by Piper Lennox
She kept talking to her friends, pointedly ignoring me, until I stumbled onto the porch with them and they cut their eyes my way. My legs buckled and shot in directions I didn’t want them to go; I grabbed the railing to steady myself.
“Colby,” she barked, finally fed up with me, “you’re drunk. Go to bed.”
I wasn’t drunk. Not anymore. God, I wished I was.
Every step revealed the bruises he’d leave: I could feel, but not yet see, the sore pockets of flesh in my thighs and calves where he’d braced his knees, his elbows. I thought of the dirt under his fingernails. How there was probably some inside me, right now.
When I turned and threw up over the railing, Eden’s friends laughed nervously and went inside. Eden plunked into one of the chairs, the one with the ripped-up backrest, and watched me.
“Gage just touched me,” I blurted. I was still bent over the railing. I shut my eyes and listened.
“He was putting you to bed,” she drawled, obviously annoyed. When I wiped my mouth and turned to her, she was staring straight into the moon. It was full that night. I hadn’t even noticed until now.
“Eden.” I stared at her until, finally, those black-rimmed eyes flashed to mine. “He tried to.... He put....” The tears wormed into my mouth like cotton. I couldn’t say it. It was a kind of honesty I’d never had to give.
Eden rubbed her temples. “Colby. Go. To. Bed.”
“No,” I said angrily. I wasn’t angry at her. Not anymore. I was furious at the words, for not coming out right. I was filled with a pure and searing hatred for Gage that I would never, ever let myself forget.
“So he what?” she prompted sarcastically. “What’d he do?”
“He held my head down.” The swelling ball of tears in my mouth and sinuses pulled back and hit my eyes, full-force. I sat on the sun-bleached wood of the patio and sobbed. My head tilted against the spindles. I looked at the huge, full moon in the sliding door’s glass, the silhouettes of all these lives I didn’t understand, all these people I didn’t know, dancing to that rapid-fire pulse on the other side.
Eden got up from the chair and knelt in front of me. Her eyes looked watery, but I couldn’t tell if it was the moonlight or not.
“Are you serous, Colby?” she asked. It wasn’t a sneer or annoyed sigh, the way she usually delivered it. It was real.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You promise—you’re not making this up.” She held out her pinky, the way she’d done a hundred times before, back in Kona.
I thought of a picture on Aunt Rochelle’s mantle: Eden and me in neon pink rash guards on the beach, the tide sparkling and high behind us. We were in middle school, messes of braces and braids. Eden, at the edge of puberty, probably knew even less about the world back then than I did.
But still, I’d trusted her to lead and teach me everything she knew, or thought she knew. And as I hooked my pinky into hers and nodded, watching the light in her eyes melt and slip down her face as she set her jaw, I got that feeling again.
I didn’t need to warn her, I thought. Eden wasn’t afraid of Gage at all. She wasn’t afraid of anyone. My instinct was to find her and tell her the truth, so I could somehow protect her from him. Instead, she was going to protect herself. She’d protect me.
“Go inside,” she said. “I need to talk to him. Sort this out.”
“Sort this out?” I mopped my face with the hem of my dress, not noticing that I was flashing about half the party inside. What was there to “sort out?” Why wasn’t she jumping into action—ordering her server friends to kick his ass, calling the police?
As she stood, I had that moment again, the one I’d felt as she applied her makeup so carefully in her mirror: that this wasn’t the Eden I knew, anymore.
“Go,” she said again, hugging her arms close. It wasn’t cold at all.
For weeks after she died, I’d remember only two things about the last few minutes of Eden’s life.
It wouldn’t be the way Gage shot me a look so icily calm as he passed through the crowd to the balcony, I doubted if he’d done what he did after all. It wouldn’t be the cramp in my neck or the stab between my legs, suddenly reminding me that yes—he had.
The throb of the trap music in my shin bones. The way Gage kept pointing back through the glass, probably talking about me, or the tight fold of Eden’s arms against her body as she replied to everything he said.
