by K. K. Allen
“Why didn’t you tell me that when I was eight?” I laugh lightly, and he smiles in return.
“I didn’t know the woods as well as I do now. I’ve probably explored every square inch of it at this point.”
I laugh again. “Why? That sounds uneventful.”
He shrugs, but he doesn’t return my laughter with his own this time. Instead, his jaw ticks and his eyes harden. My insides twist as a disturbing thought comes to me, remembering the missing bodies probably buried somewhere in these woods. Has he been looking for them this entire time? I can’t bring myself to ask him the question out loud. No good could possibly come of it.
I decide to change the subject. “I just figured if I followed the river, I’d easily be able to find my way home.”
He nods. “That’s a good plan. Still, I’d like to show you around. In case there’s a next time and you happen to stray away from the water or encounter a bear.”
“A bear?” I screech. Jaxon just laughs.
“It could happen.”
“And what? You’ve got tips for bear encounters?”
He shrugs. “Sure. And deer, and skunks.”
Lacey plows ahead of us, probably bored of our bickering. As she sniffs her way along the water’s edge, stopping every so often to mark her territory. I feel like it’s my turn to speak, but I’m having trouble initiating anything more than another awkward conversation.
We walk in silence for a few minutes before he takes my hand, squeezing tight like he thinks I’ll pull away, and looks around like he’s checking for something. “Let’s cross here.” He helps me jump from one slick rock to the next until we’ve crossed the shallow stream.
“Lacey,” he shouts, getting her attention. She bounds across the stream to join us. Once on land, she shakes her body, throwing water everywhere before taking off ahead of us into the woods.
When I realize I’m still holding Jaxon’s hand, I release it, tingles radiating through my palm. My legs begin to burn, and I look around to find us in the same spot I was in yesterday, except on the opposite side of the river. “Are we going swimming?” I ask when we reach the top of the hill.
“No. Not today. There’s somewhere I want to take you. We’re taking a shortcut.”
He hands me a canteen I had no clue he was hiding, and I drink from it, thankful for the cold relief against my throat. He takes a sip next and then pats Lacey’s butt, signaling for her to continue. “Go on, girl.”
Lacey trots off ahead of us, her bushy tail wagging behind her. “She knows where we’re going?”
“Uh huh.”
“You two speak a secret language I don’t know about?”
I love when Jaxon smiles. His steely eyes shine bright, and a small dimple appears in his cheek above his beard. “Lacey and I walk these woods a lot, but we rarely head south of French Broad River. There’s only one cottage up that way. Remember that one?” He smiles as he references the cottage where I caught him painting for the first time. “I haven’t touched the place in years, so it’s falling apart. The wild animals tend to roam there, just in front of Hollow Falls. I let them have their space, and they stay away from the other rentals.”
“Let me get this straight. You manage your parents’ old properties. You have some weird telepathic language with my dog. And you’re a famous local artist. You’ve really stepped up your game since I last saw you, huh?”
Another smile, this one bigger. “You’ve been paying attention.”
Quiet falls around us as my mind begins to wander. This fascination I have with Jaxon is not something I’ve felt in a long time. It was never like this with Scott. I’ve never had to work so hard to get to know someone. To be fair, I’ve never wanted to work so hard to get to know someone.
The thought of Scott sends a huge wave of guilt rolling over me. It’s hard not to compare every conversation and situation to him. For so long it felt like he and I lived in isolation. It was hard to make new friends after my father’s sentence. Trust wasn’t an easy thing to come by, and I never socialized enough outside of my friendship with Scott to get to know other men.
My thoughts fade as I notice that Lacey has stopped walking and is now sniffing around aggressively. The stream has gained power and sounds like it’s in surround sound. I swallow, a familiar feeling skittering up my spine.
We’ve come to a clearing in the woods, and we’re back along the edge of the river. I must have been so deep in thought that I completely missed our approach.
Looking up, I gasp. “Is this—?”
But I don’t need to finish the question. It looks just as it does in the painting and in my memory. A long stretch of dark brown wood arches from one side of the dangerous water to the other. Each splash slams and slips over boulders, pushing away the smaller rocks and spraying the air with mist.
I wish I brought my phone so I could capture this moment. The way the sun peeks through the trees, bathing the bridge in its light. The way nature’s shadows cast down, cloaking parts of the wooden bridge.
“It’s still here,” I breathe.
Jaxon comes up behind me, standing just inches from my back. For a second, I close my eyes, trying to catch his crisp alpine scent mixed with the earth tones of my surroundings.
“Well,” he encourages, “go check it out.”
I look over my shoulder. “Really? It’s still safe to walk on?”
He nods. “Of course.”
Feeling the crunch and sink of dirt and rock beneath my shoes, I’m giddy with memories—the best of the best. It’s like a greatest hits album is spinning on a loop in my head, bringing back scenes of the friendship we never saw coming. I think about our painting sessions where we would haul our canvases, tripods, and supplies into the woods and paint until we’d bled our hearts onto the backdrop. We painted everything we felt, heard, saw… It was a race against the clock to accomplish everything we could before the sun began to dip and we had to rush home.
