The Beauty Beneath

by DC Renee

  I was tempted to wait for her all day if I had to, but I knew that wasn’t realistic. I also wondered briefly if I should heed her request to prove that I cared, only to come back later. But either way, I’d be back. And I wanted her to know that, know that I left only because she asked me to—not because I wanted to. I wanted her to know I wasn’t done with her, not by a long shot. I’d be back, and we would finally talk and figure things out. I’d convince her to put her faith in me, and I wouldn’t let her down. I couldn’t.

  I rummaged through her kitchen for a pen and paper, but I found none. I made it back to her room. I had only seen glimpses of her room before. Emerson had never given me the official tour of her home, and although I had no shame in exploring all the other rooms of her home on my own, I’d never felt comfortable enough to venture into her room. In another time, I would have taken advantage of the opportunity to study her room, examine it for traces of her, but I was a man on a mission.

  I needed to tell her everything I was feeling, make her understand the meaning of my words, and tell her I was leaving but not giving up on her.

  I went to her nightstand, and under a picture of who I assumed was her father, I came across newspaper clippings. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled them out.

  At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing, and then I scanned the few articles and figured out it was about the death of Emerson’s father. I felt like I was intruding in her life, looking at more than I was supposed to, but I couldn’t stop. I was drawn in, wanting to know more about the event that seemed to spark the path Emerson had taken. So I read on. That was the worst decision of my life. If I could go back in time and tell myself to put the clippings down, to walk away and never think about them again, I would, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t unread what I had read. I couldn’t unlearn what I had learned. I couldn’t change the past. And I couldn’t pretend the part I played didn’t exist.

  I wish I hadn’t read those clippings. I really, really wish I hadn’t. Ignorance is bliss. God, I wished for ignorance. I prayed for it, prayed for it as if I was a man searching for a miracle to cure cancer. But miracles didn’t exist for people like me, and there was no changing what those newspaper clippings represented.

  Before I could allow myself to break apart, before I could process what I was doing, the clippings were back in their spot and I was running out the door. Running away from the truth I had just learned, running away from Emerson’s pain, from the pain that was my fault and my undoing. I ran away from the only love I’d ever known. Because I’d already broken her heart. She just didn’t know it.

  Twenty Nine

  Emerson

  When I came home, my house was silent. I wanted that, I told myself. I had run out on Carter and practically begged him to leave me alone. I hadn’t expected him to be at my place that morning. Really, I kind of figured he was done with me after I kicked him out the night before. I hadn’t slept at all that night. I tossed and turned and remembered every detail from that night. His words, his declarations, his lips. Oh God, his lips. On mine. I still shivered thinking about that.

  When he left, I broke down, hating that I had pushed him away, and thanking the small bit of self-preservation I had left that was to thank for sending him away.

  When I got out of the shower that morning, I heard some noises from the kitchen. Expecting my mom, I had no qualms about coming out in my natural state. I didn’t particularly like her seeing me like that, but I didn’t have much of a choice, and that day, I didn’t really care. I needed coffee if I was going to function, and I needed my mom. I needed her ear, her shoulder, and her comforting words.

  Needless to say, I was frozen in place, like literally frozen in place, my mouth half open in the middle of a sentence, my hands gripping the towel against my hair, even my head was tossed slightly to the side as I dried my hair. And then Carter was on me, and someone had not only hit the play button but the fast forward one too because I skipped the “holy shit, this is happening” moment and went straight to “holy shit, this feels fucking fantastic.”

  Twice in less than twenty-four hours. Twice. I repeat, twice Carter kissed me as if he had just come back from solitude and I was the first person he’d seen.

  But my damn conscience couldn’t stay tampered down yet again. I realized too late that he had seen me without my protective costume. I rushed past him, put everything on in record time, and ran out the door, giving him no choice but to leave.

  So then why the hell was I feeling so sad that he’d listened to me? Why the hell did it feel like whatever pain I had felt before was nothing compared to knowing Carter wasn’t waiting for me at home despite my protests? He didn’t fight for me—not that I had expected or wanted him to—but I was crushed he hadn’t.

  I couldn’t keep this bottled inside anymore, keeping my feelings to myself. I had only three people in the world I could really talk to about this. One was Carter, which was obviously out of the question. The second was Beth, but she was Carter’s sister, so that was a no. The third was my mom, and I guess no matter how old you get, you just needed your mom for some moments.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked the minute I called her. I talked to her every so often, but I wasn’t much of a caller.

  I didn’t know what it was about hearing my mom’s voice, or maybe it was the concern in her tone, but I broke down. Somehow, as I choked out the words between sobs, my mom understood me. “Mom, I need you.”

  “I’m coming.” And she hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, my mom’s arms cradled me, and I was spilling literally everything that had transpired over the last two months. I told her the details she knew, and all the ones she didn’t. I left nothing out, not even the bet.

  “Oh, Em,” she said as she stroked my arm as if I was still a child. I guess to her, I would always be her little girl. “I could kill him and his friends for that stupid bet,” she said in a stern voice. “I don’t agree with what you do to yourself, but no one makes fun of my baby girl.”

