The Beauty Beneath

by DC Renee

  I killed someone. How do you just go on living your life when you’ve taken one?

  I couldn’t. I contemplated ending my own life at times even – and eye for an eye, I told myself. But in the end, I was either too afraid to do it, or I thought about the people I’d leave behind suffering with my loss. What good would that cycle do?

  Even though I had fled the scene, the fact that I had stopped shortly after, called nine-one-one, and explained everything, coupled with my shock, kept the police officers from considering it a hit-and-run. The fact that I hadn’t been under the influence, not driving recklessly, and the man had jumped in front of the car kept me from prison time. I actually didn’t want that. I wanted to serve time. I felt it was the least I deserved.

  I got community service hours and a suspended license for a year, though, but I was fine with that. I didn’t want to drive ever again. And community service? I did it with a smile on my face, and when I was done with my hours, I continued.

  I threw myself into school because I needed something to take my mind off what I had done. That ended up working in my favor, and I got into a good college. During this time was when my family and friends didn’t give up on me; it was when the therapist helped me see that I couldn’t continue to blame myself for what had happened.

  When I went away to school, I wasn’t fully “healed,” but I was much closer to my old self than I had been for the previous two years. Being away from where it happened, being away from all the reminders, helped immensely. It helped me shed the cocoon I had built around myself. And slowly, I got back to being me.

  But it still always stuck with me. Even to this day, it was still there in the back hiding. It was the reason I became a lawyer. I wanted to somehow make things right, serve to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves – like the man I had killed. It didn’t quite work out the way I had imagined. Being a lawyer, most of the time, wasn’t as noble as you thought it was when you were growing up, but I had already set my path by the time I figured that out.

  Never, not once, not even when Emerson told me her story, so eerily close to mine, did I ever imagine we were linked. Never did my thoughts even stray toward the possibility that I killed her father. I didn’t remember a girl being involved. I still didn’t. I didn’t know the full story, but now, I did.

  And the full story was that over twelve years ago, I killed the father of the only person I’ve ever loved. I changed Emerson from a young, vibrant girl into someone who closed herself off to the world. I didn’t just take away her father that day; I also buried Emerson too.

  And I didn’t even fucking know it.

  I had broken her before I knew her.

  She blamed herself when she should have blamed me.

  And I got her to fall in love with me. Like a vicious fucking joke. I got her to fall for the one man who ruined her life.

  “Jesus Christ, C.” I heard my sister’s voice behind me as I sat on my couch in the dark, the only illumination in the room from the setting sun spilling through the crack in the window shades. I knew I looked like a statue, sitting so still, but I had no more tears left. I had cried them out all day after I called in sick to work. I had gotten through at least three stages of grief in that time, and now, I was on … I didn’t even know what stage I was on anymore, but I was numb all over.

  “I’ve been trying to call you all day,” Beth exclaimed as she went around and turned on the lights. “If I could have gotten off work sooner, I would have come to check on you. Your work said you were off sick. What’s wrong with you? The flu?” she asked as she came around and looked at me. I guess she didn’t like what she saw because her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and she cocked her head to the side as if she was thinking of what to say next.

  “Why haven’t you been picking up your phone?” she asked in an accusatory tone. I didn’t answer, but I didn’t think she expected one because she continued. “Why were you sitting here in the dark? Why did you call in sick today? Why didn’t you open the door when I knocked? Why did I have to use my key to get inside?”

  I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. I was out of words. I used them all up screaming at myself, raging at the cruelty of fate.

  “Carter Anderson!” She yelled my name. “Answer me right this second. What the hell is wrong with you?” She was screaming, and suddenly, I found my voice.

  “I killed Emerson’s father,” I whispered, shocked at the truth of it coloring my voice.

  “You what?” she asked, the same shock registering in her tone.

  “The guy I hit …” I trailed off, knowing she’d understand the rest.

  “But how?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?” I responded bitterly. “I fucking killed the father of the woman I love!” I yelled.

  “You love her,” Beth said softly.

  “That doesn’t matter now either,” I bit out. “I killed her father, Beth. I ran him over like a damn dog,” I snapped.

  “You did no such thing!” she yelled at me. “It wasn’t your fault, C,” she said more softly. “He jumped in front of your car. I know that’s the truth,” she said. “It could have been anyone driving, and he still wouldn’t be alive.”

  “But it wasn’t anyone,” I said. “It was me. And he didn’t just jump in front of the car. He pushed Emerson out of the way.”

  “What?” she screeched.

  “I didn’t even see her, Beth,” I said quietly, my voice breaking. “I didn’t even know I almost killed her. And I would have. If it hadn’t been for her father, I would have killed Emerson instead.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said.

