by Meg Collett
She waded farther out until the surf started getting choppy. Her board slipped beneath her like a rough, calloused hand skimming down her body. It was a hardness she welcomed in its familiarity. She filled her lungs with air and pressed down just as a slight wave built above her. Then she was under, and it was miraculous.
The power surged around her. She opened her eyes and blinked, seeing the point of the board in front of her and the press of the water around her, cocooning and holding her. It felt safe as houses under the ocean as the waves crashed above her. Her body was still on her board as it found its way back to the surface, and when they emerged, Kyra slung her hair back and shook the water from her face.
This was love, she thought. This was the safest kind of love possible.
She could die out here, she knew. The ocean could take her under and not bring her back up. It was a wicked woman, a beautiful kiss of death. Kyra paddled behind the break of the surf and sat up, bobbing along with the now peaceful waves. Even with its great capacity to kill, the ocean could be the biggest sigh of relief. And Kyra liked that: the wavering, blurring line between calm and storm.
The swell was down today. It wouldn’t be fun surfing, but Kyra didn’t need that right now. She just needed to sit out here and feel infinite. She needed to feel like the ocean was taking out the darkness and clearing away the bad things pressing in around her, loosening the coils that wrapped around so tightly inside of her.
Kyra stayed out there for a while, sitting or riding waves whenever she felt like it. She paddled a lot against the current. The fatigue in her arms felt good. The brine in her nose smelled like home. Her hair was half dry and half wet, and even its mess seemed right.
Only when she could breathe and not feel pain did she let a wave bring her in. When she stood up, holding her board beneath her arm, and waded in, her smile came easy and free. The tension that had tried to crush her was gone, and she was buoyed, bobbing along the surface just as she had on the water.
She was fixed, and she didn’t need the blade in the medicine cabinet to accomplish the peace she felt now.
She sat her board on the porch and went inside the house, expecting Hale to be working, but he was gone and the house was just a hollow shell. As she walked back up to her room, she wondered why she’d kissed him. It was impulse and something inside her that demanded to be let loose. She hadn’t been overcome with lust or something ridiculous like that; she’d just wondered what it would feel like to do that right then, to surprise him and herself, and really be in that moment.
She went into her bathroom and peeled off her suit. The water screeched to life in the ancient claw-foot tub. While it filled, Kyra stared at herself in the mirror.
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes as if she could see past the beauty to the woman within. She thought she could do that with Hale. She saw a man whose honesty was brutal and strange to others. The story of his life was on his arms for all to see: his wounds and triumphs, all forever cast in ink. Kyra’s secrets were hidden deep beneath shimmering blue eyes, a toned body, and a bright smile.
She wondered what it would be like to bear a secret on her skin, to pass a stranger on the street and let him see a mark on her body that told a story of her. Kyra swallowed, her eyes widening. Suddenly, all she wanted was to give away a secret.
She hopped in the bath and washed off. She bypassed all her normal products and just let the water cleanse her again. By the time she was dressed and ready, her heart was hammering. She pounded down the stairs and out the front door.
She glanced at Stevie’s house only briefly before she headed to her Jeep. She wanted to do this alone. She wanted to see if she could do this alone.
twelve
Let me get this straight. You got a tattoo without me?”
Kyra laughed. Stevie’s hair was flat against her head on one side and sticking straight up on the other. She held a glass of wine in her hand and a spatula slathered in icing in the other. “Yeah, but I didn’t leave you out on purpose or anything.”
“Oh, good. That makes me feel better.” Stevie huffed and turned back to the doughy glob of cupcakes in front of her. “Something about this doesn’t look right,” she mused.
“Did you cook them?”
“Of course I cooked them,” Stevie said, rolling her eyes. Suddenly, she sat down her wine glass and turned back to Kyra. Her eyes were serious and almost as if she’d turned it off, the sheen of alcohol was gone too. “Why did you get that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. That tattoo makes it seem like you have problems, but you’re a girl who acts like she doesn’t have a care in the world except for getting Hale Cooper to kiss her.”
