with a dark pair of jeans and mint green polo.
As I study him from behind the cashier’s counter, he must feel my gaze because he glances over his shoulder before lifting his lips in a friendly smile.
“Hi,” he greets. “Are you the new girl that bought the Genova’s place?”
No clue.
“I might be,” I reply.
“Welcome to Silver Lake—” To my dismay, he marches in my direction, wanting to start a conversation. “—it’s...well, I guess you’ll find out, huh?”
“Guess so,” I deadpan then point at his book because I need to be friendly in this new place and attempt to fit in. “What do you have there?”
“The new Stephen King. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve been waiting for Matteo to finally snatch up a few copies.”
“Nothing embarrassin
g about it.”
“Are you a fan?” He sounds hopeful like he’s part of his online fan club or something.
I shake my head. “Never read him, but I think I’ve seen one of his books made into a movie.”
“Gosh, where are my manners—” He extends a hand. “—I’m Eli Quinn, born and raised here, I work in the next town over as a second-grade teacher, and I hate green beans.”
I take his hand, giving it a shake before replying, “Raine.”
Eli perks a brow at me. “That’s it?”
“I like green beans and my second-grade teacher.” He chuckles, clearly not deterred by my reserved fact giving.
“Well, that’s good to know—” He rakes a hand through his hair. “—I hope my students feel the same way.”
“I’m sure they do as long as you don’t bore them to death with your obsession for Stephen King.”
“His stories are amazing, though.”
“Not to a six or seven-year-old.”
“Talking from experience?” I nod, and he clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Well, shit, I guess there goes that next book report idea.” I grin, the first one I’ve had in over a week, which makes Eli smile. “I guess I’ll let them chose.”
“You teach English?”
“Yeah, I try to make it fun, but these kids don’t care about nouns and adjectives. If I can get them to read something other than Minecraft or Fortnite, I’m winning.”
“Real life teacher problems, huh?”
He sighs. “It’s a struggle, but I get high fives, so I guess I’m cool.” He places his book down on the countertop and pulls out his wallet. “And I’m going to buy this and stop talking your ear off.”
“So you can get home and start reading,” I put in, flipping the book over to check the price but flick my eyes up to see his smirk.
“You see right through me.” Ringing him up, I put his book in a large paper bag, and slide it to him. “It was nice meeting you, Raine. Welcome to town.”
“Thank you, appreciate it.”
“I dare you to pick this book up,” he adds, walking backward towards the front door. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“How do you know? You haven’t read it yet.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Taking a risk. Then you can pick something for me to read next.”
I mean, it’s not like I don’t have tons of time.
“I’ll think about it.” Eli gives me a curt wave and makes his way out of the store, prompting me to go pick up the book he bought.
It’s orange with a black cat on it, something generically done for Halloween, and I flip it over to read the blurb. It sounds interesting enough, and I need something to get my mind off my own personal issues I’m working through.
Marty needs to be a memory.
Not something I constantly dwell on twenty-four-seven. If I’m going to continue to survive through this world, I need to raise my chin, power through and take hold of my new identity.
Raine was never in love with Marty.
Stormi was.
I love her.
Both me, as Marty, and Emric when I’m in my own little world with B723. I can’t filter the intensities from my brain, I can’t drink them to death or convince myself that this is for the better.
It is—for her.
And at the end of the day, that’s what matters.
But my selfishness slithers through my rationality and demands that I go back. To apologize and tell her straight to her face that I’m in love with her. That I can’t “be” without her in my life.
Nothing functions or smells the same, I can’t get a decent night’s sleep nor a conversation with anyone. I feel as though I’m tripping on a bad high that makes me groggy, cranky, and dazed.
“Tacos are done!” Reagan bounces on her toes in front of her stove after blaring Waste Love by MGK for the last four minutes.
I don’t mind it.
In fact, I prefer it because it means we can’t talk.
She can’t ask me questions, and I don’t have to cover lies up with more lies because nothing is okay right now.
I’m about to spiral, I can feel it, the uneasy motion like you’re about to go over the edge of a rollercoaster.
I believe the word for it is an anxiety attack, and I haven’t had one of those since stumbling out from the small pond and finding my whole village on fire at eight-years-old.
I didn’t know what to do, how to cope with the loss of everyone I loved at one time. The pain was too extreme to process, and what I’m feeling right now resembles that.
I can’t stop fidgeting.
I need something to take the edge off.
I want to see Stormi and beg her to forgive me.
