Chapter 51
A fter spending the day at the beach, we begin the trek back to the Brantleys’ home.
Passing by a couple of kids with a bucket and some shovels, I’m hit in the face with invisible rotten eggs. I’m practically choking on the stench, my gag reflex fully engaged, when I hear Crue say, “Told ya. The sand holds on to it.”
I’ve experienced the occasional sulfur onslaught while driving near salt marshes before, with the windows up to cut some of the potency, but there’s no barrier out here. This is a full-on invasion of my senses.
“How can they stand it?” I gesture to the kids happily building a sandcastle, oblivious to the odor cloud they’ve unleashed with their plastic shovels.
“They’re kids. They probably don’t care.”
“A lot of people around here don’t even notice,” says Phoebe.
“How? How can someone not notice rotten eggs?”
“They just grow accustomed to it. Like people who live near railroads,” Crue’s father says with a shrug.
“Isn’t there a railroad nearby? I heard one last night.”
“Is there?” he asks suddenly, searching around and making me chuckle. Grinning, he says, “I must’ve grown accustomed to it.”
Crue got his sense of humor from him and his caring nature from Phoebe.
“A couple more nights and you won’t hear the train anymore either,” Crue tells me. He’s lugging both kayaks back the same way he brought them here—by himself. Only, he’s shirtless now.
Other girls are checking him out, their gazes glued to his abs like a five-year-old’s craft project, and it’s making me feel very volatile. I want to scream at them to stop eye-fucking my boyfriend. I want to rub stinky sand in their eyes, preventing them from ever eye-fucking him, or anyone, again.
Sadly, I do neither. I already drew enough attention to myself earlier calling out that witch in a straw hat. This is how it will be for us here—Crue and I constantly shrinking ourselves to avoid recognition. I’ve been watching him do it all afternoon, never making eye contact with strangers, never raising his voice, never causing a scene about anything.
On vacations, I would study other families, memorize how they’d behave. Each one was different, no obvious commonalities between them…except one. They were carefree. Some were loud and boisterous while others were quiet and lazy. But they all smiled. They all talked, laughed, interacted.
That’s how the Brantleys were inside their house, but out here, they were anything but carefree. The three of them hardly spoke to each other louder than they would inside a library. They did everything they could not to draw attention to themselves, blending in with the sand almost as well as the crabs discreetly scuttling along the shoreline.
That’s one reason why Crue was such a good bodyguard. He’s proficient at trying to be invisible.
I used to think it was because of his scar. Now I know it’s not just about the scar. It’s about hiding his entire identity.
And his parents let him. They enable him. They join him. They had the opportunity to confront someone speaking poorly, not to mention incorrectly, about their son, but they didn’t. They stayed silent, drawing in on themselves to make the family less noticeable as a whole.
I understand why they do it. It would be them against Sea Haven. I just don’t agree with it. Crue’s willing to sacrifice so much for them, but they’re not willing to make sacrifices for him.
Maybe that is their sacrifice. Maybe they had a loud life before that fateful night that forever changed two families. Yasmin’s family lost her, but Crue’s parents lost him, too. And maybe they lost themselves. Maybe Phoebe and Reid are doing all they’re capable of to ensure Crue still feels loved, and has a home, a safe abditory to hide from the world in.
But he should have more. I want him to have more. I want him to have everything. Crue is worth the battle. He’s worth a war.
He’s also worth peace, something I’ll never get knowing he chose me over his dreams. That’s exactly what he’s going to do. In the name of love, Crue will continue to let this town beat him down until there’s nothing left. Pressure may make diamonds, but too much can vaporize them. I can’t sit back and watch that happen. I love him too much. I’d rather sell my soul to the devil—
The devil… The very one in need of a soul right now. And funds to spare.
“What’s that?” I ask. At the end of Crue’s street is a stone pier. There’s a bunch of wooden pillars sticking out of the water around it. It looks like it’s supposed to be for boats but there aren’t any moored to it. There’s a couple holding hands, walking on it, otherwise it’s kind of an eyesore honestly.
“This used to be a shipbuilding area. That’s the old wharf. Nobody uses it anymore though.”
It’s certainly long enough. I’m just not sure about the width. As long as it has a twenty-five-foot diameter, it should work.
“Some people fish off it,” Crue adds.
I tune back in to tease, “Like you?” His fishing story was very believable.
He gives an unconvincing, yet flirty, “Maybe.”
“When’s the last time you fished, son?” Reid asks, sparking a conversation about the one and only time the two of them went fishing together back when Crue was still in elementary school, before wrestling claimed all of his free time.
Diving into my thoughts again, I don’t even realize we’ve made it back to the Brantleys’ until Crue shouts my name. Looking up, I find myself in front of their neighbor’s house, apparently having blown right by Crue’s.
“Whoops,” I say as I quickly backtrack a house.
“Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time,” Phoebe reassures me.
