by Violet Duke
âItâs tradition,â my mom corrects, as if theyâre not the same thing. âWeâd planned a whole dinner, your fatherâs old classmates were coming. It was very embarrassing to have to cancel at the last minute.â
I make a beeline for the kitchen and take a beer from the fridge, gulping down half the bottle at once. I wonder for a moment if my parents even cared about my finishing college, or if, to them, it was just an excuse for another party, another way to brag to all their friends about their perfect family.
âSo tell me, Hunter,â Mom changes tacks. âHow long is this little rebellion of yours going to last? The summer? Longer?â
âItâs not a rebellion,â I growl, like I havenât explained this a hundred times. âWe had a deal, remember? I said Iâd stick it out through school, but now Iâm done. This is my life now.â
âWorking on a ranch?â I can practically see my momâs lip curl with disdain. âThatâs not a life, not for a Covington.â
âIt was good enough for grandpa.â I stroll over to the windows and rest my forehead against the cool glass. This was why I skipped graduation, and all my parentsâ bullshit. The minute my last paper was done, I traded my birthday BMW in for a pick-up truck, threw some clothes in a bag, and hit the road. Eleven hours down the coast with nothing to do but think, but somehow, with every mile I felt lighter: driving away from their legacy, to a future of my own making.
âMy father was a fool,â Mom replies bluntly. âWhat are you going to do for money out there? Donât think your father and I are going to support this foolish plan.â
âI donât want anything from you.â I state firmly. âGrandpa left me the land, and some left over, and Iâll earn the rest.â
âTraining horses,â thereâs that familiar sneer again. âHoney, I donât know where this is coming from. We had it all planned out: Yale, then law schoolââ
âI never wanted to go to law school,â I interrupt, clenching my fist. This is what she does, badger you with her own plans until itâs easier to go along with it all.
But not this time. Iâve had enough.
âThen business school,â my mom corrects, âOr even straight to the company, working with your dad. Weâve been talking, and thereâs a seat opening up on the boardââ
âNo, mom, stop it!â My voice rings out, harsh, and thereâs silence.
âIâm sorry,â I bite back my frustration, âBut youâre not listening. Iâm not coming home, Iâm not joining the firm. This is it, mom, itâs done.â
âI just canât stand to see you throwing away all your potential. Youâre not a kid anymore, Hunter. You have responsibilities.â She tries again, but itâs late, and Iâm too tired for this. Seeing Brit again like that has got me on edge, too wound up to go another ten rounds with my mother and wind up exactly where we started.
âI got to go mom,â I tell her. âYou take care, OK?â
âHunterââ
I hang up, and take a deep breath, gazing out at the dark fields. Itâs quiet out there, unnervingly so. This empty space is still new to me, echoing nothing but the chirp of the crickets in the grass. Back at college, lights blazed everywhere, and noise too; late night parties in the dorm, and 24/7 takeout joints lining the streets in the student ghettos. I could always find a distraction, something to block my own thoughts, but here, the nearest property is over a mile away, and tonight, thereâs nothing but silence.
I go get another beer and flip the TV on to drown the quiet. Some old movie is playing, Cool Hand Luke, but I canât concentrate. As two beers turn into four, and five, I slip into a sleepy haze and the memories start coming. The way I knew they would; the way they always do.
*
âBET YOU TEN BUCKS.â
âDude, make it fifty.â
âThatâs right, I forgot, youâve got that graduation check burning a hole in your pocket.â I laugh, passing Jace the blunt to smoke. âOr should I call it the down payment on your soul?â
âAww, man, donât say it like that.â Jace exhales in a long sigh, smoke billowing out over the dock. He looks at the joint. âThis is good stuff, whereâd you find it?â
I shrug. âSome guy at a bar. And donât change the subject. I canât believe youâre signing up to play dadâs lapdog come fall.â
Jace rolls his eyes good-naturedly. âI wonât even be in his department, I bet I wonât see him at all.â
âExcept for lunch, and client dinners, and weekends playing golf at the clubâ¦â I tease, only half-joking. âIâm serious, man. Working in that place is like a death sentence. Theyâll have your name over the door before you know it. Covington and Son.â
âSons,â Jace corrects me with a smirk. âYou know heâll be gunning for you too. Just a matter of time.â
I groan, reaching for the joint again. âYou ever think what it would be like if we werenât⦠us?â I ask, wistful. The ocean is dark and limitless beyond the harbor, and I wonder for the hundredth time what it would be like to sail off to nowhere. âJust two regular kids, I mean, with none of this Covington bullshit to deal with.â
Jace looks at me like Iâm crazy. âYou want to be just another regular Joe? Weâre lucky. We can do anything we want.â
âAnything mom and dad want.â I correct.
He laughs. âYouâll see. Youâll grow up soon, and youâll realize people donât get breaks like us. We can run this whole damn state one day. Congressman. Governor. â
âWhy stop there?â I remark, sarcastic. âWhy not make it President?â
âWhy not?â Jace gives me a grin so cocky I have to toss a bag of chips at him.
