Chapter 6
Six
Dusk spills across the sky in smudged hues, marking the hours stitched together in a blur of shots, good food, and great company.
“I need to indulge more often.”
I laugh, letting my head roll to the side until Aspen’s in view. She’s slouched across the bistro chair like me, face tipped to the dying light.
“It doesn’t take much. You’re such a lightweight.”
Getting her to swap martinis for tequila was easy enough. Not that tequila was a hit either, but at least she paced herself, unlike me, slamming shots back like water.
Still, just a little was all it took to loosen her edges.
And I have to admit, the happiness there in the rosy flush extending to her ears is contagious; my smile’s barely wavered. Maybe it’s just rose-tinted glasses poured from a bottle, but even now, hours later, I’m still riding the warmth of it.
And that’s something. Better than the nothing I’m used to.
Or worse, what comes after nothing.
She groans, laughter dissolving into regret. “I can already feel how bad my head’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”
“Probably,” I grin. “But it’s been fun, hasn’t it?”
“So fun. I’m really glad I invited you.” She scrunches her nose, sheepish. “I was kind of nervous. I’m not the best at making friends. But you’ve been lovely. Definitely not what I expected.”
A hum slips out, easier than confessing I’m the same when it comes to friends. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, but certainly not someone I’d feel so comfortable with so quick.”
“Ditto.”
And it’s true. Other people floated in, said hi, made their rounds, but Aspen and I stayed in each other’s orbit most of the night.
Even now, we’re folded into the hush of the back deck, music humming faintly through the walls while the rest of the group winds down the stairs in preparation of a bonfire.
She squeezes my hand once before letting go on a long exhale. “I could pass out right here. It’s so peaceful.”
I wish I could say the same. Sleep and I don’t get along on the best nights, and with vodka buzzing through my veins, it isn’t even on the table right now.
That reminds me.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?”
She mumbles out directions, something about the hallway and either far left or far right, but by the time I reach the top of the stairs, it’s all become a useless swirl in my head.
I pause.
Left or right?
I go with left.
Hardwood turns to limestone under my feet, and one glance at the neat lineup of cologne and aftershave on the sink tells me I guessed wrong. The real confirmation comes a beat later, in the form of a picture frame perched on the dresser.
Of course my liquor-heavy stumble sends me right into it.
I watch it happen in slow motion, the frame toppling, the glass splintering.
Something goes blip in my mind, and suddenly it’s not a shattered frame on the floor, it’s my MacBook.
I’m not here, I’m there. Blood dripping from my fingers, white lines on the broken casing, and my nose burning—though not half as much as my chest.
It takes longer than I’d like to snap out of it. “Shit.”
I kneel, hating how my hand shakes as I flip the photo face-up. A young boy stares back at me, tucked safe between two smiling parents.
The light coming through the curtains is only a thin slice, but it’s enough to place the features. Not as sharp, not even half as glacial, but prominent, even then.
Carson.
Of course. Because what’s one more reason to dislike me? My name’s already scribbled across his mental blacklist, might as well make it permanent there.
Although, ever since the kitchen, he’s been living by some out-of-sight, out-of-mind philosophy. We haven’t exchanged a single word, and I don’t think he’s even looked at me for longer than an accidental second.
It’s a repeat of the night before, complete dismissal. Only, as casual as he tries to play it, I don’t buy it. If he’d really forgotten, why dodge Aspen too?
Reese and Dylan certainly haven’t. The former pulled us into a few rounds of UNO, the latter sat through Aspen’s drunken ramblings with me. Which only makes Carson’s absence feel all the more deliberate.
I set the frame down carefully and reach for one of the larger shards—
“What the hell are you doing?”
The surprise stings more than the glass. My hand jerks back on instinct. I ignore the throb, my eyes darting to the silhouette flanked by the doorframe.
The light flicks on, revealing the very man himself.
And he does not look pleased.
He catalogues first. Me, crouched by the wrecked frame, glass scattered across the floor, the photo exposed when it shouldn’t be.
