Black Rock Bay

by Brianna Labuskes

  Mia stood on the deck of the ferry as St. Lucy’s slowly materialized from the mist, as was her tradition. She was alone this time, hadn’t told Izzy she was going back.

  There were only a few other passengers belowdecks, and she doubted they were getting off at the island.

  No one bothered her.

  Like a month earlier, the cliffs came into view first, then the Bell mansion on the north end. It would be only a few more minutes before she’d see the lighthouse.

  Her thumb found her scar, and she still felt Lacey’s lips there, against her skin. Maybe she always would.

  She forced herself to watch the lighthouse as it became a shape instead of blurred lines. The clean white tower, the little house, the slick black rocks below that gave the bay its name. She forced herself to watch.

  The water churned beneath the ferry’s engine, a rumble that reverberated in the hollowness of her chest, and she had to stop herself from pressing into her healing wound just to feel the pain. It was a bad habit she was trying to break.

  Soon, the town appeared.

  Home, it still whispered to her, though the sourness of it lingered in the crevices of her mouth.

  There was no Sammy to greet her on the docks this time. She ducked her head low, just in case anyone was watching, and started up a small, hidden path that most people didn’t know about. It stretched all the way out along the cliffs to her destination.

  The day was calm, the waves gentle, the sun hot against her cheeks. It had been a while since she’d been allowed free rein outside. So much of the previous weeks had been spent in hospitals or therapy or in bed, resting. There had been an itch building up beneath her skin because of it, and one night she’d scratched so hard she’d left droplets of blood on her shirt.

  Mia didn’t think about any of that as she walked. She thought, instead, of the years before that terrible summer, running along this path, barefoot and pink cheeked in the warmer months, careless of the plunge just a few feet off the trail. She thought of Asher’s small hand in hers, both of their palms sweaty, crusted with mud at the fingertips where it was starting to dry. She thought of the way they whispered as they built a fairy house, right up ahead, in that one tree that had a gnarled knot at its base.

  She thought of each golden-tinged memory, holding them gently in her hands, caressing them, soaking in their warmth.

  And then she let them go.

  By the time she got to the lighthouse, her face was wet with tears she hadn’t realized were falling. She swiped at them, an angry jerk, annoyed with herself that she was crying over it.

  She hesitated only a heartbeat before pushing the door open and stepping inside. Averting her gaze from where there was still copper on the floor, now fresh instead of from years ago, she headed for the steps.

  Mia didn’t stop until she was outside again, leaning against the railing. The same place she’d been when Lacey had sat beside her, taking shots of Eagle Rare.

  It was still odd to her how much Lacey had become a ghost in her memories of that summer despite how cruel she’d been, always on the periphery, outside of frame. But Lacey had never really talked about herself, had never become vulnerable, never become real. So she stayed that girl on the beach with the sad eyes and dark hair and slightly off sense of humor, never fully forming into a person beyond that.

  Maybe that’s why she was so good at it. Manipulating them. She figured out the dark, terrible things they all whispered to themselves at night and then became that voice. No longer her own person but a malicious twist of a knife into an already-formed cut.

  Memories are funny, aren’t they? They only show us what we think happened, not what really did.

  Lacey’s words had replayed in Mia’s head each night as her legs twitched and twisted, restless beneath the blankets, her body exhausted from the endless waves of pain but unable to be still.

  Repeating, repeating, repeating those words. Until they slowly started making sense.

  Mia’s hand dipped into the jacket of her pocket, sliding along the lining until she found what she was looking for.

  The sun hit the metal of the razor blade she’d slipped out of the evidence room. She blinked against the glare, even as her fingers pressed into the tip. Her flesh gave but didn’t rupture, and she let off the pressure.

  They only show us what we think happened.

  The thing Lacey hadn’t realized was that she fell prey to that, as well.

  She hadn’t been in the room with Asher, Monroe, and Mia. That’s what they realized when Cash had started filling in the blanks in the story.

