Every Single Secret

by Emily Carpenter

  I cleared my throat. “You’re saying our darkness is what gives us strength.”

  He nodded. “It’s our beauty.”

  “Our secret weapon in the world,” I said. “So you think I should let Heath tell me everything. And then we can move on.”

  He laid his hand on his chest. “Ah, Daphne. You really do understand, don’t you?”

  “I think so.” And it was true. I did.

  He smiled. “What a surprise you are. What an absolute surprise. You come here my adversary and now look what’s happened. You’ve gone and won my heart.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this, what to say to this man who looked so much like the only father I’d ever known, but who was really just a stranger.

  “Would you reconsider—” Cerny said at the same time that I spoke.

  “I was just thinking I should get back to my room.”

  He hesitated, then gestured toward the door without protest.

  I stood. “Thank you. For the talk and everything.”

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  I walked slowly up the stairs, thinking. I was torn about approaching Heath, the same way I was conflicted about talking to Glenys. Part of me wanted to know more about Heath’s mysterious past. The other part wanted to close my eyes and make it go away. Since we’d had that talk in the bird garden, the atmosphere around the two of us had changed. Things between us felt different, strange and unbalanced in a way I couldn’t put my finger on.

  And I was scared if I took things further, we might never find our way back.

  In our room, I was greeted by the sound of the running shower. The bathroom door was cracked, and steam poured into the chill air of our bedroom. I tucked the business card into my suitcase and moved toward the bathroom door. I could feel my nerves jangling, stretched taut. I cracked my knuckles, turning back away, scanning the windows. Eighteen panes in all. Eight on the top, ten on the bottom. Eight and ten, eight and ten. I snapped the hair band on my wrist, once, hard, then another time, for good measure. I was safe.

  Safe enough to go to the bathroom, strip naked, and join my fiancé in the shower. There didn’t have to be any talking. Not yet. Like Cerny said, Heath’s wild problem, and mine, weren’t going anywhere. And if the doctor was right, we could use them to make us stronger.

  I undressed and heaped my clothes on the floor. I stepped into the steam-filled bathroom, so quietly Heath didn’t notice. At least not until I swung open the glass door. When he saw me, he dashed the water out of his eyes.

  “Look at you,” he said.

  “Same old me.”

  “Never. You need to get in here. Now.”

  God, I loved the gruffness in his voice. I could feel myself getting turned on by the mere tone of it. I stepped in, and he corralled me in his arms. He was dripping but I didn’t care. He felt warm and perfect.

  “Hi,” he rumbled.

  I raised on tiptoe, kissed him, and he gathered me close. Held the back of my head and pressed the length of his body into me. His mouth was open and warm, his tongue gentle. I tipped back my head and let him bend over me, enjoying the familiar leap of desire in my belly. We fit together like we’d been made that way, his chest and abdomen lining up with mine. He circled one arm around me, and we staggered back against the shower wall.

  “Daphne,” he said into my mouth.

  Suddenly, the jet spray caught me full in the face. “Oh, God,” I sputtered, part moan, part laugh. “Not sexy.”

  “Hold on,” he said and twisted the nozzle down. Turning back, he lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He kissed me again, and I felt the rush of his breath down my neck. When he entered me, I tipped my head back, reveling in the feeling of him inside me, and the water cascading over us. We fit together perfectly. We always had.

  I groaned with pleasure, grinding against him. And he was enjoying it too, his hand under my thigh, fingers probing higher and higher as he kissed me. And then, without warning, he lurched forward, pushing me back against the tile. My head struck the wall, so hard stars burst across my vision.

  I would’ve gasped but my lungs wouldn’t work. I wanted to cry out, to protest, but I couldn’t make a sound. I was flash frozen. I blinked a couple of times, trying to wake myself up. Had he slipped?

  I opened my mouth to ask, and it happened again—my head slammed back against the tile.