âDouche.â
âAsshole.â
âDickwad.â
Jace launches himself at me, and we tumble to the dock, tussling the way weâve done ever since he was old enough to get me in a choke hold. For years, I struggled uselessly in his gripsâfour years older is a lot in kid wrestling termsâbut ever since I filled out and made the football team as a linebacker, Iâve given him a run for his money.
This time, I nearly have him, until Jace flips me out of nowhere, and I wind up slammed facedown on the dock. âI get it, dude,â I protest, slamming the boards in defeat. âYouâre still in shapeâfor an old man.â
âWatch it, kid.â Jace offers a hand to pull me back up. âI can still take you here, or out there.â He nods at the dark water.
âSo put your money where your mouth is.â
âI got a better idea.â Jace gives me a grin. âI win, you have to go talk to that waitress youâve been drooling over.â
I tense. âWhat are you talking about?â
âDonât give me that.â He punches my arm. âIâve seen you. The jailbait one at Mrs. Olsonâs, she keeps dying her hair all those crazy colors.â
I shrug, as if I donât know who he means. âPlenty of girls in this town.â
Jace isnât fooled. âWhatever, dude. Iâve heard people talk, she could show you a real good time.â
âDonât say that.â My reply comes out harsh, and Jace raises his eyebrows in surprise.
âSee, I knew you liked her.â
âI donât,â I answer automatically. âI just⦠I donât listen to gossip, is all. We donât know her.â
âWe know she wears that black dress thing real well.â Jace smirks again, and I feel anger rise up in my chest.
âLeave it.â I warn him.
He holds his hands
up, âWhoa, I get it. Off-limits.â He reaches for his beer and swallows back the rest of the bottle. âSo, we doing this or what?â Jace nods at the water.
âSure.â I reply, glad to change the subject. âGet ready to pay, old man, âcause youâre going down.â
*
THE SOUND OF infomercials wakes me.
I sit up, my head pounding, and squint at my watch. Itâs 4:00 a.m. and dawn is breaking outside on the far horizon.
I pull myself up off the couch and go fix myself a coffee, pouring in a splash of whiskey to take the edge off my headache as I head out onto the back porch. I settle in the swing, watching the sun slowly edge up over the trees, dark skies brightening with the new day.
Slowly, the ache in my chest eases. Like every morning, I waitââ wait for the shadows of the night to drift away. For the memories to tuck themselves away in the back of my mind for another night. For the world to slip back in focus.
Just one more day, trying to feel human.
They say it gets better in time, but Iâm still waiting. Even now, I still wake to nights so dark I donât think Iâll live to see dawn. Nights when a bottle of whiskey is my only friend, and the past is a knife, slicing through the façade Iâve built and digging deep into my heart.
Itâs in those darkest hours that I find myself reaching for the memory of her, like a kid grabbing at his blanket after waking from a bad dream.
Brit.
Funny, how the idea of someone can mean so much. It was just a few hours we spent together all those years ago, but Iâve clung to the memory of her strength and tenderness, like the only light in my darkness. A north star, guiding me on, making me believe that for all my guilt and grief, I could feel something more too. A moment of peace, some glimmer of joy.
She saved me, and she doesnât even know it.
The irony makes me smile, but itâs a bitter one, edged with rueful resignation. Youâre a damn fool, Hunter Covington, I tell myself, taking another gulp of bitter black coffee. Iâm not crazy, Iâve known all along that the girl in my mind doesnât exist anymore â if she ever did to begin with. It was just a summer fling. Some boy she hooked up with back when she was too young to know any better. Itâs not like she even stuck around to see morning with me.
But Iâve kept her with me all this time, like a photo tucked in my wallet, or a letter pressed against a soldierâs chest, folded safely like a reminder of better times. Something to hold onto, some reason to believe.
And now, sheâs real again.
I think back to last night, greedily pulling apart the details in my mind. The cutoff denim miniskirt, barely covering her creamy, pale thighs. Her petite frame, lush curves straining at the edge of her bra. And that faceâ¦
Iâve often wondered if my memory was playing tricks on me: if any girl could be as gorgeous as my memory of her. I figured reality had faded under my imagination, painting her more lovely than the truth.
I was right. My memories were all wrong. Because Brit is even more stunning now than I thought possible.
Heartstopping. Soul-crushing. Beautiful.
I feel a surge of desire and let out a ragged sigh. Yeah, Iâm a fool alright. A fool for coming back here. A fool to cling on to the vision of a girl I barely even know.
And a fool for wanting her so desperately, all over again.
I get to my feet, and head inside, finding my phone and a scrap of paper with a scribbled number. Itâs early, but the person on the other end of the line picks up almost right away. Guess Iâm not the only one having a bad night.
âHey,â I start, âIâm going to need your helpâ¦â
CHAPTER FIVE
BRIT
HE CALLS.
Garrett must have given him my number, because Hunter rings the next morning, and that night, and all through Sunday too. I donât pick up, but each time, he leaves me a message in his familiar, sexy drawl.