The moment my hand lands on the top of the rail, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. It’s the exact feeling I was searching for when I first arrived in Balsam Grove and got to the cottage one week ago. When I was desperate to feel something familiar.
I walk from one end of the bridge to the other and back again, running a hand over the rounded rail that was handcrafted long before I ever stepped foot in this town.
Jaxon doesn’t approach until I take a seat at the center of the arch, letting my feet dangle over the edge. The wood is soft and sturdy beneath my palms as I curl my fingers around the rail. Staring out at the scene before me, I watch the river rage and feel the cool spray of water hit my legs. And I smile.
At first I think the laughter I hear is coming from nearby, but then I close my eyes and I realize it’s all in my mind. All in one simple, slow-building memory.
This was home. Right here. Jaxon and me. This was our happy place, and that’s why he brought me here today. He wants me to remember.
My mind is spinning when I give in to the memories of the boy that made my heart beat against my chest the way the water beats against the boulders. At fifteen, I couldn’t tell him he made me feel that way. I couldn’t tell anyone. Instead, I watched him toss rocks as far as he could throw them, admiring the jut of his jaw and the rounded peaks of his cheekbones as the sun poured down on him, painting him in the most glorious light.
The memory fades away and I open my eyes, leaving my heart crashing against my chest once more. Peering to my right, I find Jax just as he was in my memory, tossing rock after rock after rock over the most powerful peak of the waterfall. Until he looks over at me and pauses.
After all this time, could he possibly still want me? What we had was strong, but the forces that kept us apart felt stronger. Could I forgive him for what he did?
He sits beside me on the bridge, remaining quiet, like he knows this is my moment.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask after a moment.
His eyes remain fixed ahead. “I thought maybe you’d want to see that nothing much has changed. It’s still here, right where you left it. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to paint as much as I used to. I’ve kind of seen it all.” He swallows.
The events of the last few days flip through my mind like a picture book.
Jaxon looking for Lacey at my house during the storm.
My attraction to his paintings in the café, then seeing him again just moments later.
Spying on him under the double falls.
His new life.
His attentiveness during and after my panic attack.
Him showing up at my house today, unannounced. It was like he knew I needed him. Jaxon always knew. Jaxon always cared.
When he confessed my secrets in that courtroom six years ago, my heart shut down. Not just toward him, but toward everything I once loved. Who would have known that the things I shut out to survive were the same things that could bring me back to life? Because that’s how I’ve felt since coming back here. Like I’ve been waking up, trading darkness for light.
“I was happy here.” I can feel the quiver in my words.
“You were,” he says. “We were happy here. You and me.”
Oxygen fills my lungs as I attempt to steer around his words. I’m not ready to have that conversation. “It’s amazing what you’re doing with your art, Jaxon. I know I didn’t say anything before, but you should know I’m proud of you. You’re making things happen.”
There’s a downward tilt of his lips as he picks up a rock and tosses it into the river. “Shutting myself off from the world to paint until my fingers feel like they might fall off has always come easy. I might be going through some sort of painter’s block right now, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, you know?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I wish I did, but I don’t. It was easy for me to give it up.”
“You can do it again. Just pick up a brush. That kind of talent doesn’t just disappear.”
He doesn’t understand. No one does. “I tried once, but I—” Looking up, I almost collapse from the heat behind his eyes. Jaxon’s always been good at making me feel like the only other person in the room. Like I’m the only one on this entire planet that means anything to him. Maybe that was true once, but it can’t possibly be true now. There’s too much history. Too much time spent apart.
Still, he stares at me like we’re tethered together by infinite possibilities. And what I wouldn’t give for that to be true.
“I can’t paint,” I admit. “M-my fingers shake, and my hand doesn’t move. My vision gets all blurry when I try to mix colors, and I cry, Jaxon. I cry for hours. It’s just…not the same.”
He leans in. I can feel his breath scrape my cheek. “Let me help.”
I glue my eyes to the river. “No.”
“Why not? You helped me when I needed it most,” he says.
Turning my eyes down, I catch the movement as his knee slides closer to mine. I sigh, knowing Jaxon is making this into a bigger deal than it is. “All I did was buy you a canvas and some paint so you could create something you didn’t have to cover up.”
“You were eight.” He says it like that meant something to him.
“I earned an allowance.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “Aurora. You changed my life when you handed me that canvas. I finally realized why I’d been so miserable. Because while I may have been lost in all the moments I painted, it was like everything I’d created and covered ceased to exist the moment I slapped that damn eggshell semi-gloss over it. You set me free.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything.”
I look up and suck in a sharp breath. He’s so close. Mere inches away, and all I want to do is grip his shirt between my fingers and tug until his mouth falls on mine.
“You’re lucky to be able to live your dream.” My words come out soft, but by the jerk of his head, I know he hears me.
“So can you. If I can do it, so can you.”
Shaking my head, I recall another painful memory. “No, Jaxon. You seem to be forgetting how different our dreams were. You settled because of me, and I was angry for it.”
