by Lana Sky
Same old, same old.
It’s only when I sneak beyond the boundaries of the old house that our dynamic changes. It’s the summer heat, I think. It’s so damn hot some days that you could lose your mind. The first time he did was along the path to the tree house. I’d been wandering the property after my lessons with Jane.
He followed me.
A simple walk through the woods became something frantic and grasping in the sun-dappled shadows. Gasping breaths. Smothered moans, swallowed by hungry kisses.
That’s all we did. Kiss. Breaking away, Thorny adjusted his professor tie and backed away, nearly tripping over a stray tree root. “Eh… Get ready for dinner,” he told me.
So I did, and we ate sandwiches and chips on the balcony in silence while the waves taunted us in the distance.
Hours later, I’m in my room, staring at the mess of dirty clothes strewn over the floor. Eventually, I gather them up and wander the rest of the house in search of a washing machine. I find one just off the kitchen, and I manage to turn it on—despite having never washed my own clothing in my life. Then I return to my room.
There, my weary sigh blows stray curls from my face. I guess I have no choice but to officially unpack. Though for how long? My graduation looms, a mysterious date roughly three months away. Luckily for Thorny and me, I don’t have much to put away.
I place my two watches on the nightstand and drag my suitcase toward the bed. The only items remaining inside it are a cracked framed photo of Grandmama and seven paperbacks. I leave Grandmama in my suitcase, sparing her the chance to stare disapprovingly from the grave.
The books, however…
I carry them over to a white dresser near the window and arrange them upright despite their worn, dangling covers. Wasteland gives up the ghost and completely breaks in half, tossing papery dust into the air.
“Shit!”
Thorny has to have tape hidden somewhere. I take two steps toward the door before I notice him there, more pensive than usual. His conflicted gaze conveys damn near existential crisis levels of confusion. It isn’t until I follow the line of his stare that I realize why: he’s eyeing my private collection of the complete works of James Thorne. I don’t think he’s impressed.
“They’re mine,” I say in a rush. It’s not technically a lie. They were Grandmama’s—her prized, signed copies. But, when she died, I funneled them out of the house in my luggage and no one was ever the wiser.
“You’ve read them?” Thorny takes a step over the threshold without seeming to realize it. Uh-oh. He’s toeing our fragile boundary. The walls of my room seem smaller, trying to squeeze him out. But he’s James Thorne, crafter of magic words and conqueror of whatever he sets his mind to. “You’ve read all of them?”
He doesn’t believe me.
“Try me.” I place my hands on my hips, hoping the dare sounds more teasing than desperate.
“Fine.” He points to a battered cover sporting a white house. Murder Town, his third novel. “How does it end?”
I roll my eyes. So easy. “The mayor was the murderer all along.” A subversion of the typical small-town trope, one reviewer crowed. I never thought so. It was obvious from the start—the only man to smile, admired by all. Of course he had the skeletons hidden in his closet.
“And that one?” He’s referring to Swing, my maybe-sort-of favorite of the bunch.
“It’s open-ended,” I admit, wringing my hands together. “You never name the killer outright. Most people assume it was the neighbor, but…I don’t.”
“Oh?” He crosses his arms and leans against my wall. It’s as if he needs the support to face the prospect that I might actually have ideas in my brain that don’t revolve around pissing him off. “Who, then?”
I tilt my head and eye the ceiling with a frown. It’s ironic. He wants me to be honest—to trust. But no one has ever asked my opinions on things like thrilling crime novels or how they made me feel.
Go here, Maryanne.
Sit here, Maryanne.
Do this, Maryanne.
Listen, Maryanne!
“I think no one did it,” I tell him, hating how soft my voice sounds. Hesitant, as though his opinion really matters. “I think it was an accident all along. A terrible mistake. Someone died, but everyone left behind needed someone to blame. Someone to hate.”
“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” Thorny says. He rubs his chin and eyes my collection with an unreadable expression. “Which one is your favorite?”