I crave a life with her, and I won’t let ideas of her falling in love with someone else enter my mind.
“I brought you back something,” Reagan quips as she pops hard taco shells into the microwave. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Did you score some good weed or something?”
Because I need some.
I need a bunch of fucking things, but I threw them away, always comprehended in the back of my brain how the whole ordeal with Stormi would go—nowhere.
However, being a bastard, I took and took, not giving a damn how much it hurt afterward. Who I impaired and broke because it would’ve been either her or me—and it ended up being both.
I honestly didn’t think she’d fall for me—hell, I wanted her to. The deeper we got into whatever the fuck it was, I wanted my shit reciprocated.
I’d be kidding myself if I said it didn’t stroke my ego that I could make her feel things for me. Not only that, but that she somewhat forgave me for all the shit I put her through.
And once that barrier was broken, Stormi and I busted through the floodgates, and I didn’t look back until I had to.
Then the anonymous text message came in about Montgomery, and I was forced to.
Though Stormi is strong, going through crap no one will ever experience in their lifetime, I still cut deep.
And I’ll be the one left bleeding because no one will ever be her. Nothing will ever come close to filling in the large gap that resides within my heart that I thought only beat for my family.
Reagan scoffs as the microwave beeps for action. “Uh, no, I don’t have the sort of clearance, you do.”
“You should’ve said the word,” I quip, tugging back on my third beer. “I would’ve hooked you up.”
Apparently, I’ve been in the giving mood for fifteen days now.
I let Mills keep his fucking head and eyes.
I haven’t snapped Emmy’s neck with all her prodding.
And Bishop—no idea where the fucker is, but he left the Bianca job unfinished, so he owes me an explanation for hoeing me out and me having to do it alone.
“Sure, secret agent.” Placing the taco shells down, I glance at the table at what my sister made for me.
Reagan made my favorite meal, all ingredients neatly placed in front of us with mixed matched bowls and plates. I never gave a shit about home decor, and that’s where Reagan’s planning skills came in.
“So, how is everything going?”
Fucking terrible. Miserable. I want to bury myself in a hole. I want someone to beat my ass because I literally left Stormi alone with a note of my feelings and said sayonara like a complete douchebag.
“Where’s my surprise?” I reply instead for obvious reasons.
I’m not in the mood for this, I don’t want to talk about her, and I don’t want Reagan’s opinion either.
I’d rather go bury my own damn self than have a three hour talk like we did the last time about Stormi being innocent and what I was going to do with her.
“In the mail,” Reagan replies, taking a seat at my side. “I couldn’t board the plane with it.”
I perk a brow, attempting to sound teasing. “You bought me a mail-order bride?”
Reagan chuckles as s
he snaps open her water bottle. “Guess you’ll see whenever it gets here. Even though—” Her violet eyes flick to mine. “—I don’t think Stormi would appreciate it.”
And here we fucking go...
“Don’t see why not,” I deadpan, squeezing my condensed bottle of beer. I’m not drinking them fast enough.
“So...everything is back to normal?” My heart pinches on cue, recalling the guilt that suffocates me daily.
I refuse to know.
Emmy’s been pushing for it—wanting to make sure she adapted okay and that no one followed us there. She came up with everything in the book that could happen, surprisingly left tornadoes and hurricanes out of the mix, which only proved that Stormi dug into us deeply.
But as quickly as the idea came off her lips as a suggestion, I immediately shut it down. I can’t have any more involvement. I crucified myself the moment I went behind her back to get her a new life.
“Marty?” I literally jerk my head in my sister’s direction to snap me out of it.
“Yeah?”
“Stormi,” she repeats again. “Did you...” She lets her question trail off into so many scenarios, but I know the one she wants to know.
“Hooked her up with a new identity, bank account, job, and a house for her trouble.” The words are sour in my throat, creating a need for me to throw up in the nearest garbage bin.
That’s the part that stings the most—I’ll never get to hold or speak to her again. I threw her back into the world to be swallowed up in the normal day to day. One of those will be occupied with someone who will make her forget me.
And I deserve it.
For my whole existence to be omitted from her memory bank so she can make new ones with someone else who can give her everything.
“Wow...”
I let my brows fall. “What?”
“It’s just...that was extremely generous of you.” She lifts her shoulder dismissively, but she’s already given her ass away that she knows more than I’ve said. It’s a little blonde-haired thing called Emmy that is always up my ass and in my business.