by Monica Cole
Whitney slurps out the last of her Diet Coke, her eyes narrowing, “Wait a second. Are you thinking about…?”
“Don’t say it,” I threaten, hating that she can read my mind, but I’ll hate it even more if she says his name.
She sighs heavily. “Come on, Elaine. It’s been two years since that happened. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
I slouch down in the booth, my legs squeaking against the leather material. “I have tried moving on,” I say defensively. “I just…can’t.”
“Can't? Or won't?”
I drop my eyes to the table. “I don’t know. Both? Part of me wants to forget him, but he’s like a bad tattoo. You can cover it up, but it’s still there.”
“I’m not saying you have to forget him,” she says, fiddling with a straw wrapper. “But you can’t go your whole life thinking there’s no one else out there who can make you happy. Ca…” she pauses, catching herself. “He would’ve wanted you to be happy. To move on. I know he hurt you but I have no doubt he cared about you. The way he used to look at you, like you were hiding something inside that only he could see.” She smiles faintly. “What ya’ll had was special, but you could find it again if you really tried.”
I stare out the window. “That’s the thing. I think I’m tired of trying to forget him, to move on, and to fall in love. It’s easier that way.”
“You might think that but sometimes the easiest things in life are the hardest. Nothing’s simple. But the difference in trying or being complacent is that you’re more likely to find happiness when you’re willing to embrace it instead of shutting it out.”
Her words shoot like a bullet and ricochet in my heart but in the end only settle in a discarded pile at the bottom, because I have issues accepting the truth. She knows it too.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin our day by talking about this.” She tucks a blonde curl behind her ear and starts digging through her purse, pulling out a tube of lipstick. “On a completely unrelated note, I need to go. Mom needs help cooking dinner, and I’m sure Jenna is going to want more help with the baby.”
Her face scrunches up, and I offer her a sympathetic look as we walk out of the building. We walk over to her Jetta that’s parked in a small sliver of shade.
“You want a ride? It’ll give me an excuse not to be home in the next five minutes.”
She slides her sunglasses on and eyes me from over the door.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll walk. I need to burn off some of this food.”
She snorts, pulling her hair into a bun at the top of her head. “Whatever. You have the metabolism of Lorelei Gilmore. All you do is eat, yet you never gain a single pound.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She slides into the driver’s seat and cranks the engine. “Good, because it was. Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”
The air conditioner feels amazing blasting out of her car, but I still shake my head. “It’s only a ten minute walk. I think I’ll live.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll see you later.” She shuts the door, waving as she speeds out of the parking lot.
As I head home, I try my best to stay under the awnings and out of the sun. It’s late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and I’m starting to regret not accepting a ride with Whitney. I pull out my phone and reach for the earphones in my back pocket but immediately run into something solid and then I’m falling. A huff of air expels from my body as I slide over a small iron bench and roll headfirst onto the sizzling concrete. I groan and open my eyes, but immediately wish I hadn’t because the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain that slices through me when I read the sign directly above my head.
Canyon Beckett Photography.
There it is, plain as day, splintering like a ray of light into the dark, unreachable places where I hid his memory. I think I’m going to be sick. Yea, definitely going to be sick. I close my eyes and open them again, thinking I probably hit my head too hard and am seeing things. But no matter how many times I blink, the sign is still there, swaying above the glass door leading to his studio. I honestly don’t get it. He shouldn’t be here. This studio shouldn’t even exist because this dream was never supposed to become a reality. So why the hell is he still here? It feels like my brain is splitting in two trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m barely even aware of the people passing by, thankfully none with the decency to come and check on me. If they really wanted to help, they’d stomp on me and put me out of my misery.
“Are you okay?”
A bell dings above the door and all the blood in my body turns ice cold. That voice. His voice. It pierces through me like a knife right down to my soul. I keep my eyes closed, squeezing them together because I swear if I look at him that knife will twist in deeper. But if I don’t look at him, I’m left with just the memory. And knowing he’s standing here in front of me after two long years; that’s just too tempting to pass up. I open my eyes. It’s the best and dumbest decision of my life. I never thought I’d see him again, and I was prepared for that. Accepting even. What I wasn’t prepared for was to be lying on my ass, staring up at the guy who broke my heart. That’s the dumb part. The best part? His eyes. How warm and brown they are with tiny flecks of amber that catch in the sun. If I wasn’t already on my back they’d put me on it.
I don’t know how long we stay staring at each other, but it feels like an eternity and a split second all at the same time. Part of me wants to stay like this forever while the other half wants to be invisible. To disappear completely and pretend this never happened. Since neither one is an option, I do the only thing I can. I break eye contact and keep my head down as I scramble to my feet. I’m looking at his shoes. A familiar pair of worn out gray converses I got him as a birthday gift. Even the faded designs I drew on them are still there and somehow looking at his shoes is just as difficult as looking him in the face.
Against my better judgment my eyes move up, over his dark washed jeans to the plain white t-shirt stretched across his upper body. He looks noticeably more toned, especially his biceps that are straining against the sleeves of his shirt. I dare to go a little further. Scruffy jaw. Full lips. To hell with it. I look him in the eyes. Again. The expression on his face refashions my heart then mercilessly shatters it. Lifts me out of the grave then drops me ten feet deeper.