“Let me ask you something,” I say, running my finger along the edge of the dresser, checking for dust. “‘To the girl with the golden curls: I’m sorry.’ It’s the only time you’ve ever dedicated a book before. In Swing, I mean. So, why?”
He sighs in that heavy, ominous way. A warning, I think. But he’s the one who wanted me to be open. Honest. Trust.
“What did you do to Elaine that was so bad you had to apologize in public?” I try to sound nonchalant. Like I don’t really care what the answer might be. But my eyes never leave him once, tracking every nuance and shift in his posture.
“Elaine,” he echoes, his expression stern.
“I bet you forgot her birthday?” I waggle my eyebrows and adjust my worn copy of Whiplash, taking care with the cover. “Your anniversary?”
“Did your grandmother know you were reading those? Those are first editions. I know for a fact that version of Wasteland is out of print—”
“I got them secondhand,” I say with a shrug. “And I’m a big girl, Thorny. I can handle a murder mystery or two.” Which brings up an interesting point. “What made you write them anyway?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “You can’t just ask someone what made them write a certain story—”
“Why not?” I’ve always pictured him sitting at his desk, envisioning which plot would earn him his next cool million. His novels certainly shared a few running themes. Maybe he picked them off a list? Murder. Small town. Failing marriages. Death. “Is there some special formula to it?”
“Could you just write something if you weren’t invested in the idea?” He raises an eyebrow and seeks the red journal on my nightstand. “Try it. I want you to try writing something without thinking about the person who might be reading it. Write for yourself. Something you want to say but can’t.”
Write for myself? I laugh even as I shift toward my journal and reluctantly grab it. Sighing, I flip to a clean page and jot down the first thing that comes to mind. Then I read it out loud to him. “I am not a writer.”
Not like him. My words don’t lurk in complex stories or brutal plotlines.
“Close your eyes,” Thorny tells me. “Do it. Good. Now, tell me a memory. The first one that comes to mind. Tell it in a way that makes me feel like I’m there.”
A memory. I try to resist mine, kicking my toes against the floor. “This is stupid.”
“Tell me,” he insists. “Make me see it. Make me listen.”
“Fine. I’m in a room.” Dark. Elegant. Decorated differently than his and Elaine’s: sleek, with a view of the city instead of the ocean. But it’s emptier in a way. The fancy furniture seems more mocking than comfortable. A constant reminder of who isn’t there, draped across it, her hair spilling over the leather. “The world keeps spinning,” I hear myself say. “But it’s all…wrong. The sunlight hurts. The air in my lungs feels like glass. I can’t breathe. And he’s—”
“It’s okay.” Two heavy footsteps bring him closer. Too close. I can smell him from here, and my nose wrinkles, chasing his scent. “Keep going.”
“He’s holding me,” I croak, my voice breaking. “And, for the first time, I feel something. I feel…”
The pain. The horror. The fear.
All of it.
“I want to scream. I want to cry. I…I want to die—but, with one touch, he makes it better. ‘I know you’re hurting,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. But you’re strong, too.’”
Strong enough to face reality. S
trong enough to survive.
Strong enough for him to leave me behind.
“He made me feel safe. So safe,” I whisper, digging my nails into the soft blankets beneath me. “He made me feel seen. Heard. Wanted. Alive.”
Not in a creepy way. Just a way—I wasn’t alone for once. He didn’t try to shut me up or explain away the darkness I’d seen. Your father had an accident, Maryanne.
“He was honest with me. But then…” My eyes open, my story finished. I don’t have to say the ending of the tale out loud.
We both know it by heart: he threw me away.
“You’re right,” I tell him, struggling to force the words off my tongue. “It’s rude to ask someone about their stories. Good night.”
I turn my back on him and fumble for my lamp. In the darkness, I burrow beneath my bedsheets, listening for the moment he leaves.