  This time I cried out. That hadn’t been an accident. And now, the way his face had turned from mine, the way he was holding me, pinning me against the wall, it was like he was lost in some fantasy that had nothing to do with me. The lights of the bathroom blurred and the sound of the water muted. I couldn’t catch my breath from the shock and the pain and the steam. My mind spun out, synapses firing chaotically. I couldn’t tell him to stop, to let me go, to—

  “Stop. You can’t—” I finally gasped. “You have to stop.”

  He did stop. And he stared at me.

  I shook my head. “Why did you do that?”

  “What do you mean? Do what?” His face looked so blank, it filled me with fury.

  “You hit my head. You hurt me, Heath!” My voice, finally, loud and shrill.

  His eyes filled with instant regret. “Oh my God, Daph. I didn’t mean . . . I just got caught up . . .”

  “Caught up.” I pushed my wet hair out of my face and let out a harsh bark of laughter. Or a wail, I couldn’t tell the difference. “Did you think I liked having my head bashed on the wall? Are you into that sort of—”

  He edged toward me. “I’m not. I didn’t realize—”

  I put my hand on his chest. “I need you to give me a second, all right?”

  I stood there, my fingers splayed against him. Water streamed over my ring and dripped down my arm, and he waited, not moving. But I was already doubting myself. Wondering if I was overreacting. Maybe Heath had just gotten ahead of himself. He was a big guy. Strong. He probably didn’t realize the impact of his strength.

  He pressed his chest against my hand. “Daphne.”

  My elbow bent, the slightest bit. I couldn’t bear to look at his crushed face anymore. I looked down instead—focused on the tile floor through the sheet of water. It had gone lukewarm.

  “Do you want me to leave?” he said. “Just tell me and I’ll go.”

  I couldn’t answer him. Yes, I wanted him to go. And I wanted him to stay. I wanted to scratch out his eyes, draw blood from his skin. Scream at him until I was hoarse.

  I thought about Annalise Beard. Was this the kind of thing she’d been afraid of? She had said she’d prefer to forget she ever knew him . . .

  “I love you so much, Daphne,” Heath said. “I would never intentionally hurt you, I swear.” He held up his hands and it was such a vulnerable gesture, so forlorn, I felt myself waver. All the possibilities flooded through me.

  I rested on the most probable one, the one I wanted. He hadn’t meant to hurt me. He loved me, I knew it. This had just been a manifestation of his wild problem—the darkness he hadn’t yet embraced. I hugged myself, closed my eyes, and let the warm water run over me.

  “Daphne—”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. We’re going to start over.”

  I took a shaky breath, ran one finger down his streaming chest all the way to his taut abdomen, and let it linger. He closed his mouth.

  “None of this happened,” I said. “You and I just got in the shower, and we started kissing.”

  I knew it was unreasonable, maybe even foolish, but I just wanted him back, wanted all the hurt and confusion to go away. And why couldn’t we just go back and say it had never happened, if we both agreed to it? The truth was, it wouldn’t have, not if we hadn’t come to Baskens. This strange place was messing with our minds, making us do things we wouldn’t normally do. Feel things we normally didn’t feel.

  Like, right now, how a small, dark part of me pictured myself folding Heath into my arms, pulling him close, just so I could hurt him back
.

  I let my finger, which had been drifting along his stomach, drop to a lower spot.

  “We shouldn’t—” he began, but I shook my head.

  “You’re a lucky man,” I said. “You’re getting a do-over.”

  I took him by the waist, rotating him toward the same wall where he’d just had me pinned. I pressed him against it.

  “But I’m in charge now.”

  Friday, October 19

  Night

  By the time I stumble into the little town of Dunfree, it’s dark. I feel like I’ve been jogging for hours, but it’s probably only been forty to fifty minutes at most. I’m freezing, all except my feet, which feel like they’re on fire. My throat is raw with thirst.