“Elle.”
It’s the faintest whisper. Almost mistakable for a breath of wind. My insides quiver at the sound, tears building behind my eyes. I can’t do this. And I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise. I turn around and start walking, but his fingers graze my elbow. I pause for a beat, feeling the motion start as he tries to turn me around. I rip out of his grasp and then I’m running. Fast. Bumping into people as I try to see past the hazy wetness in my eyes. If he calls after me I don’t hear it. I just listen to the sound of my feet hitting the pavement until I get home. When I get to my room, I slam the door, launch myself onto the bed, and quickly bury my face in a pillow. Then I scream.
Chapter Three
Past
July 27th 2012
It’s quiet up here.
Peaceful yet disturbing.
All I can hear is the dull thrumming of my heart and how every once in a while, a beat falters.
Thump. Thu-Thump.
Fear is playing with my heartstrings tonight.
I told myself that it’s okay to be afraid.
Everyone is afraid of something.
Everyone is afraid of death.
I clutch the metal railing tightly, the only thing between me and the steep cliff that overlooks my quaint little hometown. It looks different from up here. Like a cluster of stars spread across a blanket of darkness, twinkling and bright. It’s breathtaking, and I regret not coming here sooner. I regret a lot of things lately. Things that brought me here because they refused to stop clawing at my heart. I’m tired of hurting. So, so, tired. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath. Deep enough that my lungs ac
he as I fight to keep it in.
My body shakes as I exhale, and I’m mortified at the pathetic groaning noise that escapes with it. I squeeze the base of my throat, fighting back tears.
I will not cry.
I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Pulling myself together, I swing my leg over the railing and plant my foot on the narrow ledge beneath me. Dirt and rocks tumble off, but I make it to the other side, my back pressed against the cold metal, my hands gripping it. Everywhere I look there’s immeasurable darkness, and I’m just inches away from being consumed by it.
A sudden gust of wind howls around me, nipping at my bare skin. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, as little clothing as possible because tonight I wanted to feel. So I do. Letting the wind gnaw at my skin and tangle through my hair like invisible fingers. It smells like summer and tastes like freedom. But it’s the way it sounds that gets me. Like a gentle whisper that slithers down to my bones and creates a calm.
For a minute I lose myself, but when I open my eyes, I’m brought back to reality. The very edge of it.
“You know, this is the first time I’ve seen someone up here before.”
The voice startles me so badly that I nearly lose my balance. As if it would matter. Isn’t that the reason I’m up here?
Getting a better hold on the railing, I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed casually in the front pockets of his jeans. The moonlight makes his white t-shirt and pale skin appear to glow, like the cigarette placed in the corner of his mouth spitting out fumes. As far as I can tell, I don’t recognize him. He looks older although not by much. He definitely doesn’t go to our school.
“Canyon Beckett,” he says, helping himself to my thoughts, or maybe he actually thinks I give a damn.
I watch him take a good long drag, tilt his head back and blow.
Smoking is disgusting. It rots your teeth and the smell makes me nauseous. But this guy, Canyon, whatever his last name is makes it look…mesmerizing. Like he’s creating art with the simple task of breathing, and I could lose hours just watching him do it.
“You want a hit?” He extends the cigarette and motions his head towards me. “It’ll calm your nerves.”
I stare at the smoke as it snakes through the air. “How do you know I’m nervous?”
“Aren’t you?” He lowers his hand and takes another miniscule step closer. “I’d be pretty damn nervous if I stood where you’re standing.”
I ignore his question and shift feet, watching as more dirt crumbles off the ledge.
When I look up, he’s leaning against the railing, relatively close, his arms resting over the top. It doesn’t scare me this time, although I kind of wish it did. Wish it had scared me right over the edge, because he’s only prolonging the inevitability of the situation.
A cloud of smoke drifts in front of my face, and I start to scrunch my nose at the repulsive smell, only it isn’t so bad. Actually, it’s somewhat calming.
“So are you going to tell me your name? Or am I going to have to wait to read it in tomorrow’s paper?”
I gape at him, the realization of what he’s saying striking me hard. “That’s…really morbid.”
He chuckles under his breath. Actually chuckles like it’s the most causal thing in the world to be having a conversation with a strange girl on the edge of a cliff.
Sick freak.
“So what you’re doing isn’t morbid?” he asks, his tone hinting amusement.
I shrug. “That all depends on how you look at it.”
From the corner of my eye I see him put his cigarette out then flick it over the railing. Gone. Just like that.
“You’re right. I am looking at it from a completely different perspective.”
There’s a string of silence that’s broken when he pulls a carton of Camels from his back pocket and lights one up. The flame flickers and for a brief second, I get a decent glimpse of his face. It’s…intense. Sharp angles highlighted in soft shadows. The muscle in his jaw twitches as he stares off blindly, and I notice his nose is a little jagged like it might have been broken at some point.
He turns suddenly and catches me staring. I wish it were brighter out, because I’m curious what color his eyes are. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me picture a warm color. Brown maybe. Like the color of his slightly curly hair.