A few seconds later, he doesn’t disappoint. His footsteps lumber toward the doorway, heavy and slow. Then they stop.
“He knew he hurt you,” Thorny says, his voice loud in the quiet. “He’d be lying if he claimed not to. But you needed him, and he didn’t know how to be that for you. What you needed. His own wife never needed him. His family didn’t, either. The only time he felt of use to anyone was through his writing, but no one needed that, either…” He pauses, inhaling raggedly. My door creaks as if he grabbed it for balance, using it to stay upright. “He… He knows it’s too late. The damage is already done. But maybe… You might still believe him if he told you he was sorry.”
He leaves, moving down the hall to the room he shares with Elaine.
And I turn toward my pillow, squeezing my eyes shut.
It’s the beginning of the weekend, and a day with no lessons is best spent wandering down to the beach, a towel in hand. I spread it out over a massive dune and lie there beneath the white-hot sun. On my way from the house, I found a package waiting for me on the front porch from one Jeremy Weston, of all people. As promised, he sent me a signed copy of his new book, along with his “stellar” debut from years ago.
I pick over the newer book first with low expectations. It’s boring and pretentious, with a meandering plot that makes no sense and characters I want to bash to death with the spine of their own novel. It’s exactly the kind of story I’d picture someone like Jeremy Weston writing: all blah blah blah with nothing real ever being said.
The second book, however…
It’s different. The character has a voice that resonates, and each word pulls me in, painting a picture so haunting that my throat goes dry the more I read.
The plot is simple, in retrospect. A man is in love, but it’s not what he thought it’d be. Less sparkles and roses and more like a shackle to someone else’s wants, needs, and expectations. If he insists on his own desires, then he’s selfish. If he says the wrong thing, then he’s cruel. He feels trapped, like he can’t even breathe without doing something wrong. Crossing the line.
And his wife is too jumpy to understand him. Too secretive. Her charming smiles hide a crippling sense of vanity, and he has to go out of his way to make her feel special. Wanted. Even if it means sacrificing everything he ever wanted in return.
It’s a vicious cycle of give and take—until she goes too far and takes everything. She gets a hysterectomy. She pushes him away. But then, at the last moment, she tries to pull him back.
And it’s too late. He’ll stay because he can’t leave—men don’t abandon their wives. But something vital between them was ruined, shattered, and the novel ends with him convinced they’ll never get it back.
“There you are.” Heavy footsteps trek through the sand nearby, and I look up to find Thorny, painted red by a fiery sunset, trudging in my direction. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”
He’s been worried. His eyes keep darting toward the water and back. I wonder how long he stood on the balcony, scouring the beach for me from the house, waiting until the last possible second to come down here himself.
As if sensing my thoughts, he ventures too close and his bare foot tosses sand over my outstretched book. “Come and eat—”
“You wrote this.” I’m not sure until I hold the book cover up for him to see and watch his expression change.
His cheeks redden as he gently tugs the book from my grip. He eyes it for so long that the sun has nearly finished its dip toward the horizon by the time he’s done flipping through the pages. Then, without a word or even a sideways glance in my direction, he turns and lobs the entire novel toward the water.
“Hey! That was mine.” I’m only partly horrified as the waves drag the book beneath them. “That was an autographed copy. I could have sold it, you know.”
“Come and eat.” He starts for the house, his shoulders hunched. “Your dinner’s getting cold—”
“It was too good,” I blurt out, watching as he stops in his tracks. “That’s how I know Jeremy didn’t write it. It’s too real. Too raw. No one spins words like you do.”
“Oh really?” He laughs. “Tell that to the critics.”
“He stole it. Didn’t he? Jeremy?” I remember Thorny snarling as much at Elaine during one of their phone calls. That piece of shit stole my manuscript. “Why didn’t you ever publish it?”
“Because,” he says coldly. “My marriage meant more.” He gives the word a nasty twist that somehow says everything without him having to say anything else.