Kyra swallowed. “We can mark that one off the list because I kissed him yesterday.” She offered a smile, but Stevie wasn’t falling for it.
“Why that tattoo, Kyra? What’s wrong?”
Something in Stevie’s voice, whether it was her sincere concern or just her tenacity to know the truth, made Kyra’s eyes prickle. It wasn’t enough to form tears, but she still had to fight down the urge. She flipped over her right wrist and looked again.
A small thin anchor now adorned the pale hollow of her wrist. Beneath it, the words ‘I will not sink’ were inked in a fine, swirling script. She loved it.
“I have problems too,” she said, meeting Stevie’s eyes.
Stevie scrutinized her face as if she could pick apart Kyra’s truths. She studied for so long that Kyra thought maybe she really was. Finally, Stevie blinked, and the seriousness was gone. She went back to her counter and picked up her wine, making Kyra think the conversation was over—until Stevie spoke again.
“You hide it well. Too well.” Stevie looked up. “Do you think I hide mine well?”
“No,” Kyra answered honestly. They bore their pain in very different ways.
“Me, neither. I guess I can thank my parents for that,” Stevie said with a dark laugh. “No more lies though, okay? Let’s just be us with our problems unhidden when we’re together. It’s too much work to fake it all the time, and I’m not into manual labor.”
Kyra’s smile was real this time. It was shy and small and very hopeful. For a second, Kyra thought now would be a good time to talk to her about her drinking, which Kyra had started to suspect was a bigger issue than Stevie let on. They were being open and honest, and so very, very close to speaking about the darkness within them, but the moment passed, and Stevie cranked up the music after she’d tossed the cupcakes in the trash.
“We can just eat the icing,” she announced. She hopped up on the counter and dipped her spatula into the frothy icing. “So, you kissed Hale Cooper.”
Kyra took a spoon from the countertop and dunked it into the icing. “Yeah.”
“Don’t just ‘yeah’ me. Give it to me good.”
The icing was a little too sweet, but it was still edible. Kyra took another nibble and licked her lips. “We kissed yesterday. And it was…” She didn’t really know what it was; she was still trying to figure that out herself. “It was honest,” she said, because it was the best she could come up with.
Stevie plunked her spatula back into the bowl, sending a glob of icing over the rim. “You’re not going to tell me kissing him was just ‘honest.’ If you tell me that is all it was, I will burn down your house.”
Kyra figured a girl like Stevie probably knew how to go about burning down a house, so she didn’t press her luck. “He was playing his music too loud, and I was trying to make a video. I had a time-sensitive mud mask on and the sound of his radio was ruining it. It did ruin it,” she added with a sigh. “So I was pissed. And I went downstairs and started yelling at him, but he ignored me. I wanted to get his attention.” She shrugged.
Stevie mimicked her shrug and made an awful face. “I wanted to get his attention,” she repeated in an awful rendition of Kyra’s voice. “So I kissed him.”
Kyra shook her head at her friend and laughed. She
took another bite of frosting. “I got his attention for sure. And that’s what I meant by being honest. I thought about kissing him because I knew it would shut him up. And I did it. I just…did it. And that felt almost better than the kiss.” Stevie raised her eyebrows at Kyra’s words. “I mean the feeling made the kiss even better.”
“Well,” Stevie started, picking her spatula back up. “I’m going to start with the most obvious question: Is he a good kisser?”
Kyra bit her lip and nodded, making Stevie roll her eyes dramatically. “It was probably the best kiss I’ve ever had, but that really isn’t saying much since my kissing experience is pretty limited. His skin was warm from where he’d been working. He wasn’t quite sweaty yet, but I could still smell it. When I kissed him, I tasted the salt of it around his lips. I had my legs around his waist—”
“What?” Stevie screeched, throwing her hands in the air and flinging icing everywhere. “That is so not just a kiss! You pounced on the poor guy! You’re a freaking animal!”