âI donât care if youâre playing hard to get.â I play his latest voicemail, feeling a shiver at the casual amusement in his tone. âYour kisses donât lie. Iâll see you tomorrow at six.â
I hang up, cursing myself for the scene in the storeroom. That place must have a weird power over us Ray kids, because I canât think of a single reason why I could be so stupid as to swoon right into Hunterâs arms.
Maybe because those arms are so damn sexy�
No! I push back the dizzying memory of his lips, softly brushing mine, and hurl my cellphone across to the couch, safely out of reach. I made those rules three years ago for a reason, and not a damn thing has changed since then. Even if he makes me feel like nothing else on earth, thatâs not enough. Heâs still perfect and gorgeous and wealthy, and Iâm still⦠not. Not nearly good enough for the likes of him.
Heâll only break my heart.
But my God, youâd die happy.
I crank my music up and turn my attention back to the sketches scattered across the table in front of me. Hiding away trying to avoid Hunter has been good for one thing, at least: with the whole weekend to spend on my designs, the sketches of my dream dress are coming along at an amazing rate. The silk is still sitting in their bags, carefully folded in layers of tissue paper, but I couldnât resist pulling out a tiny corner to look it. It spills out onto my work bench in a pool of deep, violet fabric, full of possibilities.
The dresses take shape under my pencils, sharp strokes bringing them to life. Should I try this one, with a gathered bodice, or let the silk fall in a single drape? And the hemlineâ¦
I work until afternoon, finally taking a break to stretch out my muscles and go fix a PB&J sandwich. I eat on the back porch, watching the ocean waves roll in to shore.
âKnock, knock.â
I look up. Garrett circles the back of the house and climbs the steps. He clocks my grade-school lunch and laughs. âI havenât seen you in days, I figured youâd starved to death by now.â
âI can take care of myself,â I retort. Itâs no secret I live off burgers and fries at Jimmyâs these days, grabbing a snack in between shifts and eating cold pizza for breakfast the next morning. I hold up my sandwich as evidence, âSee, a fully nutritious meal.â
âI donât see any vegetables,â Garrett teases, collapsing on the porch swing.
âStrawberry jam. Fruit,â I declare, and take a big bite.
âDonât blame me when you die of scurvy.â
I laugh. âSays the guy who lives off of takeout and beer. You better watch yourself,â I add. âIâm starting to see a beer gut there.â
âWhat, here?â Garrett lifts his shirt, revealing washboard abs, and the scroll of a tattoo that reads Semper Fi. âNah, Iâm good.â
âPut it away.â I toss a potato chip at him. It bounces off his stomach before Garrett grabs it and crunches happily.
âSo whatâs with you?â He asks. âI havenât seen you all weekend.â
I shrug. âIâve been busy. Iâm working on a new dress.â
âOh yeah?â Garrett raises an eyebrow. âAnd this busy wouldnât have anything to do with that Hunter guy, would it?â
âNo.â I look down, my cheeks flushing.
Garrett chuckles. âLittle Brittany Ray, blushing over a guy. I never thought Iâd see the day.â
âYou havenât.â I snap, getting up. âNothingâs going to happen, so just drop it.â
I head back inside the kitchen and rinse my plate. Garrett follows, leaning in the doorway. âWhatâs the problem? He seems like a good guy.â
âHe is.â I admit, reluctant. Too good.
âAnd he sure seems into you,â Garrett adds, âA feeling which is totally requited, going by the
way you two were eye-fucking at the bar the other night.â
âDude!â
âJust calling it like I see it.â Garrett grins. âSo, whereâs the damage? Have some drinks, have a little fun. Itâs about time you hooked up with someone decent, instead of those skeezy assholes you like to bring around.â
I donât argue with his description of my usual hook-up type. Thatâs part of the reason I pick them in the first place. Theyâre safe territory, a foregone disappointment. If I donât expect them to do anything besides let me down, then at least it hurts a little less when they screw me over in the end.
But Hunter?
I already know, I would believe every word that comes from those perfect lips. And when, in the end, he lets me downâbecause they always let me downâwell then I wouldnât just be heartbroken, Iâd be a fool too.
And I always swore, Iâm nobodyâs fool.
Garrettâs still waiting for an answer, so I sigh in defeat. âHeâs too perfect,â I confess, leaning back against the sink. I twist the dishcloth in my hands, embarrassed. âThat hair and that face and all that money⦠Itâs too much. I end up feeling like a broken mess around him, like Iâm nothing.â
âYouâre building him up,â Garrett argues. âNobodyâs perfect.â
I snort. âBelieve me, Hunter Covington is. You saw him, waltzing into Jimmyâs like he owns the place. Some people are just born with a silver spoon in their mouths. And us mere mortals should know better than to mess around with them.â
Garrett shakes his head slowly, with a ghost of a smile. âEverybodyâs got their secrets, Brit. Some people are just better at hiding their scars.â
I pause, wondering if heâs talking about himself. Garrett showed up in town out of nowhere last year, but he always finds a way to change the subject if it ever turns to him. He hit it off with Emerson at the bar, and the two of us fell into our easy, big brother-little sister dynamic, but Iâve always understood, some things are off-limits. Like what he did before he came here, the life he left behind.