That same intense heat rips through my insides, just as it did the day I found out he turned down the biggest opportunity of his life because of me.
Jaxon’s true dream was to leave Balsam Grove and take his art with him. He wanted to travel, painting the world’s landscapes, not just this one. What he said earlier about running out of things to paint—it’s true. And it’s all because of me.
“I wasn’t going to leave you here. Not alone. Not with—” Jaxon slaps the back of his neck and grips it. “No, we are not doing this. If you still think I was in the wrong, then I guess that will never change. I did what I had to because I loved you, and I never once regretted it.”
“You would have.”
“No. I wouldn’t have.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I do know that. You still don’t get it. Dreams change. I would have never been happy leaving you here while I chased old dreams. I wanted to take you with me. I wanted to make new plans.”
I shake my head, refusing to be pulled back into that awful fight. “I could have gotten over that. We would have been okay. That’s not the reason I stayed away for the past six years, and you know it.”
“Stop, Aurora.” He pulls away, fearing what I’m about to say.
“You gave the cops everything they needed to book my father, based on my confessions to you. My secrets. You might as well have handed over my diary. There was no evidence, but they didn’t even care. They had your word that he was a monster.” My chest is on fire. “Just because a man has a mental disorder doesn’t make him a monster.”
Jaxon’s eyes widen and his face turns a disturbing shade of red. “No evid–?” He stops short and shakes his head. “Aurora, you were nearly a corpse when that deputy found you in your father’s arms. I saw the photos. I wish to hell I didn’t because I will never get those images out of my mind. They haunt me to this day. All I did was tell the truth.”
“It wasn’t your truth to tell!” Heat lashes through my body. I’ve walked into an inferno with no exit in sight. Apparently, time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time seems to have only made things worse.
“What did you want me to do?” Jaxon lifts his arms and drops them like he’s exhausted. “Should I have lied when they questioned me at the station? Or in a court of law? Would that have made you happy, Aurora? I had to tell the truth. I had to protect you. Your father was mentally ill. You and I both know that in itself isn’t a crime. But do you remember how many nights you crawled out of your window and in through mine just to get some sleep? You were terrified of him.”
“I didn’t understand what he was going through. There’s a difference.”
I’m shaking from the inside out, my head spinning at the dark memories that ambush my mind. Memories of my father’s nightmares that would wake him with the most heart-wrenching screams. The sudden explosions of anger that would burst from him at any memory of my mom, which grew more frequent over time. But it was the volatile way he ripped my art from my possession that the lawyers latched onto.
The fear I had of my father was embarrassing. I never wanted anyone to know, but Jaxon knew everything about me. I trusted him, and then he betrayed my trust by revealing my darkest confession to everyone—strangers, neighbors, family, friends. Everyone.
He doesn’t respond, and the pain of the past bleeds into my veins like poison, spreading, thickening, and filling my heart with a rage I find incomprehensible. Why is my anger directed at Jaxon when my father is the guilty one—when he pleaded insanity for unimaginable crimes?
“I loved him.” My words are soft and true, and I know it’s something Jaxon won’t be able to understand. How could a gir
l still love a man who would do that to her? To others? Why don’t I hate him? I should hate him. Sometimes I do hate him, but it’s not enough to make me forget Jaxon’s betrayal. But for the first time in six years, I can admit to myself that I want to.
“What happened that night, Jax?” Emotion grips my throat as I speak. This is the first time in years I’ve broached the subject. But maybe there’s something more to it all. He looks at me like he doesn’t quite understand what I’m asking. “The last thing I remember about that night was leaving you. We had just argued about you not accepting the offer to join the workshop. Lacey was with me. I remember sobbing as I left, and then—nothing. I woke up over a week later in a hospital bed and no recollection of anything.”
Jaxon finds my hand and threads his fingers into mine. “I should have never let you leave that night. We were both so angry.” He drops his head. “I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to you.”
I squeeze his hand and face him with tear-filled eyes. “Stop. I can barely handle the guilt I carry for my father. We argued. Couples argue all the time. I just wish I could remember what happened after I left you. It was rainy and windy. Lacey was with me. And then everything just fades to black.” I take a deep breath. “During my father’s trial, they realized that all the girls went missing during a storm.”
Jaxon breathes through his nose. “Don’t you think it’s better that you forgot what happened that night?”
I squeeze my eyes together, knowing exactly what he means. I’ve been there, thinking the exact same thing. But forgetting hurts.
“I’ve been forgetting for years, Jaxon, and losing pieces of myself while doing it. I’m tired of forgetting. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself completely.”
“Let me help you.”
“How?”
“Everything is connected,” he says. “Every event, every painting. Everything. You want to know why you were happy in Balsam Grove when you visited? You experienced life, Aurora. You were open to its charm, and in return, it surrounded you. You lived it, you breathed it. And you can do it again. No one will ever be able to recover your memories for you. Those are yours. And your theory that you could ever lose yourself completely is bullshit. That could never happen, and the proof of that is here with you now.”