“I did,” Kyra agreed, smiling rather dreamily. “I jumped onto him, and he caught me. I could feel the muscles in his arms go all tight to hold me. And then I kissed him, but that didn’t last long.”
“He stopped it?” Stevie asked, slightly breathless.
“No. He starting kissing me back, and it was like…”
“Like what?” Stevie yelled.
“Like he needed to taste every part of my mouth. Like maybe he had wanted to kiss me too, but I was the one that did it first. It kind of felt like he wanted every inch of me, but all he had was my mouth. So he took it. And all I could do was just hold on.” Kyra shrugged when she was finished.
Stevie was wide-eyed with her mouth parted slightly. She blinked as if she was waking up from a dream. Then she shivered. “Well, I’m good to go for another few months.” She squeezed her legs together and made another face. “Oh, yeah. That’ll do.”
Kyra’s laugh bubbled up from deep in her chest. It was the most authentic kind, the kind she couldn’t control. It overtook her until she was doubled over with the force of it. When she was able to look up, she saw that Stevie was laughing the same kind of laugh.
“Well, that’s good to know,” Kyra said when she could speak again. She wiped at the tears beneath her eyes.
When she’d recovered too, Stevie asked, “So, what are you going to do about him?”
“I don’t know. He wanted to know too, but then my grandmother came by.”
“Oh, good grief. No wonder you went and got inked. I guess we’re lucky it doesn’t say, ‘screw you all’ or something.”
Kyra’s shock turned into another rolling, uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Not quite,” she choked out.
“You’ve got to deal with your crazy-ass grandma.”
That killed Kyra’s laughter. She stared into the bowl of frosting. “I have no idea what to do about Florence. She’s awful.”
Stevie crinkled her nose like she’d smelled something sour. “Yeah, she’s a real twat. And I hate being disrespectful toward old people…” She paused, considering her words. “Just kidding. I hate old people. I hope she kicks the bucket soon.”
“Stevie!” Kyra sputtered, choking on the big bite of frosting she’d just taken. “That’s terrible!”
Stevie shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “Eh.”
Their silence was comfortable. Together they cleaned up Stevie’s baking disaster, discovering she hadn’t even turned on the oven, hence the unbaked cupcakes. That ensued another round of bellyaching laughter. It was a good afternoon full of laughter and jokes. Kyra was glad she’d met Stevie, who was possibly the only person on the island who would accept Kyra and all her darkness. Emotions weighed on her. That didn’t make her crazy; it just made things tough.
After she said goodbye to Stevie, Kyra felt good enough that she figured today was as good as any. She crossed over to her house and locked up before she piled into her Jeep. She couldn’t avoid it forever. Sitting behind the wheel with the engine off, Kyra evaluated herself.
She felt strong after her afternoon with Stevie. Happy. Peaceful. The darkness inside her was buried deep today. The craving for a blade against her skin was far away.
So she took a few deep breaths. She could do this. She started the Jeep and pulled onto the street.
It wasn’t hard to find the cemetery. She’d passed it on her way onto the island the first day. Then she’d forced her eyes straight ahead, not trusting herself to look out the window as she drove past. Now, she parked in front of the gates that read “Canaan’s Cemetery.”
Kyra had never been afraid of cemeteries. Actually, she’d always admired their beauty; they had a profound quietness about them. They were always places Kyra was drawn to—and that was the very reason she rarely let herself go to one.
She passed through the gates and walked down the cracked pavement of the narrow road. It was a beautiful place. The trees were likely hundreds of years old with their reaching branches that wove above her head. The smell of flowers and pollen tickled deep inside her nose. She threaded her way to the center of the cemetery, marveling at the crumbling statues as she passed. All the graves were above ground, which made Kyra feel as if she was truly walking amongst the dead and not just above them.
The breeze ruffled through the loose strands of hair at the back of her neck. It was unbearably hot beneath the shade of the giant trees, and Kyra felt a clammy sweat slick across her skin. She swallowed to wet her drying mouth.