“The houses do sort of look alike.” If I was paying attention, I could’ve looked for the purple door.
“Mom, Dad, Ever needs some statues out front so she can tell which house is ours.”
“I don’t,” I tell Crue’s parents with a headshake.
“Crue,” Phoebe tsks before telling me, “Just look for the sailboat mailbox. That’s ours.”
I glance back at the mini sailboat replica made into a mailbox, the number 597 on it.
“It matches the keyrings.”
Her keyring has yet another smaller sailboat replica on it.
“Sailboat. Got it.”
Phoebe and Reid excuse themselves inside.
“You can dump the cooler in the flower beds, then meet me in the shower out back,” Crue tells me on his way to the backyard to drop the kayaks by the side of the house.
“I didn’t even get that wet,” I point out. We didn’t swim and I didn’t capsize, so only the bottom halves of my legs got wet. I am sandy though.
“Not yet,” Crue threatens, and I grin.
Bent down, almost finished scattering the ice under the hydrangeas, I hear voices and freeze. The manor’s neighbors live too far away to overhear anything.
“Someone should tell her.”
“Let someone else.”
I strain my ears a little harder, hoping they’ll spill more details than that.
“Excuse me.”
My eyes wander around the bush as I wait to hear this.
“Excuse me? Miss?”
Glancing to the side, I jump when I notice someone behind me. I stand immediately and spin around to face the two older women, one on the sidewalk and one only a few feet away from me.
“Yes?”
“Do you know that boy’s history?”
“Crue?”
“Mm-hm.”
It’s as if I can feel each and every one of my hackles rise. If I were a cat, my back would be bowed like a fishhook right now.
“Do you?” I counter.
“Yes—”
“Then you’ll know he’s no longer a boy. He’s a man. You’ll also know that he was never charged with anything, not driving under the influence, not manslaughter, and not anything else being said about him. If the law didn’t persecute him, why the fuck do you think it’s your job to?”
At my curse, I sense her hackles get raised as well.
Raise them. Raise them all . I’m not a Brantley. I’m a Munreaux and I’m not afraid to make a scene. I’m already on borrowed time as it is.
Tick.
Tock.
“What he did to that girl—”
“Was fabricated. He didn’t hurt that girl. He would never hurt a girl.”
The woman closest to me shoots her friend a look.
“I, however…” I close the distance so that when she turns back around, I’m nearly in her face. Luckily, she’s short as well, so it has the effect I want. Crue thinks I’m creepy. Hopefully she does, too.
She rears back, clutching her throat as if she’s seeking out her pearls. Or rosary.
“…have no such qualms. Speak poorly about anyone in the Brantley family again, and I will come to your house and prove it.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
A swinging lighthouse on her keyring catches my eye and I decide to take a wild guess.
“The one with the lighthouse mailbox?”
Her eyes widen to near comical proportions, telling me I hit the bullseye.
What is with this neighborhood and their matching mailboxes and keyrings?
“And next time you see Crue, try smiling at him. It won’t change anything in your life, but it might in his.”
“I don’t think so,” she sneers with a fake smile.
Matching her energy, I say, “Then avoid using this street ever again or I’ll pump water directly from the salt marsh in through your windows while you sleep.”
Everyone in this neighborhood seems to keep their windows open all hours of the day, even at night, like none of them have air-conditioning. I know not everybody in the area does, but don’t any of them? The manor had air-conditioning installed before I was born, so last night was my first time sleeping with an open window.
It wasn’t terrible.
But I had Crue to protect me. This judgy bitch probably doesn’t have anyone to keep her safe.
That both delights and saddens me. She might be nicer if she had someone to love her.
Another sneer in my direction, then she and her bestie are strolling away.
Or maybe she drives everyone away with her holier-than-thou attitude.
I flip off her back, then go in search of my boyfriend.
Standing just shy of the outdoor shower’s overhead faucet, Crue’s using the bottom spray to rinse his feet off. He looks up at my approach but I don’t stop. I don’t so much as slow down until my hands are grabbing his face and my lips are sealed to his.
He’s still shirtless but has his pants on. I’m completely dressed. Yet his hands cup my ass and lift, then my back’s touching siding, Crue’s erection caught between us as his hips pin me to the house, the shower streaming down over our bodies.
He tears his mouth from mine to ask, “You wet now?”
Biting his bottom lip, I nod before drawing him back to me.
Crue kisses me until I’m breathless and my pussy is aching to be filled.
I don’t know how he does it but he reaches back to tickle my foot. I think he’s going to put it over his shoulder, but he just focuses on my heel. His hands are also kneading my ass which…doesn’t make any sense if he’s playing with my—
I crack an eye to see a dog licking my foot.
“Oh my Goddess!”
Crue pulls back. “What?”
“There’s a dog.”
Without even investigating, he says, “That’s just Zeus,” before going in for another kiss. When I don’t respond, he moves to my neck.
“He’s licking me.”
