Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  I’m going to start fighting for everything now.

  With a stack of printed out papers in one hand, I march toward Marina’s house, going for the gate. It’s nine at night, the street is dark and quiet, the air humid. I’ve texted and emailed and called Marina repeatedly over the last few days, asking to see her, speak with her.

  She’s shut me down every time.

  Well, the one time she answered the phone, she shut me down. She said, “please stop calling me, I don’t ever want to speak to you,” and then hung up. Everything else before and after went unanswered.

  But I’m emboldened by what Scooby said. To grovel like a son of a bitch.

  To fight for her.

  To fight to be a part of her life in the very way she deserves.

  The way we both deserve.

  So I’m just heading over to her house unwanted, uninvited, and I’m not backing down, not until she knows how I feel, until she hears what I have to say.

  But the gate is locked.

  I frown, my fingers trying to fiddle with the latch which is usually so easy to lift.

  “Can I help you?” a raspy low voice that definitely belongs to a heavy smoker comes out from the house.

  I jump and look over at the open window where Miss Havisham is leaning out of, the curtains pushed behind her.

  Bloody hell. I’ve never had a good look at her before, only as she was back in the day as a movie star and it’s apparent she still thinks she’s said movie star with all the thick, cakey makeup and red, overlined, Joan Crawford lips.

  “Uh, hiya.” I remove my hand from the gate lock. “I’m here to see Marina.”

  “She’s not home,” she says.

  I glance at Marina’s VW bug on the street. “Are you sure?”

  “She’s gone out with her friend. The grumpy one. What do you want?”

  I stare down at the papers. “I wanted to give her something.”

  “You can give it to me, I’ll give it to her.”

  “Well actually it’s best I give them to her in person. I really need to talk to her.”

  “So you can break her heart again?”

  Ah. So she knows.

  “No,” I say quietly. “I’m not going to break her heart again. I don’t even have her heart anymore.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You young people don’t know a thing about love, do you?” She sighs and cocks her head. “Do you smoke?”

  “I used to,” I admit. “Only on occasion now.”

  “Come on in here. Have a cigarette with me and I’ll tell you the secrets of the universe.”

  I probably should go. I know that if I try and go to Marina’s—whether she’s home or not—I’ll probably get in trouble for it. It is Barbara’s property after all and she’s yelled about calling the cops on me before.

  But curiosity has me by the neck.

  I walk around to her front door and knock.

  Wait a moment.

  And then the door slowly opens, extra dramatic, with wafts of cigarette smoke billowing out toward me.

  There stands Miss Havisham, though I suppose I should start calling her Barbara now. And unlike the Miss Havisham from Great Expectations, she’s not wearing a wedding dress but a long, red, satin gown with a lacy, white shawl over top.

  A cigarette dangles from her sticky lips. Her hand holds out another one for me.

  “Here. Welcome,” she says, walking over to the fireplace with her gown billowing behind her and grabbing a giant, vintage lighter from the mantle.

  She lights her cigarette first and then lights mine, peering intently into my eyes as she does so.

  “You remind me of Montgomery Clift,” she says.

  I raise my brows. “Wasn’t he gay?”

  She shrugs. “Everyone was at some point. But you both have that brooding intensity, that need to embrace the dark. He always played the moody, sensitive and self-destructive characters because he was the same in real life. I bet you are too.”

  I try and shrug it off. “It’s a bit self-indulgent to refer to yourself as brooding. I’m often thinking and lost in my head.”

  “And your brows do this,” she says, sliding a finger down over my forehead, pushing my brows over my eyes. I’m hit with a wave of rose perfume. “You do that and you think and you overthink and that’s what makes you broody.” She makes a flamboyant gesture to the couch. “Here, sit down.”

  I do so. I have to admit, the nicotine feels good, even if this whole situation is a little weird.

  “So what do we have here?” she asks nodding at the papers as she takes a seat in an armchair across from me.

  I absently flip through the pages. “They’re for Marina.”

  “But what are they?”

  I take a long drag of the cigarette, finding courage. “Poems. They’re poems I wrote about her over the years. I wanted to give them to her.”

  “Why?” she asks hoarsely.

  “Because. She…I want her to know how I feel.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “About her?”

  “It’s a simple question, Lazarus.” She draws out my name. “How do you feel about her? Do you love her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in love with her.”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  She cocks a thin brow and ashes into a silver dish. “Well. Isn’t this interesting.”

  “Is it?”

  “Love is always interesting,” she says. “Love is our biggest adventure.”

  I don’t say anything to that. I’m not sure what there is to say. I suppose being in love does feel like being lost in a big fucking scary jungle somewhere but I’m not sure what kind of adventure that is.

  “I’ve loved a lot of men, Lazarus. You may not know it, but I was quite the looker in my day. I had them eating out of the palm of my hand. I had many, many lovers. I broke many hearts. And many of them broke my heart. And it was all part of the adventure. That’s how you have to look at it, you know. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Did you ever have that one big love that obliterated the rest?”

  Her face crumbles, just slightly. I immediately feel bad for saying anything.

