Raine's Haven

by Shari J. Ryan

  "Good. Well, whatever you heard about me…don't go thinking it’s just a rumor. It wasn't a mistake," I argue.

  Her forehead creases and her brows buckle in toward her nose. "So you stole an entire register full of cash from Charlie's Store, and you don't consider that a mistake." An entire register. A hundred bucks.

  "No, it wasn't a mistake," I tell her again.

  I watch as she swallows what looks like a lump in her throat. Suddenly, she looks scared of me, rather than disgusted. I refuse to explain myself—my situation—and grovel for forgiveness.

  There's silence between us, and discomfort is growing quickly. "Why don't we just pretend like this past week never happened. You go back to your life, I'll go back to my life, and you won't have a reason to feel like you made a mistake."

  "Fine," she says, quicker than I thought she would.

  "Thanks for joining me today," I tell her as I take the step off the patio and head toward the front yard.

  She doesn't respond, and that's fine. I saw the smile she had on her face when she looked up into the sun today, and how happy she was to just swim in the lake without worry. The few things I can do whenever I want to are evidently the big things she appreciates.

  The irony between the rich and poor.

  7

  Haven

  Fifteen beautifully written books with thick plots and details that make me believe I am anywhere but here in the damned backyard with nothing but an acre of Bermuda grass, has defined the last four weeks of my summer break. Now that the mosquitos have overpopulated, threatening all of us with the West Nile virus, I've been inside for the final days before the school year starts back up.

  I close the final book I intended to read this summer and stand up with a destination in mind. Not that there's much of a choice, but it's either the sitting room or my bedroom. I try to switch it up, so I don't go completely insane.

  "Haven," Mom says, joining me on the couch. "The summer fair is tonight. You know we have to be present, and I would really like it if you joined us for this event.” I know they consider me to be an obnoxious teenager with as much as I say no, but I’ve stuck firm to my beliefs.

  My automatic response quickly rolls off the tip of my tongue. "I've got plans, plus aren’t we getting a hurricane?"

  With a sigh of aggravation, her only reply is, "For crying out loud, do you have plans with your bedroom or something?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact." She finally understands my sarcasm.

  "How about a compromise?" she presses. “Remember when you were a little girl and we went to the town fair every summer? You used to love the cotton candy and that magic carpet slide. Oh, and how could I forget the ring toss. You were the only little girl in our county who was able to win her own prize without the help of your daddy.” Her reminiscing pains me with the memories I have tried hard to block out. Doesn’t she understand that while I did have a great childhood, they ruined everything from five years ago up until now?

  Refusing to crack and trip with her down memory lane, I push every last word away, focusing on what’s important. "What is the compromise? I can come if I don't say a word?"

  She huffs with annoyance as grief settles on her face. She caused this. They caused this. Not me. "Lord almighty, you could start an argument in an empty house, couldn’t you now? I was going to say…you can wear what you want if it's tasteful."

  Is this when I'm supposed to say, “I win.”?

  "Fine," I tell her. "I'll go with you if we aren’t hit by the hurricane." See how simple that was, Mom? All you had to do was loosen the collar a bit.

  "You will?" she asks, clearly elated. “The forecast said the rain isn’t starting until late tonight, if at all, so we should be just fine.”

  "I've told you a million times. I refuse to be seen in public wearing the frilly shit you want me to put on. You give a little and get a little, right?” I know my mouth pisses her off as much as my choice of clothing, but she has forgotten the way she and Dad used to talk to each other, back in the day, before we all became something the public wanted to bow down to. Mom had a mouth that only a sailor would be proud of. That's what Dad always told her, anyway. The conversations and arguments I grew up listening to were impressionable, and since moving here, they've expected me to forget all of it. Except, for me, it's been like forgetting the language I spoke while growing up.

  "I'm going to ignore the words coming from your dirty mouth and assume you will act appropriately while with us tonight," she responds.

  "I'll just speak when spoken to. That should prevent anything foul from coming out of my mouth."

  Mom's eyes roll toward the back of her head, and she stands up from our firm, white couch, straightening her daytime dress over her hips. "We're leaving in two hours."

  "Mother," I say, forcing her to pause before leaving the room.

  "Yes, dear?"

  "Why do you dress and act like some 50's housewife? Do you actually think that's what the people in this town want to look up to? I mean, you give the appearance that you actually do housework, but what people don't realize is, you have someone doing all of that work for you." I can see it on her face. She'd like to slap me right now for speaking the truth, but she knows better.

  "Why are you always so ungrateful? Have you forgotten what our lives were like five years ago?" she asks, as if I needed the reminder of what we left behind.

  With a snicker, I do my best to keep my feelings to myself and offer just a bit of insight in return. "I haven't forgotten my roots. I'm not sure I can say the same for you, however."

  Exasperated, she slaps her gloved hands down against her sides and purses her lips with anger. "Haven, be ready in two hours."

  As she walks out of the sitting room, her fingers pinch at her right shoulder, a habit she has when she's upset or nervous. I've kept my mouth shut for too long.

