by Nicole Snow
He doesn't say another word. I knock down the rest of my scotch, watching his slow, somewhat awkward approach. Five minutes in, I know he's said a few things right, because the woman is turned toward him with a smile on her face, her heel bobbing like a cat's tail while she laughs at his jokes.
Smiling, I stare at my cup, empty except for the melting ice. There's no sane reason watching Leonard warm his dick up should feel more satisfying than the fact that we're bringing in over ten million dollars this month, but hell, it does.
I turn back to my phone, finishing my scan of the latest news from Split Harbor. There's a few words about twenty-something Reginald Drayton, Nelson's great nephew, holding a major fundraiser to help keep the Armitage lighthouse open.
I almost slam my phone on the counter then and there. Sure, the town deserves its history, but that place is always going to mean broken promises. My vow to marry her, make her happy, all destroyed that cold, stormy night I left forever.
Armitage isn't a happy place anymore. Every time I see the lighthouse's name, I hope the fucking thing burns to the ground.
Rage surges in my veins. I'm glad everybody else seems to have taken off, or else they're so lost in their own conversations they've forgotten all about me. I'll be calling an Uber soon.
But not before I stab at my phone with my thumb, flipping through a few more screens. The news about the local sports doesn't interest me. By now, the little brothers of the kids who feared me in high school are having their day on the field, living it up like any kid should, each one ready to roll the dice for his chance at a Happy Ending after graduation.
There's no happiness on the last page I scroll through, anyway. I barely read the obituaries, but today something forces me to go down the list. All five of the deceased names, quite a busy weak for the reaper in such a little town.
When I get to the end, I see it. The name hits me like a dagger in the guts. I'm motioning the bartender for another scotch, before I let my eyes roll over the ugly details.
BART E. LILYDALE, 56
Husband. Father. Former business owner. Lost his valiant battle with cancer last week.
Survived by his wife, Bets; one son, Matt; and a daughter.
Kara.
I close my eyes, trying to summon the strength to walk out of here without turning the whole fucking bar upside down. It's like her pain reaches me across time and a couple thousand miles. Reaches down my throat, throttles my heart, and reminds me what a complete cowardly jackass I am for running, when she should've been my wife.
Leaving her to get lonelier, when she ought to have my hands, my lips, my smile in her eyes for comfort. My drink goes down in one gulp, and I stand, dumping a pile of cash on the table that's probably the biggest tip this bartender has ever seen.
I don't care. I need to get some fresh air, before my stomach turns over and half the crew sees me vomit hateful bile in the little urn holding the palm tree by the door.
I barely manage a few words to my driver as I climb in the black Lincoln taking me home. A cool Pacific rain pelts the car as it inches up the steep hills down by the waterfront. I'm on the other side of the country from Split Harbor, but rain is constant on the sea.
A rare, crisp lightning bolt cuts across the downtown sky as my ride rolls on. Too much like the night I had to leave, the darkness that would have swallowed me whole if it hadn't been for Bart.
“Go, son. Leave the rest to me. You have to get on that ship and go now. It's your only chance. Remember – and it's going to be an absolute bitch – you can't come back. You can't call her. You can't write, phone, email, or send a note by fucking pigeon to anyone here. Because if you do, and they realize where you are...”
Even after all these years, I remember his words perfectly. They still have a scary power to make my balls pull up inside me, like someone just dumped a bucket full of ice over my head. I never let my girl's old man finish before I got in his truck. He drove me to the boat, threw off the ropes, and made sure I steered it out into the screaming night.
Scariest storm I ever saw, much less sailed into. Yet, I survived. It's the only reason I'm in this car, with several million to my name on paper, and a whole lot more coming.
If it wasn't for Bart finding me, pulling me up in my zombie state, rinsing me off with a hose, and marching me down to the docks, I'd be rotting in a small town prison cell.