  “Mom, that’s besides the point,” I told her.

  “I know, Em, I know. But don’t forget I just learned about this whole bet thing. Forgive me if it’s bothering me.”

  “He’s a good guy,” I said, defending Carter. “He could have played me for a fool or made me feel ugly, but he never did. He stood up for me when others tried to put me down,” I pointed out.

  She smirked as if she had known I’d defend him if she said anything bad about him, and I wondered if she truly was upset about the bet or just trying to goad me into something. But what? I wasn’t sure.

  “Then what are you doing pushing him away?” she asked. “He was there for you when you needed someone. He didn’t take no for an answer, and he saw past your ridiculous getup. He loves you, Em, honey. It’s plain as day. I saw it this morning when he came over. And he hadn’t seen how beautiful you truly are yet. He loves you for you. For how beautiful you are on the inside.”

  “But he can’t!” I cried loudly.

  “Why not, Em? Why the hell not?” my mom asked with a hint of irritation.

  “Because my beauty is only skin deep! I’m not beautiful on the inside. Because I don’t deserve happiness!” I screamed. “Because Daddy isn’t here to enjoy life, and it’s my fault. So I don’t get to enjoy life.”

  “Tell me, Emmie.” She said the nickname not spoken since the day my father died – his last word. I flinched, but she didn’t even bat an eye. She did it on purpose to get me off balance, to crack some of the walls protecting me, and it worked. “Your father … do you believe he loved you?”

  “Ye … yes,” I stuttered, my voice hoarse.

  “And you know what love is, right, honey?”

  “Yes,” I said again, curiosity in my tone.

  “Do you think love is wanting to see the other person suffer? Wanting to see them punish themselves for something out of their control? Or even if it was, if Carter hurt you right now, would you want him to hurt
too? Is that love, Em? Is that what you think it is? Because if so, then forget about Carter. Forget about me. Even forget about your dad. You’re all alone there, Em.”

  “No!” I yelled. “No, I would never want any of you in pain, no matter what,” I told her defiantly.

  “Then why do you think your father wants to see you like this? Why on earth do you believe he’d want this for you? He’s watching over you right now and shaking his head in disappointment.”

  “No,” I said, but my mom wouldn’t let me interrupt.

  “It’s not because of your clothes or your hair. It’s not even because you closed yourself off, although I’m sure he’s not happy about that either. It’s this, right here, this moment, now. When you sit crying to me about Carter, breaking your own heart because you pushed him away when he tried to stay put, instead of going to him. Instead of telling him you love him too. Taking a chance. Giving in to love, in to joy, in to happiness.” She paused to let the words sink in. They did. They absolutely did. And it terrified me. Because it was so damn hard to let go of something that your mind believed true for half your life, even if your heart had been against it for some time now.

  “Go, Em. Go to Carter. He deserves your love. And you deserve to be loved.”

  With my mom’s encouragement, I left the house, but I didn’t venture to Carter’s place. I had somewhere I needed to be, someone I needed to talk to more than anyone else, someone whose guidance meant everything to me.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I whispered as I looked at my father’s gravestone. I came often but not often enough. “I don’t know if you’re in some magical place watching over me. I don’t know if you’re seeing my life right now. But I hope you are because I could use some advice.” I choked on the last sentence. God, I really wished he was seeing everything somehow. And at the same time, after speaking with my mom, after letting Carter’s words penetrate, after everything that happened over the last two months, I also wished my father didn’t see a darn thing. Would he be upset with me? Or proud of me?

  “I love him, Daddy,” I said through tears that were part sad, part happy. “I didn’t plan to, I swear. I wanted to hide away, but I couldn’t … not from him. He found me, found the deepest parts of me hidden in the dark, buried so deep even I didn’t know they existed. He made me feel whole when I have felt like nothing but tiny little broken shards of glass since you died. But it was okay because I felt like I deserved every tiny cut I got from those glass shards. Now …” I trailed off as my tears became too much and I built up the courage to say the next words. “I’m not so sure. I’m not sure I shouldn’t have lived my life to the fullest, to honor what you did for me instead of wear it like a stain. You gave your life for me, and I didn’t bother living mine. I’m so sorry,” I said as I buried my head in my hands. “I’m so sorry,” I repeated between sobs.

  “I’m so torn,” I admitted. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if everything I’ve done has been right or wrong. I don’t know if the words I’m saying now are coming from me or from what Mom, Carter, and even Beth have preached.” I uncovered my face and inhaled deeply, trying to calm my nerves, my racing heart. I was falling apart, and I truly didn’t want to.

  “Daddy, please, I need you. Please, tell me what to do. Oomph,” I said the last word as I felt something crash into me. “What the—” I cut myself off as I looked at a tiny little boy standing next to me, his eyes wide with worry.

  “I’m sowwy,” he said, and I couldn’t help but smile through my tears.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “What are you doing here?” I asked as I looked around to see if anyone else was nearby, wondering where the heck this little boy had come from, who he belonged to.