  “Yes,” she says. “My first husband. Cooper. He died.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes. So am I.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Car accident. Wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The impact killed him instantly.” She pauses, takes a drag, her fingers shaking slightly. “I had many lovers after him, husbands even, but no one compared to Cooper. It was like we shared the same soul but it was much bigger and brighter than that. Like we were…starmates. Made in the stars. Found each other here on earth. It was that kind of love. I never had it again and that’s okay. It really is, because I was lucky enough to have it to begin with. My only regret is that it took me too long to realize what he was to me. I was young and dumb, ignored his advances forever until I finally gave in…he died a year into our marriage. I wish we had more time together. But even so, I have zero regrets. More than that, I’m forever thankful.”

  She ashes again and fixes her eyes on me, razor sharp. “Which is why, if and when you realize what you have with Marina, you need to hold on and never let go. Because life is short and love needs to be indulged often.”

  She stands up as those words settle over me. “I have something for you.”

  The smoke follows her as she leaves the living area and disappears down the hall.

  My eyes take in the room in a quick, absent way. Framed movie posters adorn the walls, old framed black and white photos and random knickknacks clutter up every available free space. But my mind is reeling over what she just said.

  It pains me to think I’m realizing everything a little too late.

  When she comes back in the room she’s carrying a small tin of what looks to be Altoids.

  I get to my feet and she gives it to me.

  “This is for you. Don’t
open it now. Don’t lose it. Think about Marina and what you want and what she means to you. Do all that first. Then have a look.”

  “This isn’t a Magic 8 Ball, is it?”

  She gives me a look. “Don’t be foolish. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a lie down.”

  I stare down at the Altoids and shake the tin but I don’t hear a thing.

  She’s staring at me expectantly, brow raised. You know, to leave.

  So I do.

  “Is Marina really out with her friend?” I ask, pausing at the door.

  “Yes, she really is.”

  “She’s not home?”

  “No.”

  “Then can you do me a favor?”

  She narrows her eyes at me but there’s a slight smile to her lips. “I thought I just did you one.”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  Laz

  “Mercy in You”

  * * *

  My phone rings, blasting its way through my dreams until I'm awake.

  I reach over to the nightstand and fumble for it.

  Marina.

  It has to be her.

  Please God, let it be her.

  Even with my brain heavy from sleep, it's the first thing it latches onto.

  Her.

  Hope.

  Hope that maybe, after everything, maybe she's willing to give me another chance. Maybe she can see what an idiot I've been, maybe she can search through my layers of bullshit, the armor and the masks, and find that part of me that's worth a second chance.

  Maybe when she came home tonight after her night out, she saw what I did to her house.

  But when I lift up the phone to my face, my eyes blinking rapidly at the garish light shining in my face, I don't see Marina's name come into view.

  It's Noah's.

  And it's past midnight.

  The boy rarely calls me and never at this hour.

  Without even knowing why, my heart is already in my throat.

  Something is very wrong.

  I answer it. "Noah?" I say, my voice craggy.

  I hear sobbing in response.

  Noah's crying.

  Something inside my chest drops.

  "Noah?" I say again. "Is that you? Are you okay? What happened?"

  More sobbing, sniffling. Then someone yelling in the background.

  "I'm going to kill you, you faggot!"

  Daryl's voice strikes through the air, the fear going straight to my heart.

  "Noah!" I yell. "What's happening?"

  "He knows," he manages to say through a pained sob. "Laz, I need help."

  And then the yelling stops. His cries stop.

  The line goes dead.

  Holy shit.

  I stare at the phone, wondering if I should call back. But if Daryl "knows"...no, there is no but. He does know. He knows and who knows what he's doing to him. If Noah needs help, he needs my help.

  And if Daryl laid a finger on him, god help me.

  I know I should maybe call my mother but there's no saying what side she would be on or what she knows. I should probably call the police too, but I don't know the situation or what I'm up against. All I have to go on is Noah calling me, crying, asking for help and Daryl yelling, calling him a faggot. I have a pretty good idea of what's going on but I don't want to get Noah in trouble either.

  I get out of bed, slip on my track pants and a T-shirt and sneakers and I'm out the door, in my car and heading up to Santa Clarita at the speed of light,

  I have no idea what to expect and I'm kneading the steering wheel as I drive, going over all the possibilities. For the first time since I broke up with Marina, I'm having to deal with something that hasn't involved me and I'm not sure if I'm going to be as level-headed as I can be. If Daryl hurt Noah in anyway, physically, there will be actual hell to pay. There's far too much pent-up anger and aggression rolling through me that really needs an outlet. Getting a few punches in will feel a fuckload better than penning a few angsty poems, but even so, I need to be careful. I can’t let rage get the best of me.

  When I pull up to the house though and go through the gates, I'm surprised to see all of the lights in the house are off.

  Surprised and disturbed.

  You'd think that with the amount of yelling I heard, that lights would be on somewhere. There's no way my mother could have slept through that, she would have to be up.