  Dunfree’s main street is punctuated by street lamps and newly planted maple trees with a few red leaves still determinedly clinging to the spindly branches. Its crown jewel, if you can call it that, is a one-story stone-and-green-metal city hall, squatting halfway down the street. Anchored on either end of the street are two home-style restaurants called, respectively, Mama June’s and Paw-Paw’s. On the drive up, Heath and I ate at Paw-Paw’s.

  I wander up and down the sidewalk, from one end of the street to the other, but the green truck is nowhere in sight. For the moment, I’m in the clear.

  The sidewalks are crowded with people, and it dawns on me that I’ve hit the Friday-night dinner rush. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I am desperately thirsty, but I have no money, no wallet, no nothing. I push open the door to Mama June’s (colorful flyers, jangling bell) and wander in, stopping short in the middle of the bustling dining room. There are several boxy old TVs sitting on precarious-looking shelves in each corner of the restaurant, replaying an old Georgia football game. I spot a half-empty glass of water on an unoccupied table, but just as I edge my way over to it, a waitress appears and sweeps it and the rest of the dirty dishes into a plastic tub.

  I veer into the bathroom and, at the lone sink, flip on the faucet and duck my mouth under the stream. I gulp and gulp until my stomach begins to cramp and I worry I may vomit. The sound of toilets flushing makes me jerk upright. When three women simultaneously emerge from the stalls, I shut off the faucet, wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and back against the wall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, October 17

  Two Days Before

  We ate the lunch that Luca (appearing, then disappearing, before I could catch sight of him) left outside our door. White-bean, bacon, and kale soup, with a slender loaf of crusty bread. Outside, the temperature had dropped dramatically, the cold seeping in through the cracks of the windowpanes. But we were comfortable. Even though it was a small gas affair, the fireplace still packed a wallop. I tried not to notice the way the black fiend’s face glowered out at me from the flames.

  After we’d finished eating, Heath swirled the ice in his glass. “I don’t know how else to say this, Daphne. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve got to stop apologizing. Seriously. It’s done. Over.”

  “But we can’t pretend like it didn’t happen,” Heath said.

  “I’m not pretending. I just don’t think we have to talk it to death. As a matter of fact, Dr. Cerny even agrees that talking isn’t what keeps a relationship together. He told me that, just today.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “Earlier. Just briefly, before we . . .”

  He nodded. “Hm.”

  “And you can wipe the smug look off your face,” I said. “He wasn’t therapizing me. I’m just saying that, although I want to hear about your childhood and everything you went through, there are some things—some parts of us—that we just have to accept.”

  “He wasn’t in here, with us. He didn’t see what I did to you.”

  “You got carried away, but I’m fine. And it’ll never happen again.”

  I took a deep breath. I was sitting calmly, across the table from him. In one piece, not obsessively counting or displaying any discernable signs of a mental breakdown. But was I really fine? So much had happened since we’d gotten to Baskens, so many things had begun to shift and upend between us, I wasn’t sure if I knew what us meant anymore.

  Heath moved to the mirror over the dresser, stroked the two days’ growth of beard. It gave him a rugged look. Wild and untamed. Normally I would go to him and pull him close, rubbing my skin against his, but my body wouldn’t move. I touched the tender spot on the back of my head and pressed it gently. Pain radiated over my head, but it helped me focus on where I was. The fiend behind the flames caught my eye, and this time, I glowered back at it.

  After Heath left for his final session, I changed into workout clothes, grabbed a bottle of water from the lunch tray, and headed outside. I needed to fill my lungs with sharp, cold air. Shock my fuzzy brain into clarity. A hike up the mountain would be the perfect thing. Maybe I’d run into Glenys again. Maybe I’d just go ahead and finish my story, tell her the things I couldn’t bring myself to tell Heath, and I would finally feel my soul loosen just the slightest bit.

  On the way up, memories filtered back to me. Of Mount Olive Christian Academy, where they sent us ranch girls and the boys from Maranatha Ranch, near Warner Robins. The school sounded fancy, but it was really just an old remodeled roller-skating rink off an industrial highway, with a couple of rickety trailers out back that served as extra classrooms.