Shit, maybe that's where I deserve to be. At least then I'd be close to her, even though she'd probably spit in my face the second she found out the truth.
If only she knew I didn't have a choice. Not that it matters. No court in the world – certainly not in the U.P. – would hear any excuses for why their dearly beloved hero was slain in cold blood.
Halfway through my trip, I have the driver change destinations. He drops me at a twenty-four hour gym about three blocks from my place. I need to get this poison out of my system, and doing it by running myself ragged on the treadmill sounds more productive than boozing my brain into the next century.
The run only helps so much. My shirt and tie are off, hung over the chair next to the treadmill. I'm running like a maniac, alone except for the lights and the top of the Space Needle peeking through the window, abandoned to the brute regret that always comes.
It's on steroids tonight. Just a savage hulk trying to choke the life out of me, making me re-live the night everything went to hell over and over and over.
Fuck, I miss you.
Kara-bou. I'm sorry.
Apologies won't do me any good. They're a bad reflex, and they frustrate me a hundred times more when I catch myself turning them over in my head. If I could rip the fucking thing off, and be done with it all, I would.
It's not just regret with its teeth locked onto me, tossing me around the room like a ragdoll in a Rottweiler's mouth. It's the memories, and they come faster and harder than the sweat pouring off me, louder than my beat up heart banging thunder into my blood.
I remember her kiss. How hot, how sweet, how perfect she tasted the day she said yes to that simple little ring I'd worked like a dog to buy.
I remember her eyes, green and beautiful, deeper than the peaceful forests ringing our little town. Her hair, like soft gold, worth trading everything I'd earned before and after the engagement.
All gone.
Gone forever. Stolen by a freak accident.
Running isn't enough tonight. I step off the treadmill and dry myself with a towel. My legs are about to explode, but my upper body has some fight. I drag myself over to the punching bag, where I slip on the gloves to protect my knuckles, and lay into hell.
Yes, hell. That's what's spilling out of me every time my punches land. Thank God I'm alone because several minutes in, I fucking scream.
Over-dramatic? Insane? The sound of my own heart coming through my ribs in pieces?
Yes, yes, and yes it is. I don't give a single shit.
I can't. Because if I become a modern day Midas, richer than every billionaire who's ever turned grit to gold in this city, and there have been a lot of them, it changes nothing. Even if I out earn Ty Sterner and his huge local empire, the whiz kid billionaire who married his own step-sister, I'm the same hollowed out shell.
It won't take away what happened. It won't bring her back. And if it wasn't for trying to enrich my friends, my employees, nursing the dreams I'm clinging to for sanity, I'd hang it all up and turn myself in just for a chance to look into her eyes one more time.
I'm not an idiot, though. Bart would never forgive me if I gave up, lost it, and did something that insane. Now that he's dead, it seems like I should double down on honoring his memory, the second chance he gave me to make this life matter.
I owe him. I can't screw this up. And I damned sure can't bring his little girl more pain, even if every selfish bone in my body aches like mad for one more chance to make this right.
I'm a realist, the older I've gotten. It's done me a lot of good. I wouldn't have gotten anywhere in a multi-billion doll
ar business without it.
When I collapse on the floor, drenched in a second wave of sweat, unable to put my exhausted fists over my head, I lean on that cold, rational side of me to put the leash around my throat. That's the part that keeps me in line, prevents me from doing something stupid.
And there's no possible way injecting myself into the ruins of Kara's life again wouldn't be. I'll leave her to grieve, and mourn us as long as I need to.
Come Monday, everybody in Punch Corp is going to know we're making plans for Michigan, even if it'll be years before we're manufacturing there. I'm coming home in six months as Tanner Brooks.
There's a chance we'll cross paths again, me and Kara, if I spend more than a week setting up the factory. If it happens, then there's a greater chance she'll still recognize me beneath the hurt, the muscles, the tips of the dark tattoos that sometimes bow up around my collar, or out the edges of my sleeves.
