CHAPTER 22
The first thing that registers is the pressure. It’s not real pain, just a dull, persistent weight running from the base of my neck all the way to the soles of my feet from a night spent in a tug of war between restlessly tossing and turning, and lucid, agonizing dreams.
The second thing that registers is that I’m not cold anymore.
It's still dark, but the sun is rising.
I stretch out my legs and hear the rustling of the sleeping bag.
I shift again to confirm I’m not hallucinating.
My hand ventures beyond my side of the mattress. It’s cold, and bare, everything having been piled on top of me. I smile, and my heart hurts. These are the little things I crave but don’t allow myself to believe that I deserve.
I move, little by little, until I’m lying on Carey’s pillow. Only half my body is covered now, so I pull the sleeping bag on top of me and hug it high around my face.
It smells like him.
So does the pillow.
I breathe in deep, and the ache in my muscles means nothing anymore.
I want this so much, to wake up every morning having slept beside him every night.
For several minutes I allow myself to imagine him returning with coffee he’s made on the fire.
He leaves it beside the sink, then crawls back into bed and nuzzles his nose into the crook of my neck from behind.
I reach up to run my fingers through his wild hair, his lips pressing into my jaw as he grinds himself against my ass, the coffee forgotten.
But then the guilt sets in.
In spite of the thing in my guts that reacts to his absence like a lost limb, the gesture of covering me with his sleeping bag makes me sour. It feels like he was putting his goddamn mark on me without my permission after I made it clear that there is nothing between us.
I sit up too quickly, and the van rocks.
The air inside is thick, and the windows are dripping with condensation.
I sniff, and all I can smell is Carey.
I shimmy to the end of the mattress and crack the window.
My reflection in the round mirror on the backsplash behind the passenger's seat proves that I look just as shitty as I feel. My hair is a wreck with tufts of blond and black sticking up at every angle. My eyes are puffy, my jaw is covered in sandpaper stubble, and my lips are cracked and grey like I’ve been gnawing on them.
Still in my sweatsuit from last night, I pull my duffle bag out from where it's tucked under the edge of the bed. Before going any further, I open the cupboards beneath the sink to make sure Carey restocked the water. Thankfully the twenty gallon tub is full, and there’s a brand new five gallon bottle hooked up to the filter tap.
I brush my teeth, the coldness of the water making my whole mouth sting.
I wish I’d just bit the bullet and splurged on the hot water heater, but living out of this thing was never really the plan.
I carry on, doing the best I can with frigid water and a washcloth, then change into a new hoodie and sweatpants.
My boots are still where I left them, and stepping into them grounds me, but in the kind of way that replays countless other awkward morning routines in uncomfortable places after reckless nights.
Motels, random couches, back seats. Eden, myself, and faceless women crammed into a double bed more times than I can count.
I grit my teeth, grab my coat, and exit the van.
The cold out here is like a tyrant, slapping the remaining sleep right off my face.
After zipping my jacket the whole way, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and look for signs of Carey.
After noting his surfboard is gone and his bag has been rummaged through, I find the rest of the camp is exactly how we left it last night.
There is a fresh fire in the pit and the flames look so inviting I want to collapse into one of the camping chairs beside the warmth so badly, but that’s not what I need.
I need to walk.
I need to clear my mind.
Marching past the firepit, I head right along the beach, keeping the tree line close to my side.
The roar of The Pacific is like thunder.
The thunder of that night.
I can't escape it.
It just keeps going round, and round, and round.
I’m at least one-hundred yards from the shore but I can hear every time the high-tide waves crash into the boulders in the surf. I really wish Carey wasn't out there right now. It's too dangerous, too cold. He should be by the fire keeping warm.
I look down at my right hand, flexing it, watching the skin around my scar stretch and release before turning it over to look at the palm. It’s worse there, more discolored. I can’t remember how many stitches it took but I know it was months before I got all the feeling back in my fingers.
I think about Jintae, and pull out my phone to text him like I do every morning.
It’s never much, just a reminder that I’m thinking about him and here if he needs me.
Not that he’s ever replied. Not even once in a month.
I know he’s running, and I can’t blame him for that.
I’d run too if I could. But today, even my memories of him are stabbing at me.