  I make my way into my bedroom and slip on a pair of jeans without holes, with a white tiered shirt that covers my shoulders. This is my effort, and they can take or leave it.

  As I'm tying my hair up into a tight ponytail, Mom walks by my open room, inspecting my clothing option. "Why not let your hair down? A skirt would also look much nicer than denim." She just can't control herself.

  "I'm fine the way I am," I tell her.

  "Could you at least put on some lip gloss and maybe even a little mascara?" If only she knew the way I dressed for my little night outings, she’d never ask me to put on lip-gloss or mascara again.

  "No, I can't," I tell her. She won't say it to my face, but I know exactly what she's thinking. She’s either wondering if this was a big mistake, agreeing to compromise, or she's accepting the fact that she will feel mortified when people look at her unkempt daughter, ultimately judging her for my appearance.

  It takes Mom the full two hours to prepare herself for a fair, one with pie-eating contests and pig races. No one will be dressed for an elegant party...no one except her and Dad. She is the one giving out the town awards tonight, so she must play the role.

  I slip into the back seat of Dad's SUV feeling like a child, when I should be riding to this fair with friends—ones I don't have—but nevertheless, people my age who are going for far different reasons than mine. The fair is a place where teens spike their drinks and get high along the outskirts of the central entertainment. Then there's me—the “sick” girl on a leash.

  "Some of the girls from the neighborhood will be here tonight. Maybe you can meet up with them," Dad says while pulling into a reserved spot on the lawn in front of the fair's opening.

  I'd like to inform him of what the girls from our street really do when their parents aren’t watching them like a hawk, but then he’d know what I do, as well.

  I step out of the car, pulling down my oversized sunglasses to hide from the staring people as well as the setting sun. It takes less than a minute for Dad and Mom to get caught up in a conversation with a couple waiting to purchase their admission tickets, leaving me standing aw
kwardly behind them as if I were nothing more than their shadow.

  By the time we make it past the ticket booth, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and I'm no longer left with a real reason to wear my sunglasses, other than to hide from people.

  "Haven," a girl's voice calls from across the way. Maryanne trots over to me in a bright-colored sundress and spiked heels that must be miserable to walk through grass in. "I'm so glad you came. The girls and I were just about to go listen to the band warming up. Do you want to come?"

  "Go," Mom urges. "Have a good time with the other girls."

  Knowing nothing can be worse than standing behind my parents, I follow Maryanne across the fairgrounds, through the hundreds of people and up to the metal gate where the other girls from my neighborhood are standing. "Look who I found," Maryanne tells them.

  Three fake smiles zone in on me and I silently join them, redirecting my attention to the empty stage in front of us. "I heard one of the guys in this band was on America's Got Talent," Andrea says.

  "What's he doing here?" Kinsley asks through laughter.

  "Well, he didn't win, so…" the four of them giggle and I know I should be trying to join in with their laughter, but as always, I feel uncomfortable around them. They all grew up with money and in this lifestyle. They weren't rerouted at the beginning of their teenage years and expected to adapt to something so unfamiliar and real. All of them are a mother's dream, dressed the way Mom would give her right arm for me to look. They have all tried their hand in offering me a makeover or to take me shopping, but it's not me, no matter how long I live like this. I don't think it will ever be me. I will always feel as though I'm pretending to be someone I'm not.

  While watching as a crew sets the stage for the band, my eyes settle on the back of a man who's lining up more barriers up front of the stage. He's dressed in a white shirt that appears to have shrunk at some point. The fabric pulls away from the waist of his belted jeans every time he leans over to fix a part of the barrier. The sounds of snickering and whispers from the girls float over my head as I realize they are all drooling over this man.

  Our town is small, and options of attractive men are slight, which is why we sneak out to the next town over once or twice a month. It's not that the men are better looking in that town, but at least there are other faces to admire. Everyone knows everyone here, and it feels a little too small. I always thought I'd love the idea of living in an unpopulated town, but it isn't all it's cracked up to be when you’re a teenager. Every person who lives here is proud of this place and speaks of it as if it's the Buckingham Palace of Louisiana, but we're so far from it. The average family makes less than thirty-thousand a year, and then there's a spattering of wealthy people who all fit nicely into one neighborhood made up of three short streets. Most of the townspeople don't like us. They pretend to, but who honestly enjoys living in near poverty while idolizing those who want and need for nothing. It's what confuses me about Dad and the people who treat him like he's God here. Do they like him? If so, why? Or maybe, they just think if they're nice enough to him, he'll help them out? For their sake, I hope they don’t believe that.

  As the man tending to the barriers turns around, my heart does a leap into my throat. Raine. I haven't seen him in a couple of months, not since the night in my backyard when I told him I wish we had never met. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was easier than wanting something I couldn't have, all while feeling like a loser at the same time. He saw me in a way I didn't want him to see me. He felt sorry for me, and that's the last thing I want. I feel sorry enough for myself most of the time.