They slid the door almost all the way shut, and I hung back in the crowd as somebody pulled the vertical blinds into place, giving me a slotted, shifting view.
I wouldn’t recall any of it until weeks had passed, when my brain finally unlocked it so I could put Gage where he belonged.
Until then, the two things I’d remember first would be a feeling, and a sound.
Those vinyl bristles on the edge of the cracked patio door, digging into my fingers when I gripped it and pushed it open. It was only after the funeral that I’d remember why: I saw Eden going over the railing. A flash through the blinds, but unmistakable, her body leaning too far over to ever come back.
I was lucky enough not to see her hit the ground. But I was unlucky enough to hear it.
And even once the rest of that night plugged back into my brain, details hitting me one after the other like the world’s longest sucker punch, I’d keep hearing it. That one beat of the party’s pulse I’d feel through every bone I had, as long as I lived.
Seventeen
Orion
“Colby....” I have no idea what to say when she finishes. Her hand is still inside mine, but motionless. The other digs into the sand like a shovel, deep and piercing. Like we can bury her pain right here under the pier.
I want to cup her head in my hand and hold her the only way a man should hold a woman. I want to kiss every place on her body he hurt, even though the bruises have healed. They aren’t gone. Just invisible.
But I know, despite everything in me wanting to do this, to fix her somehow, it isn’t what she needs. Not right now. What she needs is a friend.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, the soft curls of her hair pressing into my face as I turn and hug her. She sinks into it completely, like she was waiting for someone to finally do this.
Maybe she was. Maybe that’s how she knew, even when I didn’t, that this was exactly what I needed when I told her about Emily.
“You okay?” she sniffs, laughing when I pull back and flinch.
“Twisted my back, I think.” I laugh too, even if it’s just because I’m happy to see her smile again.
We get up and shake the sand and fragments of driftwood from our clothes. Stepping out from underneath the pier and back into the moonlight, crossing the stark line from darkness to this, seems to calm her even more.
“Did he.... The articles said she tripped.” It comes out like a question.
“Nobody saw him push her. So maybe she did.” She toys with the knot in her dress hem, accidentally undoing it. We watch the fabric billow down to her ankles and catch the breeze.
“Do you think she did?”
“No.” Colby stares at my eyes, unwavering. “But it’s easier to believe she did.”
“So the guy got off scot-free?” When I notice my hands are in fists, I shake them out and try to steady my breathing.
“They got him on other stuff. Drug dealing, unlawful possession of a firearm. Some warrants from his home state, too. It was like...everyone believed he pushed her, but no one could technically prove it. So they got him on whatever they could.”
“Good.” I clench my fists again and match her pace as she starts the walk back to the restaurant. “What about...what he did to you?”
“I testified, he got charged. It didn’t add very much time, compared to the drug bust and stuff.”
“It should have.”
She shrugs—not disagreeing with me, but casting it off just the same, because nothing can be done about it.
“I’m really glad I spoke up about it, though,” she adds,
after a minute. Her chin lifts a little higher. “Because then these two girls from the party came forward and said he’d assaulted them, too. So...so going through it and speaking up, even though it was hard? It made it easier for them to do it. And I was lucky, I mean, I got away before....” Her voice hushes itself again. “They didn’t.”
I watch her hand, swinging gently back and forth as we walk. When it comes back toward me, I catch it and bring it to my lips, pressing them there.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She smiles shyly. It’s a face I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her make. “Thanks for letting me tell you. I feel weirdly better.”
“Talking helps,” I agree. “I’ve felt better since I told you about Emily.” I lower her hand; she doesn’t take it away. We keep walking. “Maybe you were onto something with your whole don’t-hold-anything-back way of doing things.”
Instantly, her hand stiffens in mine. “I don’t know about that.”
“Why?” She’s quiet. I duck my head to try and read her face, half in shadow. “Hey—don’t do this.”
“If I just hadn’t said anything, she’d still be alive.”