“Zeus, go away,” gets muffled against my skin.
Zeus does not. Zeus sits right where he is and gives me literal puppy-dog eyes.
“Crue. Crue.” I shove on his shoulders. “He won’t stop.”
“He’s still licking you?”
“No, now he’s looking at me.”
“So what? He doesn’t know.”
“He knows.”
“He doesn’t.”
“How do you know what he knows?”
“I don’t…” Crue sighs, then shoos Zeus. “Go on. Get inside.”
The only thing on the dog that moves are his eyebrows as he continues giving me sad, pleading eyes.
“Don’t be mean to him.”
“I’m not being mean to him. I promise. He just… He’s… He’s cock-blocking me right now and I need him to go inside so I can have sex with my girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not having sex out here.”
“We were about to.”
“Not anymore.” One full-body wiggle, then I’m put back on my feet.
Zeus’s tail goes into hyperdrive as he gets to all fours, coming right over to me to nuzzle everything he can reach.
The water shuts off behind me as I bend down to Zeus’s level, my knees in the grass while his whiskers tickle my skin.
“What’s he doing?” I ask through a giggle.
“You never had a dog sniff you before?”
“No.”
“Your scent’s new to him. He’s just checking you out.”
“Oh, yeah? How do I smell?” I ask Zeus, petting his floppy ears. His fur—hair?—is a beautiful shiny gold and wavy. I never understood people’s desire to pet dogs until now. He’s so soft, softer than Crue 2.0.
“Probably a lot like me.”
“But he can tell the difference?”
“Yeah. Their sense of smell is supposed to be something like a hundred thousand times better than ours.”
“Wow. You’re amazing,” I tell Zeus, earning myself a lick on the nose. And maybe up it? Yuck.
I keep a smile on my face though so I don’t hurt his feelings.
“He likes you.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Because right now, my dog looks like what it feels like to be in love with you.”
Zeus walks forward, causing me to fall back on my butt, more giggles erupting out of me, then next thing I know, I’m flat on my back and Zeus is standing over me, his entire body wagging as he licks my face.
“All right.” Crue starts backing him up. “I get it, Zeus. Trust me, buddy. I get it. But she’s mine.”
With Zeus off me, Crue towers above me, holding his hand out to me, but I take a minute to stare up at him from down here.
“You’re amazing, too.”
“Is that your way of telling me you want me to lick your face?”
“No,” I say, but Crue seems to take my ear-to-ear smile as an invitation to drop down on top of me and do it anyway.
The squeals that leave my mouth don’t sound human whatsoever but apparently something dogs understand because Zeus’s wet nose is suddenly in the mix again, trying to shove Crue’s out of the way.
Between laughs, Crue sends his dog away again as he holds himself suspended over me.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I reach up to pull Crue closer by the back of his neck, wanting to stay just like this for as long as possible.
“Ever.” He looks at our position. “We’re disgusting.”
“I know. Just…”
We’re in the prickly, swampy grass that doesn’t smell particularly good, probably what I imagine wet dog to smell like, and it feels itchy and gross and, yes, beyond disgusting. But this is one of those moments in life that are special in a way that’s indescribable. It’s a core memory in the making. How can I not stretch it just a little bit longer?
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” I promise him.
His response is immediate. “There’s nothing you need to do for me. Whether you’re up on your throne or down here in the mud, I love you the same…unconditionally.”
I gaze into his eyes, only seeing pure, unequivocal love staring back at me.
“Thank you.”
Grinning, he says, “You’re welcome,” in the same way we always do.
“No, I’m serious. Thank you for showing me what this kind of love feels like. I didn’t think I’d ever experience it.”
“I don’t think most people experience love like this. If they did, the world would be a lot happier.”
Focusing on the feeling of love, I picture my chest filling with warm air, thick like smoke but pink and cotton candy scented. It expands my rib cage until it bursts wide open in the middle, spilling out into the atmosphere in large drafts, larger than could fit in my body. I can almost see it spreading, searching for others to influence, to wrap up in security.
The reason why the world isn’t happier is because love is a master of disguise. It’s adaptable. It’s adrenaline and fear and perseverance and trust. It’s transformative, miraculous. It’s…everything. Love is in everything and everyone, but it can be hard to identify, sometimes impossible. The subconscious love you have for yourself is what keeps you from stepping out into traffic, is what urges you to snuggle down into your coat on a cold day, is what scares you about jumping into another relationship after being hurt. Love is a watchdog on constant alert just to keep you safe, to keep you alive.
“I love you, Crue Brantley.”
“I love you, Ever Brantley.”
“I’m… Wha—”
“I’m manifesting that shit into existence right now. You’re gonna be my wife very soon, so get used to the name.”
Suddenly lifting my head up, I capture Crue’s mouth with mine, breathing every last pink tendril I have into him, leaving it here, where it belongs.
Keep him safe.
Keep him alive.
Keep him perfect.