  Kinsley hoists herself up onto the flat part of the gated barrier and swings her legs over to the closed-up space where Raine is. What is she doing? I should know what she's doing. Kinsley has gained quite a reputation for herself among the four us who know what she truly does in her spare time. She walks straight up to Raine and places her hand on his shoulder. I can't hear the conversation, but watching the way she curls her hair around her ear, smiling shyly as she peers up at him, makes my stomach twist into a knot. I have no reason to feel that way, though, after telling Raine to leave me alone.

  Kinsley is a little older and more of Raine's type, considering his choice of women I've seen him with at the bar. She's definitely more of a handful than I'd ever be, which makes me wonder if I've met a man around this town who would stop and consider the trouble one of us girls could cause them. What Raine probably won't realize is, I believe I am the least likely to cause him trouble.

  Raine seems smitten by her until she points over at us. When he spots me, the grin on his face fades. Kinsley is talking his ear off, but the guy isn't paying attention. Instead, he walks away from her while she's mid-sentence and makes his way up to the gate separating us. He's staring down at me with wonder in his eyes, not saying a word, but silently questioning why I would be here in public after making it clear I avoid all situations like this.

  For the past couple months, I have kept away from my bedroom window while he tended to our lawn. I did what I said I was going to do—or tried at least. I needed to forget him.

  Raine hops over the gate and takes me by the arm, still without a word. The girls’ voices rise in volume, and I can hear the questions floating from their mouths, but I couldn't care less at the moment. My feet are moving quickly beneath me as we move out of the stream of overhead lighting. If those girls cared about me, I think they might be concerned that this sweat-and-dirt-covered man has pulled me off into the dark, but I know that's not the case.

  "I don't have your phone number," is the first thing Raine says to me.

  "Why would you?"

  "So I could call you to apologize for the way things went down that night a couple of months ago."

  "What do you have to be sorry about?"

  Ignoring my question, his grip loosens around my arm. "Have you ever had something impact your life, leave a mark, and then disappear?"

  "Like a bug bite?" I quip.

  Raine groans with affliction. "Are you always this damn annoying?"

  "Apparently," I say, trying to hide any type of emotion.

  "What I meant was, an impact like when you see a sunrise—one that's made up of a dozen colors that you wouldn't normally think would blend together, yet it becomes the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Then, of course, you go and look at the sky every morning after that, wondering if the same contrasting hues will ever light up the world the same way again, only to conclude that a sunrise will never look exactly alike twice. You finally realize that forever, you'll be comparing every sunrise to the one that took your breath away."

  I'm taken aback by his words and description of what I think he may be comparing to me. Raine doesn't strike me as the deep-thought type of man; he’s the man who sits in dirty bars hitting on dirtier women. "That's pretty deep—not something I'd expect to hear out of your mouth," I tell him. "Why, though?"

  "Why are we both here?" he returns the question. I shrug because I don't know what he’s getting at. I finally gave in to my parents’ plea, and he's trying to make money by setting up a stage, or so it appears. "Have you been avoiding me?" Meaning, have I avoided my window during the mornings he mows our lawn.

  "Yes," I answer truthfully.

  He releases his hand from around my arm and takes a step back. "I won't keep you from your friends, then."

  "They aren't my friends," I remind him.

  A soft breeze sweeps between us, carrying the scent of rain along with it. "I might be out of line…" Raine says.

  As if a foreshadowing for whatever he might say or do next, the clouds scatter over the starlit sky, darkening the space we're standing in. I can make out the look on his face, but not much else. "How so?"

  "I don't know. I guess I want to spend time with you. I want to know who you are. Why you are…I might want another day at the lake."

  I laugh silently as small droplets of water fall one by one, and I see a flash of lightning, followed by th
e rumble of thunder. "I'm the mayor's daughter, remember? I'm nothing but trouble. Aren't those the exact words you said to me that day?"

  His fingertips trace up the sides of my arms so gently it hurts, but the ache is covered by the warmth of his rough hands. "I did say that, and it's true, but I saw something in your eyes at that moment in the water that told me you were as desperate to be needed as I am."

  "What do you want from me, Raine?" A chill moves through the air, carrying heavier pelts of rain, soaking us more quickly by the minute as the storm moves closer.

  "Tomorrow is Saturday," he reminds me. "Your house is the last of my stops for the morning, provided this storm has passed." Raine's arms loop around my back as he pulls me into his wet t-shirt, which feels glued to his hard and defined chest. His chin rests on the top of my head, and my body turns weaker with every passing second. "Come to the lake with me tomorrow." I feel my head shaking, dismissing the idea, even though the very thought has crossed my mind more times than I'd ever admit to.

  "We can't be friends, Raine," I tell him truthfully. No one wants much to do with me, and I understand why. I refuse to pretend like that reason doesn't exist. I'll only end up hurt. However, despite the pain in my chest as I tell him this for the second time, part of me would rather put myself through impending heartache just to see what might be.

  "Then don't be my friend," he replies with haste.

  A nervous and breathless laugh escapes my lungs. "What would we be then?" I'm not sure he heard me over the sound of the heavy rain now hitting the leaves above our heads, but by the look on his face, I don’t think anything I could say would matter much right now.

  "You're killing me, Haven," he mutters into my ear. “You just have no idea why I’ve tried so hard to stay away from you.”