“Yeah, with a drug-addict sociopath who beats her.” It’s me that ends up dropping her hand—so I can step in front of her, grab her shoulders, and make her look at me. “Colby, you can’t blame yourself for Eden’s death. There’s no possible way it was your fault.”
“But if I’d just—”
“What? Let him do whatever he wanted to you? Not tried to get her some help?” I level my gaze with hers, our foreheads almost touching. “You have no idea how things would have played out. She could have died from a drug overdose, or from him hitting her during a fight. For all you know, they would have ended up having the exact same argument on that balcony, and it would have ended the exact same way, even if you’d never said a word.”
She shakes her head, gaze slipping to the ocean. I hold her chin and turn her face back to mine.
“You can’t put any blame on yourself. Because if you do? That’s taking that much more off him. And whether he pushed her or not doesn’t really matter—he did enough horrible shit to deserve it all.” My fingers spread along her jawline; my other hand slides from her shoulder to her neck. “Don’t give him that, Colby. You shouldn’t have to carry one ounce of that burden.”
She closes one of her hands over mine. Fresh tears slide down her cheeks, the skin as pale pink as the scar on her lip.
I don’t kiss the tears away; I don’t cradle the back of her head or fix any bruises. I can’t undo the scars. But I can do one thing.
I can prove to this girl those bruises don’t go half as deep as the most important, beautiful parts of her. When I tilt her face to meet mine, pressing my lips to hers, I can make her believe she’s stronger than any of her scars.
Colby
As soon as Orion kisses me, all I can think is...finally.
Finally, he did it; finally, we can finish the journey we started all those weeks ago, in the middle of a dusty kitchen floor. Finally, I know he feels the same way about me that I feel about him.
Finally, I’ve shared the one thing I could never bring myself to be honest about, with anyone: that I feel guilty for Eden’s death. I’ve never been so happy to hear anyone tell me I’m wrong, even if I can’t believe them yet.
He holds my face with a power and softness I can’t understand, but never want to end. I taste the wine he drank at dinner and the salted air sweeping down the beach. When he spreads his fingers slowly, the calloused pad of his thumb tickling my skin, I feel a tear hit it and diverge. Then I realize it’s the only tear left. The rest have dried.
“That,” he whispers, when he pulls away, “was long overdue.”
I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of his lips on my forehead, resting there, while I fold myself against him. “Worth the wait.” I feel his chest jump under my palms as he laughs.
The restaurant’s deck is almost empty when we reach our starting point. I find the post we both touched on our way down the stairs; we touch it again as we pass.
Shielded from the coastal wind, together in the silence of his car, we each lift our hand to our lips. When we look at each other, caught in the act, we laugh and kiss again. I love the way he pushes my hair back from my face, like he can’t wait to get past the styling spray and makeup to see the real me—the one he sees every day.
“Where should we go now?” he asks, fingers drawing shapes like ivy down my neck, barely grazing my collarbone, before looping back to my chin. My heartbeat is dream-like, slow but thundering.
How did he do this? How did Orion Walker make me forget, in a matter of minutes, the buzzing hatred and disgust for one man’s fingers, replaced by this silent worship and plea for another’s?
Answer him—he asked you something. I blink. “Sorry, I zoned out. What were you saying?”
“I asked where we should go.”
“Oh. Um....” My apartment. His apartment. A hotel. The backseat of this car, right here, right now.
“...ice cream?” I spread my hands and sputter it out. What the fuck? I don’t want ice cream. I want to kiss him again. And again. I want to pull him down on top of me by the necktie he keeps adjusting.
What I want more than anything, if I dare to be honest with myself, is to forget those moments under the pier, but keep every moment after. Forget the pain and keep the gain, this flying-high feeling like that first clear breath when you finally untangle yourself from a riptide.
“Ice cream.” The amused smirk on his face tells me this wasn’t what he had in mind, either, but he pulls his hand back, starts the car, and puts it in Drive anyway.
“I don’t know if this place is as good as Kona’s finest,” he says, when we find a Dairy Queen just a few miles down the highway, “but we can give it a shot. Supposedly very popular.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it.”