  Lacey had set everything up, but she’d been waiting outside. Ready to intercept Mia.

  Only one person really knew what happened that night.

  The memories hadn’t come back slowly but rather all at once. A thick fog peeling away, a bandage ripped off hard enough to take skin with it.

  The night was blurry enough at the edges, their behavior strange enough, that it confirmed a suspicion Mia had been holding in a firm grasp. Lacey, for all her confident bravado, for all her scheming ways, had drugged them into complacency. It didn’t erase Mia’s role in what happened, nor the guilt she’d wear just as permanently as the scars on her wrists, but it blunted it.

  Mia and Asher held hands like they’d had when they were kids. It was too hot, but their palms pressed together anyway, sweat slicked and uncomfortable.

  Everything felt soft and distorted, anyway. Slow and disjointed, like a dream, when you ended up in impossible places doing impossible things for no reason at all.

  “I can’t stay here,” Mia whispered, already thinking of the metal in her pocket. They were flat on their backs on the floor of the lighthouse. Mia didn’t know why they weren’t outside looking at the stars. They should have been looking at the stars. “I can’t be trapped. Can’t end up like them.”

  “Who?”

  “All of them,” Mia said. Like she knew Cash was going to be. If she did nothing, she’d end up married to him, babies on the way, one after another.

  “What if . . . ?” Asher started, squeezing her fingers tighter. Neither of them acknowledged the intimacy, the way their bodies touched at the hips, shoulders, thighs. Some part of Mia told her it was strange to be here like this with Asher, but that voice came from a distance, muffled so that she only caught a few words of warning. So easy to ignore.

  Mia was already shaking her head. “No. I don’t have any money saved up. Mama doesn’t have any money. I didn’t get the scholarship. I’m stuck here.”

  They were silent, and Mia shook off his hand, sat up. The blade was just waiting for her fingers. Lacey had given it to her earlier with a whispered “you’ll thank me.”

  “What if she wants to keep the baby?” Asher asked. “I can’t. I can’t do it, Mia. I can’t.”

  “You haven’t talked to her about it yet?”

  “No.” Asher said. “She doesn’t even know I know about it, I don’t think.”

  The vise that had gripped her heart since Asher had turned up, swollen face and wet hazel eyes, relaxed as the point of the blade caught against the tip of her finger.

  “I have an idea.”

  It was stupid, so stupid. But everything seemed possible in that moment, floaty instead of tethered to reality. She had read about these cuts; they were like a high. They’d make Mia forget her life was going nowhere, make Asher forget his would be over soon, too. Mostly, though, it might be a solution to the baby. “Get her here.”

  “She’s already coming,” Asher admitted. “I told her we needed to talk.”

  “Perfect.” Mia’s lips tipped up. Her sluggish brain had latched onto the idea. If Monroe bled enough, surely she’d miscarry, surely. Wasn’t that what Lacey had said? Lacey knew. Mia could trust her.

  They waited, Asher sitting up, Mia still sprawled on the floor.

  “When the time comes, just don’t go too deep,” Mia said, and Asher’s head dipped to avoid her eyes. He was scared; she could sme
ll it on him, sharp and unpleasant and very boy.

  But he took the blade.

  The power she had over him was a shameful thing, and it buzzed along her nerve endings.

  Asher licked his lips. “Not too deep, okay?” He watched her in that way of his, that way that saw down to her marrow, that knew her for sixteen years, loved her for what felt like longer.

  Everyone had always whispered that Mia was jealous that Asher had a girlfriend. That he was no longer a lovesick puppy following after her. She’d always said that wasn’t true.

  That first night at the bonfire, though, she’d watched Asher’s hand slide under Monroe’s sweatshirt, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. She’d turned to find Lacey watching her with big, sad eyes, and their gazes had locked across the distance.

  The ghost of a girl who saw too much, who saw the demons you couldn’t even admit to yourself.

  Mia remembered leaning into Cash’s body, remembered that she hadn’t been jealous, only tipsy and amused. But had that been reality? Or just what she wanted to have happened?

