I have helped the Jamisons without Echo finding out. Sometimes her pride will get in the way and I just can’t sit back and do nothing as her family struggles. They already lost an important person. I refuse to see them lose more.
Mom walks over to the seven foot spruce tree sitting by the window, and grabs a few small, beautifully wrapped gifts along with some gift bags.
We spend the next hour unwrapping gifts, laughing and enjoying all the holiday spirit. Echo and I don’t think about what truths were said this morning. We pretend all is well in the world.
But when it’s time for bed and the lights are turned off, my demons come out to play.
They force me to take the twenty-six steps up the spiral staircase, then forty-four steps down the hallway, making a stop at my old bedroom. Behind the closed door is my mother’s workspace. After the accident I couldn’t walk up the stairs so my bedroom was moved downstairs. Since that day I haven’t gone into this room. I’ve never opened the door.
I couldn’t.
My trembling hand slowly reaches for the doorknob. My fingers wrap around the knob, and my breath stops.
I can’t.
I can’t open this door and see what happened in that room.
It’s one thing to see it in your mind. It’s another to actually stand in the room where you were violated.
It used to feel safe behind this door.
His venomous blood obliterated that security.
I unwrap my fingers from the knob and take a step back, screwing my eyes shut.
I can’t.
“Sweets?” Echo whispers, slowly walking down the hallway. Her eyes drift to the door in front of me. Understanding sets in and she takes my hand. “Can I sleep with you? I…I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”
I squeeze her fingers and nod.
“Freddie is sleeping downstairs too. You’ll be okay.”
He felt weird sleeping upstairs in the extra bedroom, the one beside my parents’ room. With Echo and me taking the two downstairs, he decided to join us.
We head back downstairs quietly. Walking past the bedroom Freddie is in, I peek my head in just to make sure he’s in there. His snores fill the room.
Shutting the door, we make our way into my bedroom, which is right next door, and we climb into my king-sized bed. Nothing of my childhood is in this room. Mom designed something more suitable for a teenager when I decided to stay down here after I healed.
I stare at the clock on my nightstand until the blue numbers start to blur. My eyes flutter closed but sleep evades me. I listen to Echo’s light breathing, informing me that she too is awake and can’t sleep.
I search for her hand under the covers. “I’m sorry I told you. It’s something I never wanted to do,” I whisper. I dimmed the light in her eyes. I wish I could take it back.
Why couldn’t I tell my therapist about this? She’s meant to hear these things and help me.
Because your biggest secret can send you to jail.
Echo moves in a little closer, bringing our joined hands up to her chest. “This isn’t something you can keep to yourself, Zoë.”
I know, but it’s also something I can’t tell the people I love.
We don’t say another word for hours.
Echo finally falls asleep, her hand still clasping mine.
When I crack my eyes open and see the sun rising in the distance, I get out of bed and dig through my duffel bag for my running clothes.
Today, I can’t read.
I have to run.
One thought plagues me as my feet pound against the asphalt, music blaring in my ears.
What if I run and never come back?
In the distance, I see the outline of a male body hunched over like he’s in pain. If I didn’t know where I was I would think he needed help. But as my jogging slows to a stop, and my breaths grow lighter, I see the memorial marker; a white wooden cross adorned with flowers across the street. In loving memory of Michael Stevenson is written on.
At first I think it’s Owen standing by the cross. The light snow flurries make it kind of difficult to see that far. I’ve watched him stand there and say a few words before he turned and saw me in the distance, standing in this exact spot. I never go closer.
It’s the spot his father lost his life.
It’s a reminder of what I did.
We’re both monsters.
When the man turns, it’s not Owen. I take a step back, wishing I could just turn and run back home. I don’t know why I ran this way. I avoid it at all costs.
Beckett Stevenson raises his arm and wipes his eyes quickly. I haven’t seen him since I left for college. Looking at him is harder than looking at Owen. Because he looks at me like he knows the truth; that I killed his father.
When he looks up and our eyes meet from fifty feet away, I see the surprise quickly turn into a heated, indignant glare. I wish he’d look at me like he used to when he was younger. He was much nicer.
Now, he looks at me like he hates me, like he knows I’m hiding something. He always asks the same three questions. They always get answered with the same three words; I don’t know. What the fuck happened before the accident? How don’t you know? You were fucking there. Why is he dead and you are still alive?
He never asks these in front of Owen. He thinks I’ll tell him the truth if we discuss it in private. He thinks he can break me. If only he knew I was trying to keep him from breaking.
I take the first step toward my best friend’s fifteen-year-old brother. His red-rimmed blue eyes widen a bit by the time I’m standing in front of him. “Hi,” I say, eyes never straying from his. I don’t want to look at the cross. I don’t want to see Michael’s name or think about him anymore than I already do.
Beckett grunts a response, curling his hand into a fist and then uncurling it. He’s in black sweatpants and a black hoodie zipped all the way up. His cheeks and ears are bright red from standing outside in the cold too long.