  “But I do. I do know that. I almost killed Em, but I did kill her father.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “That was the secret I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t put two and two together, though. I didn’t even think it could be me. But today, I went to her place; I wanted to be with her, Beth. Really be with her. And God, she was so beautiful, my heart stopped. I … she was … a goddess. And then she ran out. I wanted to write her a note, tell her I wasn’t giving up. I was just looking for a stupid fucking pen. A goddamn pen, and I found newspaper clippings. It was all there, in black and white. It was me, Beth. It was all thanks to me. Her father’s death, the reason Emerson shuts people out, why she hides. I may as well have killed her too. And I want her to love me? Ha,” I said mirthlessly. “What a fucking joke,” I added.

  “You need to tell her, C. Tell her everything, she’ll understand. She loves you; I know it. She’ll understand if you explain it to her.”

  “How do you explain to someone that you’re the monster that ruined her life? How do you look someone in the eye and tell them you killed their father? That you hit him with your car and let him die by the side of the road in his daughter’s arms? How do you tell someone, especially someone you love, that you’re the reason for all their grief?”

  “You just did.” I heard her voice behind me, so stoic, so deadly, so harsh, just as Beth gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Em,” I said her name as if it was a prayer as I turned.

  “You murdered my father.” Her voice was still low, too low, like an assassin. It scared me more than if she’d yelled.

  “Oh God, Em, I’m so sorry,” I said as I took a step toward her.

  “No. You don’t get to be sorry!” She yelled this time, and I was suddenly wishing for the low voice as I flinched. “You killed my father!” she screamed. “You left him there to die in the street while you sped off!” she tossed at me.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Beth tried to interject.

  Emerson screamed over her. “You couldn’t even be bothered to stop and try to help him,” she sneered. “Call for help at least.”

  “I did,” I told her. “I stopped a few blocks away and called nine-one-one. You must know I did,” I pleaded with her.

  “He was in shock, Em,” my sister added. “He didn’t stop not because he didn
’t want to.”

  Emerson glared at my sister as if she was the enemy.

  “How could you?” she hissed.

  “Em, God, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” I cried and tried to come closer to her again, but she moved back.

  “How long have you known?” she accused.

  “Just today,” I told her, but I knew she wasn’t listening to me.

  “Is this all some kind of sick joke? Your twisted way of seeing just how far you could mess with me? As if killing my father wasn’t enough. Some kind of fucked-up family game? Have two siblings play me from both ends? Is that it?” she screamed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I pleaded. “Nothing I say can make it right, but you have to know I’m sorry. This wasn’t a game to me. You weren’t a game to me. Not even with that stupid fucking bet. I love you, Em. I fucking love you, and I know I destroyed you, and it’s killing me. Please, tell me what to do to make this right. Please, I need you to understand.”

  “Understand that you killed my father?” she asked. “I understand that perfectly. And I…” She let the words hang in the air, and they could have been any number of words, but I had a feeling I knew what they were. And I trusted you. And I let you know. And I fell for you. At least, I hoped the last one was true. “Oh my God,” she cried out suddenly as if everything she just learned became real to her. It probably did. She finally felt the weight of it all.

  “Em.” I said her name and nothing more. What good were words now? Useless.

  “Oh, my God,” she repeated and covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I heard her whisper. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she chanted several more times. Beth and I stood frozen, not sure what to do, what to say.

  “Em, I’m sorry. Please tell me what to do.” I had to try. Even though the words were pointless, I still had to try.

  “What to do?” she asked. “Stay away from me!” she screamed. “Both of you, stay the hell away from me. I never want to see you again. That’s what you can do.” And then she ran out, taking my bleeding heart with her.

  “I’m so sorry, C,” I heard my sister whisper, but I couldn’t see anything behind the blur of tears.

  “Me too,” I whispered. I was sorry for what I’d done, for hurting her, but I wasn’t sorry for loving her. “‘It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’” I said the famous quote quietly, only for my ears, but I said them to the spot Emerson had just vacated. And then I said one final thing before I broke down, before my body curled in on itself, before my tears broke through as wracking sobs, before I shut the world out, before I hid inside myself… just like Emerson. “I love you, Em.” I heard my sister’s voice in the background, telling me it would be all right, telling me we’d figure things out, but I tuned her out because Emerson was gone. And nothing mattered anymore. Nothing mattered but my pain, my misery, and my lost love.

  Thirty One

  Emerson

  I had walked up to Carter’s door, my steps hesitant, my nerves shot to shit, and my mouth dry. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him, but I knew I had to tell him I loved him too. I wanted to be with him and give this a real shot.

  And then I noticed the door was open a crack. My back stiffened with worry. People didn’t leave their doors open just because. I was ready to charge inside, make sure Carter was okay, and hurt anyone who could have hurt him. And then I heard Beth’s voice drifting through the crack, and I froze.

  “You need to tell her, C. Tell her everything, she’ll understand. She loves you; I know it. She’ll understand if you explain it to her.” Were they talking about me? I was torn between honest curiosity, slight embarrassment that Beth might be referring to me when she talked about love, a little bit of concern for her words and her tone, and tiny hint of jealousy if they were talking about someone else

  And then I heard Carter’s response. “How do you explain to someone that you’re the monster that ruined her life? How do you look someone in the eye and tell them you killed their father? That you hit him with your car and let him die by the side of the road in his daughter’s arms? How do you tell someone, especially someone you love, that you’re the reason for all their grief?”