A writer may utilize his emotions for his art, but Thorny couldn’t risk upsetting Elaine.
So he shelved his career for the sake of their marriage. The weight of that sacrifice has me bracing my hands against the sand for balance.
“Come and eat,” Thorny commands. “Now—”
“How… How do I write like that?” I eye Jeremy’s other novel. Apparently, words can be told wrong. Boring and lifeless. “How do I make something feel real?”
Real enough that the reader clutches their chest in horror as if the imminent peril is their own and not some fictional character’s plight. Or words so real that the writer mourns them when they are stolen, I realize this, as he turns to face me.
He tries changing the subject. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Teach me,” I insist. “I want to… I want to do that.” I nod to the ocean.
“Oh, you do, do you? Then tell me what you’re feeling right now,” he demands, crossing his arms. “Don’t think. Just say it.”
“I’m feeling…impressed,” I admit. “And jealous. And I feel like I know that character inside and out. Like everything he was going through, I was going through. I feel like I understand him.”
“You’re being honest.” His eyebrows furrow as if he’s startled by the prospect. Then he shrugs and raises his palms to the sky. “Well, there you have it. That’s the secret. Ask yourself a question and be honest. Convey how it makes you feel. Confront the deepest, rawest parts of yourself and don’t shy away from them. Dredge up all the fears that make you lash out or run scared and put them on display for the world to see. If you can do that, then you’re ahead of the game.”
“C-can I practice?” I don’t look up from my wrinkled towel. Not until I sense him sit on the sand beside me and sigh heavily. I hold my breath as warm fingers sink into my hair—not affectionately. More like he needs an outlet for the nervous energy coming off him in waves. So he strokes. I roll onto my side, watching him, even as creepy crawling things escape from the sand and dart over my skin.
“Okay. Then practice,” he relents, twisting my curls around his thumb. “Tell me something.”
“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Maryanne. She was normal. She had an amazing father who loved too much and a mother who locked her in closets so she could go shopping—” I have to break off and swallow the memories. Then I keep going. “And she used to be pretty, but then her mean uncle Thorny pushed her off a balcony and scarred her face—”
He laughs. Really laughs, and I can’t hide my expression. The one that makes him stop petting me an
d settle his hands awkwardly on his lap.
“But, deep down, she was afraid of being alone,” I continue, my voice rasping. “Afraid of being left behind. And she couldn’t say as much out loud because no one would understand…”
He says nothing, my lone audience of one.
He listens, even when my words stammer and make less sense.
Even when I cling to the hand he withdrew and refuse to let him go.
Even when the first tears fall.
He’s here. Maybe that means something this time.
“All she wanted was to feel something,” I say, concluding my sad tale. “Something without feeling alone.”
Morning is a reset button, but I’m sure it’s malfunctioned. The rising sun can’t erase everything. Like what happens in the moonlight after stories are told in hushed whispers. When creeping hands peel off damp clothing and lines get crossed.
Again.
Thorny may shower for hours and hours afterward, but he can’t get all the sand out of his hair. I can hear him upstairs, pacing away as I shove two sandwiches into another folded beach towel and make my way to the front door, desperate for fresh air.
“Wait.” His voice chases me onto the front porch, where the sun beats down like a hammer.
For some reason, I can’t look back, and it isn’t until he slips past me and leads the march down the stairs that I realize he meant to wait for him. He’s dressed casually for once, in a pair of shorts I bet he hasn’t worn in years and a loose shirt.
I can’t stop staring. When he’s halfway down the front path, he looks back at me. An outstretched hand is my silent cue to follow and relinquish my beach towel. Together, we head toward the beach, casually avoiding the spot I claimed yesterday.
Despite the fickle sun, it’s overcast. The clouds play peek-a-boo with the sunshine, making the water seem a brilliant turquoise and then a chilling gray within the span of a few minutes. Thorny leads the way, walking and walking until I recognize a jagged row of cliffs with a familiar structure perched on top.