I run in the cold weather all the time. It doesn’t faze me. I breathe out, white puffs of air blowing between us.
“Owen’s coming out soon. I thought we were running alone.”
He looks down at his sneakers, running his hand through his brown hair. The hoodie hides his lean frame. He’s not scrawny for a teenager. Owen has told me that Beckett is constantly working out in the spare room that they transformed into a home gym.
He is what Owen would look like if he didn’t have green eyes. The contacts are not an exact match but they do resemble the rest of the Stevensons.
“I’m not running with you,” I announce. “I-I just ended up here.”
His eyes travel back up. “Do you always end up back here?” Before I can respond he says, “You’ve never visited him at the cemetery. Why?”
He turns his back to me when I don’t answer. He reaches out and touches the side of the cross. “Can I ask you something?” His tone suggests that he’s going to ask regardless of my answer. “Why is Owen wearing contacts?”
For the first time in years I can honestly answer his question. “He looks too much like your father. It doesn’t help my nightmares.”
Maybe it’s the fact that I have nightmares that gets him to look back at me with something other than hate; grief. I’m reminded of that moment every day of my life. He is not the only one suffering.
His head swivels back, a deep sigh escaping his lips. “Did he want to die?” The question is so out of character that I have to lean forward and tell him to repeat what he asked. “Was he suicidal? Is that why you won’t tell us what happened?” He inhales sharply. “I just don’t understand why you never tell us.”
This is my chance to let it all out in the open. I can tell him his father was speeding down this very street because he wanted to scare me. He wanted me to touch him and when I refused he pressed harder on the accelerator. I can tell him that it was my fault; I jerked the wheel. But I had a good reason.
I can tell him everything. End this pain that
I’m constantly drowning myself in.
But instead I lie.
It’s a half-truth.
“He wouldn’t slow down,” I whisper. Beckett stares hard at the cross, at his father’s name written in black sharpie. For a second, I let my eyes roam over the spot he took his last breath. “I kept telling him to slow down and he wouldn’t.”
Beckett wipes a lone tear off his face with the back of his hand. “How did he lose control of the car?”
I grabbed the wheel.
A lump forms in my throat. The truth is begging to be set free. It pounds in my chest like a wild animal trying to escape captivity.
Please forgive me for lying.
“I don’t know.”
I drop my gaze to the dusting of snow on the ground. How long will I keep this charade going? How long will I torture myself?
“It’s not fair.” I close my eyes, ready to hear him say it’s not fair that I’m alive and his father is dead. “He chose this and we all have to suffer.”
My eyes crack open, shocked. I wasn’t expecting that.
He thinks his father caused the accident trying to kill himself.
Beckett loves his father, probably more than Owen does. Hearing him say that makes something inside me shatter. Because I’m ruining his love for a man he thought was good.
He needs to learn the truth. They all do.
I look over my shoulder and spot Owen coming to a stop at the top of his street. He glances over at us and then jogs over. It’s hard to say anything when Beckett turns around with tear filled eyes.
“Hey,” Owen says, glancing at me before bringing his attention to his brother. “You okay?”
I want to ask him the same question. He looks like he barely got any sleep with how red his eyes are. And he’s not wearing contacts so he didn’t plan on running into me.
Beckett’s gaze lands on me for a second before he nods and takes a step back. “I’m fine. Are we running or what?”
“Yeah, I’ll catch up. Go ahead.”
Beckett takes off without saying goodbye.
“This memorial does more harm than good,” Owen declares, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know why he tortures himself like this. Why we all do,” he whispers.
Because it’s what us humans do. We can’t seem to stop hurting ourselves.
Owen steps forward and pulls me into his arms. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.” I bury my face into his chest, inhaling his scent lingering on his U-Dub college sweatshirt. “I’m going to head back home. I needed to run and I somehow ended up here.” I pull away just a bit. “Did you sleep?”
His arms tighten around me and he shakes his head no. I can tell he’s holding back something. He’s not meeting my eyes and his Adam’s apple keeps bobbing up and down.
I pull back and tug on his sweater. “What’s wrong?”
He runs his hand through his dark hair, pulling on the strands lightly. “Can we talk about it later?” His eyes finally meet mine. “I can’t…not here.” When his gaze moves past my shoulder, I understand. It involves his father.
His father is keeping him awake at night too.
“Okay.”
Owen leans forward and kisses my forehead. “See you around eleven?”
I nod.
He kisses me quickly and then starts to run down the street, catching up to Beckett.
I have my back to the white cross, but if I close my eyes I can still hear the accident happening. I can feel Michael’s hand on mine, dragging it onto his lap. I can taste the blood in my mouth, slowly choking me until breathing was the last thing I wanted to do. And I can see Owen in all the photos that drifted through the air like they were running away from me.
I turn around, glaring at the name of evil written in black. You molested me. You raped me. I’m fucking glad you are dead.
And then I run back home.
“Jesus, there are so many fucking trees,” Freddie comments, looking around him. Owen has told him that there’s a forest feet away from the backyard. You’d think he’d understand that plenty of trees surrounding the house is a given.