“It’s Elaine,” I finally mutter. The silence and the way he’s staring making me feel the need to say something.
“Elaine,” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue with a puff of smoke. I’ve never liked my name, but I like the way he says it. Like he breathed it out of a line of poetry.
He takes another hit, scuffing the tip of his shoe against the ground. “I don’t like it.”
“Excuse me?”
“It doesn’t fit you,” he says simply.
I let out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a snort. “Says the guy I met two seconds ago.”
He tilts his head in my direction, his gaze penetrating. I feel like he’s seeing past every ounce of flesh and blood and bone down to the darkest part of my soul. The part you don’t bother hiding because you never thought anyone would find it.
I curl my lips in then push them out. “Fine. Humor me then. What name does fit me?”
His eyes flicker back up as if he’d been staring at my mouth. “First, I want you to tell me why you’re up here.”
I frown. “Why do you care?”
Something about his expression changes but it’s hard to make out exactly what. Whatever it is makes his eyebrows strain together as he runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in thick tufts. “Because not so long ago, I was the one standing in your shoes. There was no one there to talk me through it, and I wish there had been.”
I open my mouth to say something, but my brain is unresponsive. What could I say anyways? That I’m sorry? I’m sure he’d appreciate that coming from someone like me.
The silence seems to drag on for hours before a gentle breeze sails by, stealing it away.
“Why didn’t you go through with it?” I ask softly, curiosity getting the better of me.
He gives a one sided shrug and tosses the stub of his cigarette. “Didn’t have the guts. I realized it doesn’t take a weak person to end their life but a strong one. Weak people still have something left to fight for while the strong ones are simply saying, ‘There’s nothing left.”
I let his words sink in, wondering which category I fell under. Weak or strong? Life or death?
“I was in a car accident.” The words tumble out before I realize what I’m saying. I immediately feel my lungs squeeze, like they’re trying to wring out all the bad that’s saturated inside. Thinking about this is one thing but talking about it…It’s like I’m already in hell but still digging my way down. That’s why I’ve refrained from speaking about it since it happened. Kept it bottled up inside, but the thing about life is that it’s a relentless bitch. It shook me every day until the pressure was too much to handle. Now I’m here.
I don’t have to see him to know he’s looking at me, patiently waiting for me to continue. I inhale a shaky breath.
“My brother, he was in the car, too. We got hit by a drunk driver.” My voice breaks, and I can feel it like tiny shards of glass, piercing the tender flesh of my heart. “It should have been me.” I whisper, dropping my head back to stare at the sky. “He was paralyzed from the waist down, and I walked away with a few scratches.”
Emotions I’ve worked so hard to bury turn in their graves, each one coming to life like a ghost. There’s so much more to the story, but the truth is too painful, and I don’t have the guts to face it. Not now.
Whatever possessed me to spill my guts suddenly vanishes, leaving me the same empty shell as before. I glance at Canyon from the corner of my eye, wondering why he hasn’t sucker punched me in the gut with more words of wisdom. Maybe he’s judging me. Or worse, analyzing me. The thou
ght of him trying to figure me out, of him taking a sledge hammer to my walls and trying to figure out why I’ve built them makes me panic.
I need to get rid of him.
“Thanks for the heart to heart but I really don’t need someone trying to talk me out of this.” I dare to take one hand off the railing to motion between us. “I’ve already made up my mind. Talking about it won’t make it any easier.”
He braces both hands on the railing and blows out a breath with his head bent. “Look. I’m not telling you what to do. Should I be dragging your ass back over here? Probably. But that’s not going to keep you from taking your life at any other point in time. I’m just trying to get you to open your mind. You’ve narrowed in on this being your only solution when it’s not. If you’re so hell bent on jumping, do it. But I suggest you take a step back first, figuratively and literally and make sure this is what’s right.”
“How do you know I haven’t thought about this already?” I shoot back. “Maybe I ran out of solutions. Maybe this is what I want.” I’m so full of shit I can barely choke out the last part.
Truthfully, I have been thinking about this for a while now. It wasn’t my first option, and I didn’t want it to be my last. But every day feels like a ghost. A presence that won’t leave and possess my mind. I can’t turn off the memories, and this seemed like the only way to exorcise the pain.
“What you want,” he emphasizes, shaking his head, “not what you need.”
Shoving away from the railing, he puts his hands in his pockets and slowly starts to walk away. “Goodbye, Elle,” he says so softly that if it weren’t for the thrill it sends zapping through me, I would have missed it.
I don’t take my eyes off him until he’s barely an outline blended into the dark. That’s when something inside me flips on like a switch, and I can feel panic surge through me as it roars to life. The son of a bitch is actually going to walk away. Even more unbelievable is that I’m unsettled by it. Everything he said fast plays through my mind leaving me with the bare realization that he’s right. I don’t need to be here. Hell, I don’t even want to be here. I’m weak. So what? I’ve been dealing with this pain for the last eight months, enduring every swift, thrashing beat it assaults on my heart. It hurts, and it’s always going to. The point is I survived, but somewhere along the way I lost my will to. As much as I hate to admit it, by talking to Canyon, I think I just rediscovered it.