  Every morning, after we said the regular pledge of allegiance, they had us say a different one, to the Christian flag, but I could never quite remember the whole thing, so I just moved my lips without making a sound. At lunchtime a ladies’ Bible study from Hollyhock Community Church brought us a meal—peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, Fritos, and Capri Suns.

  At the end of my first week at Mount Olive, when the old, hand-me-down school bus dropped us off at the top of the long drive, we all walked back to the brown brick house together. In our room, I dumped my backpack in the corner and then went to pee. From inside the bathroom, I could hear Omega and the other girls trooping down the hall. Their laughter rose up like a thundercloud and shook the thin walls.

  Sitting on the toilet, a thrill shot through me. I wanted to live inside their funhouse laughter. It was so big and warm and enveloping, so full of hidden knowledge and inside jokes and stories I imagined were just too crazy to be believed. But I would get to hear the stories soon in the clubhouse. I would revel in the cushiony womb of their laughter. As I walked down the hall, Chantal called to me from our bedroom.

  “Do you want to play Skip-Bo?”

  She was lying on her back on her bed, her feet tapping out some mysterious choreography on the bottom of my bunk. I didn’t want to play cards. I didn’t want to be anywhere near her.

  “You don’t know how to play?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just can’t right now. I’m busy.”

  She sat up, crossed her legs under her. “How are you busy, Pizza Face?”

  That was one of her names for me, after last night. She’d lain on her bunk at night after lights out, kicking my mattress, chanting in a singsong voice: Pizza Face, Hairy Legs, Squinty McGee, Egg Salad. I let her talk. I made up my mind, sometime during the endless, droning naming ceremony, that I was going to have to do something about her.

  “Where are you going?” Chantal demanded again.

  “Out,” I said and waited. She hadn’t spewed all her venom, and I knew if I let her finish, she’d feel like she won. And maybe she wouldn’t follow me.

  “You’re a pile of egg salad. Rotten egg salad and a fat fuck.”

  I was careful to keep my face expressionless, but it warmed nonetheless. My arms and legs were thicker than hers, rounded and soft, and I had a belly that jiggled when I ran. I also had cheeks that made me look like a baby. I guessed that made me fat. The egg-salad thing made no sense. I had never considered myself anything but ordinary looking. Plain round face, plain blue eyes, and plain blonde hair. At least, nobody else had ever called me names.

  She lay
back down on the bed, jammed her feet against the mattress above her. She kicked once, twice, three times—so hard that the mattress popped up and tumbled off the frame. It slid to the floor, and she grinned over at me.

  A white-hot needle of fury pierced my heart, and I could feel tears threatening to rise up. I ran out of the room before Chantal could see them. By the time I was at the edge of the backyard and heading across the gravel road, though, she reappeared. I ignored her as she trotted beside me, all the way through the fallow vegetable garden, past the pavilion, down to the lake, then along the shore and into the woods.

  Her long frizzed green hair gently flopped behind her as she jogged, and her breathing had a whine to it, like an old dog. I tried to ignore her, and thought about running faster, but I didn’t want it to turn into a race. If anything was likely to turn Chantal into a rage monster, it was competition.

  “You can’t go to the clubhouse when the Super Tramps are there,” she said as we began to navigate the brushy woods.

  I didn’t answer, just kept picking my way over fallen logs and thornbushes.

  “They won’t let you in. You have to be in the club, and you can’t be until you pass the test.”

  I glanced at her. She jutted her chin, and her eyes glittered dangerously.

  “Why do you take two vitamins?” I said.

  For once, she looked taken aback. “Because none of your business.”

  “Do you have a disease?”

  “No.”

  “Is it contagious?”

  “No.” She was getting agitated. I had done that, and it felt good. I wanted more.

  “So why do you take them?”

  “I just need extra vitamins, that’s all. When I lived with my mom, she starved me for a week, once, and I got malnutrition. So Mrs. Bobbie gives me an extra vitamin. One you have to get from the pharmacist.”