  That’s how. You pick them as your target, bully your way into their life, break down all their defenses, wait until they’re vulnerable, burrow yourself into their heart, and then crush it from the inside. You didn’t go after the things in life that matter to them because you know they didn’t have a lot; you went after the things inside that mattered to them, the things they kept locked down tight next to their heart. You make them hand you the key so you didn’t even have to break and enter to get them.

  I had given Carter my key. I had handed him my heart on a silver platter, and he ate it like a starved man, digging right in and leaving no crumbs behind.

  We argued, but I didn’t even remember half of what was said. I was in too much pain, too much turmoil, to comprehend just how serious the situation was. And then it hit me. I loved the man who killed my father.

  I ran away as fast as I could. I took off in my car with no destination in mind. I just drove, barely seeing the road through the haze of tears. I pulled off to the side, but I didn’t even know where I was. I just couldn’t drive anymore, and I didn’t want to go home, back to the loneliness, back to the lingering thoughts of Carter, to the memories of his presence.

  I sat with my head on the steering wheel, the tears falling freely, soaking everything in their path.

  I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know.

  How could I know? How couldn’t I not know?

  I was young, too young to really understand everything that happened surrounding my father’s death. And even if I wasn’t, my grief was too fresh. It overpowered everything else. All I knew was that the person who hit my father had turned himself in, but when, I didn’t know. It hadn’t mattered at the time because I had blamed myself. And I knew he served some kind of sentence, but that too was vague. I did remember feeling a little bit grateful at the time that my father’s other killer – since I was the main one in my mind – hadn’t gotten off scot-free. I didn’t think my mother ever blamed anyone—not me, not the driver. I think, in her mind, it was a crappy situation. I wasn’t to blame because my father saving me was his choice. It wasn’t as if I wanted him to die. And the driver wasn’t to blame because my father came out of nowhere. That was how my mom’s thoughts worked.

  Shortly after that, I stopped thinking about the driver, put him out of my thoughts, focused only on school and going through the motions.

  Even with all that, I was truly appalled with myself that I hadn’t figured it out before. But I didn’t have any clues, no indications. Carter had played some kind of game, and he had played it well.

  He found me and decided to torment me. And he brought his sister along for good measure.

  I didn’t know how he found me, and I didn’t know how he convinced me to open up to him, but he did. I let him. I let him convince me because I guess, deep down, I wanted to be free of my own chains. That was the only reason I could think of for my idiocy, for believing he loved me and for allowing myself to love him.

  And God, did I love him. Even at that moment, with the sting of his betrayal digging a knife in my heart, I still loved him. I didn’t care what anyone else said; you couldn’t turn love off like a switch. If that were possible, I’d have done it a long time ago. But it didn’t work that way. You fell in love; you fell out of love. It was a gradual process, not some lightning strikes kind of thing. For some, it was quicker, and for others, it was slower. I sincerely hoped I was the latter – the quicker, the better.

  He betrayed me.

  He betrayed me.

  He broke me.

  He broke me.

  He loved me.

  He didn’t love me.

  But I loved him.

  Everything he said was a lie. Everything he did was a lie. Everything he was, everything he represented, eve
rything he made me believe was a lie. Carter Anderson was a lie.

  And the worst part? I did this to myself. Me. Because I believed a boy. Because I fell in love with a boy. I fell in love with a boy who broke through my walls, who lifted me when I was down, who defended me when I needed it, and who made me smile when I wanted to frown. I fell in love with a boy who made me feel beautiful even when I wasn’t, who helped me let go of the grief I was carrying with me, and who gave me his shoulder to cry on. I fell in love with a boy who made me believe in miracles, who made me believe in the future, and who made me believe in true love. I fell in love with that boy.

  I’d said this before; I felt this all before I first realized I was in love. It seemed so long ago, so very long ago. Not just one day. It felt like ages before I couldn’t fathom that he’d fallen in love with me too. But now it made sense. Because he hadn’t fallen in love with me too. And everything that made me love him? All a lie.

  I didn’t fall in love with a boy. I fell in love with a fantasy. I fell in love with Carter Anderson. And Carter Anderson broke my heart.

  Thirty Two

  Carter

  People said what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, but I knew. I knew what it was like to be with Emerson. I knew what it was like to see her smile, to hear her laugh, and even watch her frown. I knew what it was like to spend a day with her, to have a conversation with her, even watch her fall apart. I knew what it was like to fall in love with her and have her love me back, of that I was sure. So it hurt. I hurt.

  And I wasn’t sure what I could do to get Emerson to forgive me.

  I called her over and over, texted her nonstop, and went to her house every chance I got, which was pretty much every day.

  She never picked up, never responded, and never opened the door.

  “Don’t worry, C, she’ll come around,” Beth had assured me.

  “Why?” I asked her. “Why would she come around? Would you?”

  “If I loved you, then yeah.” She nodded emphatically.