He holds the door for me, and I get the distinct feeling of being watched from behind as I walk past.
We sit on the hood of the car with our sundaes, bemoaning the fact we can’t see any stars in this part of the city. Instead, the sky looks shallowly black, like it’s faded.
“Also not as good as Kona,” he declares. His eyes sweep the vast nothingness for any pinpricks of light. We do find a few, but they all turn out to be planes. “The stars were incredible out there. Only time I’ve seen anything close to it was when Walt and I went camping, back in middle school.”
“That is one thing I really miss about Hawaii. Can’t beat the nature.” I wipe a spot of hot fudge from his chin. “Need a bib?”
Orion dips his pinky into the sundae and pokes my nose. He laughs when I try to retaliate and miss, nearly sliding off the hood. The brace of his hand on my elbow, effortlessly holding all my weight in place, gets my heart knotting up again.
“So,” I say, when I’ve stabilized myself, “Walt’s aunt raised you?”
His jaw tenses, but only for a second. “Kind of. Age eight to fourteen.”
I study him in the hazy yellow light of the streetlamps. “Right up until you got diagnosed?”
“Yeah.” He gives me a surprised look. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you tell me,” I say. The caramel in my mouth instantly turns, but if he finds the admission pathetic, his smile sure says otherwise.
“My dad had a lot of shit going on,” he explains, after a silence. “Plus, he was gone for work so much. The drifter lifestyle, hopping from job to job wherever he felt like going. Wasn’t conducive to raising a kid.”
I know I’m about to poke the touchiest spot possible, but I can’t help it. I’ve exposed the most vulnerable pieces of myself to Orion tonight. The only way I won’t regret it in the morning is if I get to see his. “What about your mom?”
Like I knew he would, Orion adjusts his tie. He runs his tongue along his back teeth and says, sighing, “Don’t know. She ran off when I was six.”
&n
bsp; “She left you?” I can barely whisper it. I can barely believe it. My brain conjures Orion as a child—the same baby-fine hair as London, their gray-blue eyes—waking up to find his mother gone, and I wish I could hug that little boy and shield him from everything that would come next.
“Yeah.” We watch the sundae arc through the air after he pitches it. It bounces around the edge of the trashcan by the door before tumbling inside. “She had lots of shit going on, too. Depression, I think.” When he shrugs, I see something familiar in the way he sets his face: the wall you put up, when the truth starts getting ugly. And it almost always does, if you start digging.
I’m about to prod again, needing to hear the rest, everything, for my own selfish needs. Misery loving company and all that.
Before I can even draw the breath to speak, though, he goes on.
“She should have never been a parent. I used to get so mad about it—like, why couldn’t she just do the mom stuff, you know? The Little League, the PTA stuff. Or even just...just getting me dressed for school in the morning. Packing me a lunch.” Orion flicks the cherry stem from his sundae off the hood. “When I got older, it hit me. She never wanted me.”
I put my hand on his. He tenses, but then turns it over, letting me wind my fingers into place.
“Dad figured out where she went when I was...I don’t know, seven? I think it had been a year almost exactly. She ran off with this guy who rented out the attic apartment. We lived in the main part of this little house. I always wondered why she’d go up there every time my dad was at work.” His laugh is bitter on the surface, flimsy underneath. “Now I know.”
“Did she come back, ever?”
He shakes his head. “When Dad finally got in touch with her, she said she wanted to sign her parental rights over. So she did.”
“Is that when your dad gave up his? Or did social services....”
“Dad chose to put me in foster care,” he says quickly. “That’s one thing I’ve got to give the guy credit for. He did his best to keep me, but...after she left, his drinking just got too bad. And he kept traveling to find work, leaving me with our landlady. She was a sweet woman but, like, ancient. I just watched television all day when she watched me, because what was she going to do? She could barely see two feet in front of her face, forget driving me to school if I missed the bus, or keeping me bathed and stuff.”