  “My daddy’s here,” he said and bit his lip. “When we come, my mommy cwies. I don’t like when she cwies,” he said and shook his head. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  “Aw sweetie, your mommy cries because she misses your daddy,” I told him. “This is my daddy,” I said as I pointed to my father’s grave. “I cry too because I miss him.”

  “Is your daddy in heawen too?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “My mommy says Daddy’s in heawen.”

  “Yeah, he is. But where’s your mommy? She’s probably getting worried. Let’s go find her,” I said and took his hand as I started toward the direction I thought he came from. Not twenty seconds later, I saw a woman climbing up the small hill.

  “Carter, Carter,” she yelled. “Carter, where did you go?”

  “Your name is Carter?” I asked the boy still clinging to my hand.

  “Uh-huh,” he said and nodded.

  This time, I didn’t hide my smile or my obvious shock. “You had better go to your mom,” I told him as I let go and watched him run to her. She fell to her knees and grabbed onto him so tightly, not wanting to let him go. She looked up briefly, catching my gaze and mouthing, “Thank you.”

  I mouthed it back because she didn’t know just how much she had done for me. I walked back to my father’s grave. I laid a hand on the cool stone, ran my hand down the side, trying to find warmth where there was none. But I felt warmth in my heart, and my father had put it there.

  “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you,” I whispered and walked away.

  With my father’s approval, it was time to let my heart rule my choices.

  And I found myself on the way to talk to the boy I fell in love with.

  Thirty

  Carter

  It had taken me over two years to truly get past what I had done. To let go of the guilt I had in my heart, the pain that wracked my body because of my actions. It had taken the support of so many people to help me get through it all—my family, God, they were saints, my friends, they seemed like knuckleheads, but I had stayed so close with my buddies for so long for a reason, and even a therapist, my parents’ idea that I hated at the time, but he really did help.

  For a while, I blamed myself, said it was my fault, and believed it to be true. I didn’t think about that time in my life anymore, but on really bad days, it was sometimes hard not to feel even a hint of guilt.

  When Emerson told me how her father was killed, how he died after being struck by a car, I had almost blurted out what I’d done. I was this close to telling her, but I just couldn’t. She had been on one side of that scene; I had been on the other. I didn’t want to make it about me, I rationalized, but really, I was scared she’d hate me if she knew my past. And I couldn’t bear the thought of her hating me, so I sealed my lips. And even then, I contemplated spilling my guts to her after, but Beth convinced me I didn’t have to.

  My family liked to bury that moment, those few years, and I didn’t blame them. They weren’t happy years. I buried them too.

  Until I couldn’t.

  I was sixteen and had only had my license for a few months. I was young, dumb, just as cocky as I was now, and I thought the world was at my feet. I was on the football team—yeah, yeah, I know, how cliché. I was popular. I had girls of all ages throwing themselves at me, and I wasn’t even a senior. Even with all that, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t a cautious driver, but I wouldn’t say I was. I guess I was about as conscientious of the road as any other newbie driver – with an air of “I got this” haughtiness and a hint of power as you finally had a freedom like you’ve never had before with a dash of “need-for-speed.”

  I had just dropped off Sarina Tinders at her house after spending some “quality time” together and was heading home. I wasn’t particularly speeding, but I wasn’t exactly going the speed limit either. He came out of nowhere, and I didn’t have time to stop. One minute, the road seemed clear, and the next, a man was in front of me.

  If I hadn’t been speeding … If I had been paying more attention … If my mind wasn’t on Sarina … If I had been a more experienced driver… If he hadn’t jumped right in front of my car…

  I had learned to let go of those what-ifs. But it didn’t mean I hadn’t gone through every single one of them over the years.
/>
  I hit him, then I panicked, and I kept going. I tried to brake, I tried to make my foot move from one pedal to the next, but my body was locked down in shock. It was at least a minute, maybe a few, before my mind had broken through the fog my body had found itself in.

  This was before every little kid and teenager had a cell phone. Those were privileges. I didn’t have one. But I found a payphone.

  “I … I just hit a man … with my car. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know if he’s okay. Please, someone help him,” I cried into the phone, tears streaming down my face, my voice thick with emotion, my heart leaping out of my chest. I barely got the words out, but the person on the other end seemed to understand.

  I told them where I was and then told them approximately where the man was. I know it was only minutes before the police showed up, before I saw the ambulance race by me, but it felt like an eternity.

  When the officer spoke to me, I was still clutching the phone in my hand even though no one was on the line anymore. My knuckles were white, but probably not as white as I was; all blood had drained from my face as the realization of what happened sank in. I couldn’t comprehend what was being said to me; my mind still replaying the scene over and over on the verge of shutting down so I wouldn’t break.

  Everything after that was a blur.

  I learned later on that the man I’d hit had died. If I was given a name, I didn’t hear it. I didn’t think I wanted to know it at the time. I was too distraught knowing I’d killed someone. I didn’t want to picture the person and make him that much more real.

  My parents helped handle everything, from my being questioned, to needing a lawyer, to appearing in court. I just went through the motions. I got up, got dressed, and followed their lead. That was my life for a while.