In the center of the cemetery was the Aberdeen crypt. It was elaborate and Victorian, with a huge lock on the front door. Not like Kyra wanted to go in anyway. She already knew her mother wouldn’t be buried inside with the other family members. Fury clenched Kyra’s heart at that thought. Even in death, Florence had insisted on estranging her daughter. To deny someone peace even in death seemed like the ultimate form of disrespect. After all her mother had gone through, she deserved to at least be buried with her family, to find the love she’d missed during her short life.
Kyra walked around the crypt to the side where a small statue garden was enclosed by thick, black metal fencing with heaps of green vines entangled around the bars. The vegetation was so dense and untamed, she couldn’t see inside, but she opened the creaking, heavy gate and entered. In the center was a lone granite grave.
Her feet carried her forward of their own accord. Inside the garden, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The air was cooler from the tall fencing keeping out the breeze and casting a perpetual shady darkness into the garden. Tall statues of angels stood at each corner of the garden, their faces tortured in everlasting sadness. A path wove to a side door of the crypt, while another path led to the front gate. Kyra doubted the paths were ever used, but it was typical in small, Southern communities like Canaan to bury suicides at a crossroads, which was formed by the paths.
Kyra settled her hand on the icy top of the grave. She’s in here, Kyra thought. Right beneath my hand. She pulled her hand away. Her eyes settled on the engraving on top of the lid, which was just an elaborate, scrolling L. No dates. No name.
The breeze rustled through the trees above her, spreading chill bumps down her arms and causing tears to inexplicably prick at the back of her eyes. She felt something, and the sensation made her heart tighten and her stomach twist. Looking around as if a spirit would materialize from the depths of the vines, she held her breath, a shiver working down her spine like a cold finger on her skin. She stood still as long as she could, but the feeling became too powerful. Unable to stand it any longer, she hurried outside the garden and back onto the little road that wove back to her Jeep.
She didn’t look back as she rushed away, wrapping her arms around her middle to warm herself. She wasn’t scared; she just couldn’t handle standing in her mother’s lonely garden anymore. It felt purposefully solemn and forlorn, with its sad statues of weeping angels and crossing paths. The grass was kept tidy, but there were no flowers, Kyra realized. Everywhere else had tons
of bright, blooming flowers, as if the cemetery was purposefully trying to be cheerful. But her mother’s garden had been cold and dark, with only crying stone for comfort.
It was the first time she’d ever visited her mother’s grave. She’d been too young to attend her burial. Even though she asked many times, Uncle Thomas had never taken her to the cemetery. She wished she could’ve stayed longer, but she knew the length of time at a grave didn’t make one a good daughter.
Kyra hopped into her Jeep and cranked up the heat until the chill was gone. It took a while, but she finally felt ready to drive. She started the car, feeling its throaty rumble beneath her as she looked out the windshield. The cemetery looked like a hidden oasis through the gates. It didn’t quite fit with the bright town of Canaan beyond it.
Kyra forced herself to look away to back out of her parking spot. She’d be back, she promised herself. And she would never forgive Florence for burying her only daughter in the saddest spot of the cemetery.
thirteen
Kyra opened the door to her house to find a slew of workers slapping drywall mud onto her walls, which meant the plumbing and electrical was finally up to code. Some of the men walked on weird-looking stilts to reach the ceiling. They all waved and called hellos to her as she passed through. She smiled and chatted with them, but her eyes instantly found Hale. He nailed a piece of drywall down and looked back at her. Their eyes met, and she offered a small smile. His expression immediately turned stormy.
She looked away and hurried up the stairs. Instead of turning toward her room, she went into the front bedroom, where the albums of her mother were still spread across the floor. Without pausing, she took her position in the window seat with the photo book she’d already started.
The pictures were likely typical to anyone else. Kyra noticed all the usual as she slowly flipped through—soccer games and swim parties. Halloween costumes and smiling over birthday cakes. It was all there: a whole life. It looked so happy. Florence smiled at her daughter, her love readily apparent.