Before I can ring the doorbell to the Stevensons home, the front door opens and we’re greeted by a petite brown haired preteen.
Ari.
Her gorgeous blue eyes widen in surprise when she sees the three of us. “Wow. Just wow. There is too much sexy going on right now. I can’t even.” She throws her thin arms around me and hugs me tight. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“Me too. I’m pretty awesome,” I state.
She pulls back, her eyebrows raised in her signature ‘seriously’ look. Owen adores that look.
I laugh. “I’ve missed you too!” I move out of the way and introduce Echo and Freddie. Ari has talked to them on video chat over the years. It’s kind of hard to avoid them because our little group is always around one another.
Ari lets us in and tells us that her mom is in the kitchen and needs her services so we’re left to our own devices. I spot Mowgli curled up in a little ball by the window overlooking the driveway.
Beckett is sitting in the living room, feet propped up on the coffee table with a bag of chips near his left arm. When he sees Echo he chokes on a chip and tries to sit up straighter. “Hey,” he says, tilting his chin up in greeting.
So smooth.
“What up, little man!” Freddie greets, throwing his arm out to ruffle Beckett’s hair. He tries to dodge it and the whole thing just looks awkward for everyone.
“Hey, Squirt,” Echo teases before asking where the kitchen is to see if Hilary needs help. She’s trying to stay away from Owen for the time being. It fucking kills me.
Beckett embarrassingly stares at Echo as she walks out of the room with me.
I hear him ask Freddie why she called him that. I chuckle to myself thinking of the time Beckett dressed as Squirtle for Halloween when he was seven. Owen has the picture framed and hung on his living room wall. Echo laughs at how cute he looked because he was a chubby seven year old.
Walking past the staircase leading upstairs, we enter the kitchen. Hilary is frosting cupcakes as Ari sets up more pastry bags, adding some food coloring in each one.
“I brought goodies,” I announce, lifting my mom’s famous cinnamon apple braid. “My parents can’t make it because of the cat.” Dad wouldn’t say it but he had to stay away from me quite a bit because I had some fur on my clothes. They are always over here anyways. They can have a day to themselves when we leave.
Hilary finishes the cupcake she’s working on. When she looks up she breaks out into a smile. It’s genuine. Not forced. I’ve seen all of her smiles growing up.
“Oh, look how grown you’ve gotten!” She sets the pastry bag down and powerwalks over to us. “Sweetheart, you are just as beautiful as I remember. It’s so good to see you.” She takes me into her arms and looks me over. I do the same. And I try not to notice how skinny she has gotten. Her roots are starting to turn gray. The dark circles under her eyes are still noticeable under the thin layer of makeup she’s wearing.
She used to be so happy. So alive.
Now she’s just living. A widower.
Hilary kisses my cheek and then moves onto my best friend. “And you must be Echo. Owen never stops complaining about how much smarter you are. It drives him insane.”
Echo laughs, the light in her eyes making an appearance. “That’s me. It’s nice to finally meet the woman who birthed that creature you call a son.”
Hilary laughs, pulling Echo into a hug. “Call me Hilary.”
“We came to see if you needed help. I’m allergic to men at the moment so please let me do something.”
Hilary looks around, taping her finger against her chin. “Maybe Ari can frost and you can be her little helper?”
“Really?! Ari asks, jumping up and moving to the spot her mother previously occupied. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Just try and make them all look alike.”
Ari rolls her eyes playfu
lly. “If they look like shit they were still made with love.”
“Ari,” Hilary warns. “Language.”
Ari mumbles something and waves Echo over, telling her what she needs next. Hilary grabs my hand and walks me toward the door leading to the backyard.
“He’s been by the creek for the last hour. Can you get him to come inside?”
“I’ll try. You know how much he loves being there.”
Hilary squeezes my hand, shaking her head. “Oh, sweetheart, he loves being down there only when you’re there beside him.”
I try not to blush, but the smile comes naturally.
I walk down the wooden stairs slowly, careful not to slip on the fluffy snow that’s piling up. The storm is supposed to hit us hard sometime tonight. We still haven’t decided if we’re staying for a few more days or heading back tomorrow.
I slip my hands into my winter jacket’s pockets and bury my face into my scarf so only my eyes are visible.
Walking past the iron wrought gate at the end of the stairs to my right, I follow the footprints left behind by the only other person who comes down this way.
Owen is sitting against a fallen tree, his eyes on the snow-covered creek. Any water underneath the snow is frozen. It’s so still out there, so tranquil. Beautiful.
“Hey, handsome. Plan on heading inside where it’s warm any time soon?” I ask, closing in on his space.
He buries his hands deeper into his jacket’s pockets as I approach. In his black North Face jacket, he must be nice and cozy but his face is uncovered. Nose and ears red, he still manages to smile. His eyes are their natural forest green color.
I don’t look away. Neither does he.
“The snow and wind made wearing the contacts unbearable,” he starts. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head and take a seat next to him. “Don’t be.”
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