  Unless she's out. Unless they're all out now. Who knows where they could be. Maybe Daryl was arrested. Maybe my mother packed herself and Noah up and they fled. Maybe they're all asleep and Noah was overreacting over a basic argument. Maybe I'm about to burst into their house and find out that there's absolutely nothing wrong—and then get Noah in trouble for real.

  I'm starting to think that the latter might be correct. That is until I jog up to the front door, ready to knock, and see that it's already ajar.

  Oh shit. Not a good sign.

  I push it open and poke my head in. There's one light on in the kitchen, the one above the stove.

  "Hello?" I call out because the last thing I want is for Daryl to bring out his handgun and think I'm an intruder.

  But even though I hear the shuffle of someone in the kitchen, I don't hear them say anything. Someone is staying silent.

  Cold dread coats my back. It's almost enough to make me turn around and head back out.

  But I don't.

  I keep walking, slowly, my sneakers creeping silently along the tile floors.

  It's then that I notice things as I pass them.

  A side table knocked over, picture frames face down, their glass shattered.

  I tip-toe around the broken glass, keep going.

  I pause in the archway into the kitchen.

  My mother and Noah are sitting at the table across from each other.

  Neither of them are talking.

  My eyes go to Noah first and he's staring at me with dried tears on his face, face red. Wearing jeans and a silver long-sleeved shirt. His mouth is smudged red but it's unnatural, the red from lipstick, not from blood.

  I feel a hit of relief, the fact that so far he looks completely unharmed. At least physically.

  Then I look at my mother.

  My heart stills in my chest.

  Her eye is purple, crusted blood beneath her nose.

  Holy fuck.

  "What—" I start to say but my mother immediately raises a finger to her lips.

  I practically sprint toward her, crouching down beside her at the table.

  "What the fuck happened?" I whisper wildly, looking between the two of them. "Was this Daryl?"

  My mother doesn't say anything, just looks down. Ashamed. The same look she used to have with my father.

  I look to Noah. "Was this Daryl? Was it your father?"

  He nods, his eyes nervously darting to the hall. I look over my shoulder but there's no one there.

  "Yes," he whispers, his voice raw with shame. "I...I broke the rules. I stayed out late. Really late. My friend dropped me off and I thought I would sneak in. He's got his driver's license, it's okay. We were just hanging out at his house, his parents were home and everything, they knew I was there, it was cool." He pauses, wiping his nose. "And then dad caught me sneaking in. I was wearing this. I had on makeup. I thought I could get in my room and wash it off before he saw. He lost his shit. He...he threatened to kill me. He came after me. I ran, I escaped, went around him. I ran through the house."

  He glances at my mother. "Sarah woke up. Started yelling at him to leave me alone. He came after me again, she went in front to protect me and he hit her. Then he said he was coming for me."

  The anger rising through me, the flames licking, burning me, are like nothing else. "Where is he now?" I manage to say, choked.

  "Upstairs," my mother says quietly. She looks up, her eyes meet mine and I see a tired vulnerability that was never there before. "You need to go Laz."

  I shake my head, getting to my feet. "Go? Go? I just got
here. I'm just getting started."

  "We'll sort this out on our own," she says.

  “Have you called the cops?”

  She shakes her head. “No. What will they do?”

  I almost laugh. “Are you serious? Mum, you have to call the cops. This is assault. He fucking hit you. He was going to do the same to Noah. This is abuse. This is something he needs to go to jail for, for a very long time.”

  “You know he’s powerful,” she says meekly, pleading with her eyes. “You know that he has people eating out of the palm of his hand.”

  “If you don’t call the police, I will.”

  “Laz, please. Don’t. Do it for me. Don’t ruin Noah’s life.”

  “Noah’s life?” I repeat. “You have got to be…I can’t believe you.”

  “I’m scared,” she snaps at me, tears filling her eyes. “Okay? I’m bloody scared and I don’t know what to do. I just don’t. Okay? I don’t.” She starts to cry, breaking down in front of me like she never has before.

  Despite everything that has gone wrong between us, I put my hand over hers. Then I look at Noah. “You know we have to call the cops.”

  “I know,” he says. “But I’m afraid that…he won’t get put away. And then he’ll hurt me. You know what he said? That I wasn’t his son. That I was a disgrace. That I’ll never be a proper man and I might as well off myself if that was the case.”

  Again, my blood boils over.

  Rage seethes and seethes.

  “He basically told me to kill myself,” he cries. “My own fucking father.”

  “Noah,” my mother says softly but doesn’t add anything more.

  “Fine,” I tell them, letting the anger fill me like tar, black, oozing, sticky. “I’ll fix it myself.”

  “Laz,” my mother hisses.

  But I’m already walking off through the kitchen.

  Past the broken frames.

  Up the stairs.

  Down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

  The lights are off.

  I can hear Daryl breathing.

  Raspy exhales in the darkness.

  I’m sent back in time, to when I was a child, approaching my father. The sleeping bear you never wanted to wake sometimes. I learned to become extremely adept at walking quietly, not making a sound, not existing.