What then? What can I possibly say?
“I'll do what I need to,” I mutter to myself, bowing my aching head. Serious as a monk before raw, divine power. “I won't hurt her again.”
Except, that's one more lie. There's one thing I should do if I ever see my woman again – turn my back and walk away. It's the only option I've got to keep the big lie going, everything Bart spelled out crystal clear the night I lost it all.
Fuck prison.
Losing my freedom, going to jail, that isn't what worries me. It's reminding her of what we once had, and seeing the pain in her eyes as it's ripped away a second time.
5
Vicious Cycle (Kara)
Two years later
The asshole is going to be late for our engagement party. I'm already sick and tired of these pretentious toasts and tight black heels threatening to strangle my feet.
That isn't saying anything about being back here, in the Armitage lighthouse, the same place a man asked me to marry him for the first time ages ago.
Of course, I never told Reg about that. I think I've only mentioned the name Ryan Caspian once in the eighteen months we've been together.
He knows what happened, and so do I. We don't need to dwell on it. Everybody says we're a beautiful couple. Two families in town struck by the same tragedy, about to come together as one.
Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't be at this engagement party at all if Reg didn't sweep me off my feet.
It's been a whirlwind romance, a rollercoaster of highs and lows. I can't believe it was less than two years ago when he started to frequent my new cafe, Grounded. My little bakery and coffeehouse was deserted then, too new and too fresh to have any regulars, except for one.
Reginald Drayton. The man who didn't care that I chewed him out the first time we met over his answer to chalk board trivia for a ten cent discount. He just kept coming back for more of my stuff, smiling across the counter with his lean, civilized looks and wisp of a brown beard.
He's handsome, in his own way. He'll never be built like Ryan – but I'm over that.
He's wealthy. He's intelligent. He's logical, and it only makes him an asshat once in awhile, which means he's easy to fall for.
“Kara! Where's Reggie? We're about to fire up the speakers in less than an hour.” I whirl around to face the voice, and see Patricia in her usual tall grey heels, a fresh perm, and a dress that must cost five figures.
“I've been trying to get in touch with him,” I say, reaching for my phone. “He's probably taking the scenic route here. It's a beautiful evening out there.”
She smiles, nods, and looks past me at the bright red sunset splashed across the horizon. I've known my future mother-in-law for more than a year, but I'm still outclassed. I'm standing here in an ivory evening dress he bought me a month ago, the one our wedding planner recommended. It looks like I'm wearing a potato sack against her jungle green flourishes with the gold trim and spacious neckline to show off her 24-karat necklace.
“He'd better not embarrass us again.” She clucks her tongue, her smile disappearing, facing me seriously.
I put my hands up, remembering how she blew up a month ago, when Reg picked me up late and we rushed to her charity art gala in Marquette. Naturally, we missed her opening act, where she aggressively reminded everyone they were there to raise as much as they could, buying paintings and statues worth more than most luxury cars.
“He won't, Patricia. It's our engagement, after all. He'll be here.” An uneasy smile tugs at my lips. “Reg is very excited. He's been talking about it all week. I could try him again if you'd like?”
“No, forget it. There's no need to bother him unless Mr. Williams is doing the intro.” She turns, like she's about to walk away, but then she stops mid-step and gives me one more hawk-eyed glance. “I'm not angry with you, Kara. I hope you know that. Creating more stress when you're trying to right the ship with my son is the last thing I'd ever want.”
I don't say anything as she stomps away, heading toward a gaggle of attendants still shuffling a few last chairs into place for our guests, ready to micro-manage them to perfection.
My stomach sinks into itself. I hate that she knows the truth.
We've tried to hide our recent issues from everybody. Told ourselves we'll play the happy couple everybody expects, and we'll keep doing therapy until we get it right.
We love each other, and we aren't giving up before we've even begun.
It's way too early for that. Still, it's times like this I'm amazed how I can feel so distant from the man I fell in love with last year.