I can’t stop thinking about how round his face was when he was little, how cute his dimples were, and how he used to cling onto my hand when he was scared.
There’s no excuse for what I’m doing to Eden. There’s no clever justification. It’s plain and simple, Carey is off limits—the kind that’s never spoken of but always known—and I keep letting him in.
I’m not just a bad friend, I’m a traitor.
I shiver, but don’t stop moving.
I want to scream into the wind, anything I can do to rid myself of the excessive need I have for him.
But I keep my head down, watching my boots on the rocks, never venturing close to the water until my calves are burning, the wind is hurting my throat, and I’ve reached the beach’s dead end where the cliffs are too sheer to climb so I just stare out at the ocean's silver and violent surf.
Closing my eyes, I let the wind batter me.
I imagine it tearing off layers of skin, muscle, and bone until there’s nothing left but my good intentions.
I imagine the waves coming up to claim me, dragging me under and out of my misery…
It doesn’t work. When I open my eyes I’m still here, still me, still the same idiot who let a pretty smile and a smart mouth undo a decade of self-control, and now I’m the villain in someone else’s story.
I find a small alcove in the rocks and lean against them as I call Eden because I have to hear in his voice that he’s pissed at everything else in the world and not me.
It rings out, because, of course it does. This is Eden van der Hart we’re talking about.
I call again, and this time on the fourth ring I get a begrudging; “What?”
I smile at how raspy his voice is. “I love you, too.”
“These early morning calls have got to stop.”
“I don’t think so… You got anything new for me?”
There’s a pause, then the sound of wind rushing through the speaker. He’s probably on the roof again. “I’m good. There’s nothing new.”
“You’re good? You don’t sound good.”
“And how do I sound?” The aggravation in his tone makes me far happier than it should.
“You sound like Eden. Like yourself… Kinda like you always do. Like there’s something you wanna say but you always hold it in.”
He grumbles, “I just woke up early, that’s all.”
“And that’s different from every other day, how?”
“Quit doing this.”
I act innocent. “Doing what?”
“The thing where you push me for a reaction.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about… Have you found yourself, or whatever?”
“The fuck?”
Now I’m laughing. “I don’t know. You’re the one who ran away to the woods like you were trying to find out who you really were.”
“I was trying to not kill someone.”
“So have your homicidal tendencies died down yet?”
“They had until a minute ago.”
I roll my eyes knowing he won’t see it. This whole thing is pointless, but it’s perfect. “So who are you taking all that temper out on? The trees? Your dick—”
“I’m doing fine!” He interrupts and there's a stern finality to it. “How are things with you?”
“Fine.” Not fine. “Same as usual.” I’m falling for your brother.
“How’s Carey?”
My throat seizes. “He’s…” I have to cough to clear it. “Why don’t you call him and find out?”
“I don’t think he wants to hear from me.”
“I think you’re probably the only person he does want to hear from.” Other than me.
“Can’t you just… relay the information?” I know it’s selfish, but hearing the guilt in Eden’s voice makes me feel better about my own.
“He’s fine. He seems happy. The clients love him… He’s enforced a strict ‘staff must wear slippers in the shop’ policy.”
“Like fuck, he has.”
“If you’d call him you could ask him yourself.”
“Well when I get back I won’t be wearing—”
“Yes you will.” It's my turn to cut him off, and I let the silence stretch.
All I want to do is talk about Carey, because every thought in my brain is him. His smile, his laugh, his smell, his stomach, his piercings, his hair… Then I grab onto something else. Something that won’t raise more questions. “I still haven’t heard from Jintae.”
Eden makes a weird sound. It’s like a sigh, but there’s frustration behind it. “Did you ever think that Jin is just doing whatever the fuck he wants? Maybe he’s better off? You need to stop thinking it’s your job to reel him back in. You share the same parents, so you’ve gotta know how he feels.”
I bite down on my lip, then say, “You’ve never liked him. What’s with the sudden—”
“There’s nothing behind it, Tek. I’m just playing Devil’s advocate.” The ocean roars louder. “Where are you?”
I hesitate, then decide to just tell the truth. “I’m at the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Yeah, is that so unbelieveable?”
“I am talking to Jeon Wootek, aren’t I?”