  The picture in the hallway. Her watching Cash, Asher watching Monroe. But even standing in her mother’s house years later, she’d felt the pinch of something she’d pretended wasn’t there. The boys’ eyes had always been on Monroe.

  When Monroe got to the lighthouse, Mia handed her the blade. “It’s like a high. Trust me.”

  “It’s just a little cut, right?” Monroe shrugged, silk hair sliding over her shoulder as she sat down beside Asher. Always inserting herself between Mia and him, even now.

  “You can do it together,” Mia said, her gaze steady on Monroe. “I brought more.” Also from Lacey. “Look, I’ll go first.”

  Before fear could still her fingers, Mia laid the metal blade against her own wrist.

  Not too deep, not too deep.

  The line she drew was thin, so thin it barely stung. “See.”

  As she held it up to show Asher and Monroe, a drop of blood pearled and then slipped over the edge of the cut. They all watched its slow progress until it nestled into the crook of Mia’s elbow.

  “My turn.” Asher flashed them a grin, all bravado. But the mask made him cocky, careless, because the blade sank down into his arm, far beyond the thin tip. He dragged it up away from his wrist instead of across, and something about that was so wrong Mia could do nothing but blink.

  Not too deep. She’d warned him. Not too deep.

  A white fog curled and paced at the edges of Mia’s consciousness as blood soaked into Asher’s jeans. He met her eyes, no longer smiling, and his lips moved. No sound came out.

  Mia tried to say something, anything, to warn Monroe, to comfort Asher—she didn’t know. But it was in vain. Her tongue was too thick—heavy and clumsy in her mouth.

  Monroe had already copied Asher on one side, dragging the blade up along her forearm instead of across her wrist.

  The cut she’d made was thin, though, and shallow. Weeping, but not uncontrollably.

  Mia shifted closer, desperate, her eyes locked on dull steel meeting pale skin for a second time. She wanted to stop Monroe, she tried to stop Monroe. But Mia’s hands were shaking, and black hovered at the edge of her vision.

  When Mia reached for the razor, she knocked into Monroe’s arm instead, an accident that in any other second of any other day would have been overlooked, forgotten in the next breath.

  Monroe cried out, in surprise more than anything, as the blade burrowed deeper from their combined force.

  “Why did you?” Monroe asked, staring not at Mia but at her own slick hands where the blood pooled in her palms. There was too much of it. There shouldn’t have been that much.

  I didn’t mean to, Mia thought. I didn’t . . .

  But the words still wouldn’t come.

  Mia traced the edge of the razor against her scar, a shiver following in its wake. Then she flung the blade into the bay.

  The metal sank beneath the black water, taking the memories with it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank my wonderful editors, Charlotte Herscher and Megha Parekh, for their always-thoughtful guidance, spot-on edits, and endless encouragement.

  Thanks also to the top-notch team at Thomas & Mercer, who work so tirelessly to make an idea into reality. I am so grateful this story is in such capable hands.

  As always, a huge megathanks to my agent, Abby Saul. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime. You go above and beyond, and this would be a lesser book without you.

  Thank you, dear readers. You keep me on my toes, make me smile, push me to grow, and support me with such trust. I am very blessed to have you.

  Abby McIntyre and Katie Smith forever have my gratitude for being the best, most faithful first readers a person could ever ask for.

  And, finally, thank you to my friends and family, who are so endlessly generous with their enthusiasm and love. It means the absolute world to me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Brianna Labuskes graduated from Penn State University with a degree in journalism. For the past eight years, she has worked as an editor at both small-town papers and national media organizations such as Politico and Kaiser Health News, covering politics and policy. Brianna is the author of the Amazon Charts bestseller Girls of Glass, and It Ends with Her, as well as the historical romance novel One Step Behind. She lives in Washington, DC, and enjoys traveling, hiking, kayaking, and exploring the city’s best brunch options. Visit her at www.briannalabuskes.com.