We were so good in the beginning. Almost like me and Ryan. Reg was the ultimate gentlemen, taking me out for long drives and evenings at the best restaurants. He never flinched when I snapped – and there was a lot of that. Just smiled his warm, smart grin with an uncanny ability to make me feel more comfortable than anyone had since I lost the other two men in my life.
Wait, two? What the hell is wrong with me?
Daddy's the one who really mattered. I catch myself thinking about the asshole who's ancient history by now, and I hate it.
Ryan should be the last thing on my mind. I know it's because things have been troubled between my fiance and me lately. Being in this lighthouse doesn't help. That's the real reason he keeps haunting me.
Except, it isn't really true. Because even when things were good, when I started thinking about what it'd be like to become Mrs. Reginald Drayton, Ryan still clung to the small, dark spots in my brain.
I sneak a glass of wine from one of the servers and take a seat near the back, hoping the alcohol will numb what's coming. With a drink in hand, I let myself wonder just where the hell Reg is, anyway.
Last night, before he slipped into bed and gave me the cool peck on the cheek that's replaced our old fiery kisses since the troubles began, he told me he was going into town.
Something about meeting with his financial advisor to manage new distributions from the trust left by his great uncle. He tells me there's probably going to be a big surplus this quarter, and maybe we can get away from it all for a couple weeks, go down to Chicago like we have twice before for a getaway dripping in luxuries.
I never did anything except nod my head, not wanting to risk another argument. I'll have to save it for our counselor, the fact that I'm so low on his priorities he's already forgotten I can't just leave the bakery for two weeks at a time.
I promised I wouldn't get into it before this party. Reg comes from a different world than I do, and he doesn't understand how life works. When you're born into a massive trust ready to spit cash every month like a magic ATM, it's easy to forget other money can only be earned by hard work and active management.
“I'm sorry, honey. He couldn't make it tonight, but he wants to have lunch tomorrow.” My heartbeat spikes when I turn around, worried somebody means Reg.
No, it's just mom, her happy eyes shining down softly. She's talking about Matt, who's on his way home right now for several weeks of leave. He said he'd make my engagement party tonight if he got in early, but clea
rly that isn't happening.
I shrug. I'm not that disappointed – I've mended fences with my big brother since daddy's funeral.
Our relationship is cool and peaceful. I'm not about to rip into old wounds by laying into him over missing the most important moment of my post-Ryan life – especially when he's gone through his own personal hell since daddy died.
“What is it this time? An early night out with the guys?” I gently poke my mother, my gaze going down to the smiling little boy in her arms. “Not more crap with Maggie? She wouldn't normally let you have Holden on a week night.”
Mom's expression deflates, and she passes my three year old nephew into my waiting arms. “I told her it was your engagement party. I didn't want Matthew to worry about picking her up when he lands on the red eye tonight, so it's perfect timing for everyone.”
“Funny. Since when has the bitch started caring about what's going on in our lives?” I'm careful to keep my voice low, so none of high class Drayton associates chattering around us will need to clutch their pearls over hearing me swear. “Does she have another date or something? I know the latest didn't last long...what was he, number three after Matt?”
“Kara...” Mom looks down and stops just short of wagging a finger. “What she does with her life is none of my business, as long as she's playing by the rules. She's not part of this family anymore.”
There's a sour taste in my mouth. It fades when I bounce little Holden on my lap, listening to him babble something that sounds like Auntie Kara a few times.
My brother's marriage to the unfortunate woman who's Holden's mom only lasted six months. He came home from a tour in Afghanistan and found her in bed with the neighbor. He's a hundred times more qualified to raise his son than the cheating slut, and so are we to help him, but the courts are never kind to military fathers looking for custody.
It's incredible how fast everything transforms. I hug my nephew closer, holding him as he yawns. I want someone to swoop down and tell me I'm not walking into the same terrible mistake my big brother made with his marriage.