Then come the tells. The flare of his nostrils, the folding of his arms, muscle taut like restraint is the only thing he has left.
“Um.” I wet my lips, trying to think of how to diffuse this. “I got the wrong room, and this fell. It was an accident, I swear.”
I reach for another shard, but his order slams into me.
“Leave it.”
There’s no room to argue.
I rise as he steps further inside. The overhead washes over the room, revealing more than I expected.
The style may match downstairs, but here it carries more weight—scuffs on wood, books crammed on shelves, a frame angled toward the bed.
I glance at the one I knocked over, then back.
This room doesn’t feel borrowed. It feels…
lived in. But Reese said they’re all from Briar?
The press of his irritation pulls me back to the present. I almost toss out a sorry on reflex but I keep it down. It seems that’s all I do around him. Apologise.
Clearly, it’s counterproductive.
“I guess I’ve had too much to drink…” I offer instead.
“Yeah?” His lips twist. “You think?”
My shrug’s a little loose, a little sheepish. “I may have pre-drunk before I got here. I assumed this was going to be a party.”
His eyes drop to my outfit, and this time it isn’t cursory; it’s slower, almost hooded with something molten. A trick of light, surely, because when they rise again, there’s nothing there but still water.
“You’re bleeding.”
He’s right. I can feel the tacky pull of it on my palm.
Again lines blur, past and present folding into each other like smoke. I’m dangling off some invisible ledge, one misstep from freefall.
Carson notices, of course he does. “Don’t tell me you’re the squeamish type when it comes to blood.”
“No.” I wish it didn’t come out croaky. Get out of your head, Brielle. I clear my throat. “Any chance you have a first-aid kit around?”
Silence stretches, and only the tick of a clock fills it. Just when I’m about to say never mind, he jerks his chin toward the bathroom.
Permission or dismissal, I can’t tell, but I follow anyway.
The kit hits the vanity with a thump. I step up to grab what I need but a faint touch and a flare of surprise stops me.
“I can do—”
“I’m not a complete prick.” His hand curves around the back of mine. “Let me.” It isn’t a request. It’s a command dressed in civility.
My mouth dries. Not from his nearness, but from the undertow of salt clinging beneath fading cologne. I could swear it belongs to the place I visit in my nightmares, yet here, it doesn’t freeze like I’d expect. Instead it seeps in, real and warm.
The sting of the saline pad stings, but his touch doesn’t. There’s care threaded into every precise sweep, the same featherlight kind from last night.
“I don’t think you’re a prick.” It’s too strong a word, too unwarranted, especially now.
“No?” His humourless laugh falls into my crown. He presses the pad to the cut, then glances up—pausing, making sure I’m watching—before dragging the motion down to my wrist.
“Nice bracelets.”
That’s when I realise, I was wrong. He hadn’t tuned me out earlier. He’d been watching, closely enough to know exactly what to bait me with.
It happened during Aspen’s second shot. A lighthearted moment turning heavy when my sleeve slipped, and her fingers brushed the stack on my wrist. Maybe if I hadn’t been so buzzed, I would’ve had a quicker reaction time.
But I was and I didn’t. I froze. Clammed up.
Aspen noticed; how could she not? I’d gone deadly still. But I was quick with the save, flipping it into a joke.
And I was glad she let me have it.
Glad no one else clocked the slip-up.
Except, he had.
And now he’s throwing it right back in my face without a shred of remorse.
He must see the Why? because his mouth clips.
“Aspen doesn’t need someone like you around. Not right now.”
He presses the band-aid into place, then steps back, leaving nothing but cold space between us.
Maybe if I couldn’t still taste my last drink I’d feel the blow of it, but alas.
“You’re probably right.”
That doesn’t mean I’m poison. It just means I’ll keep the worst parts of me hidden, and only offer Aspen the scraps of good I’ve got left.
Except his mind’s already made up about me, and I’m pretty sure I’m standing in his beach-house. So I ask it straight, no heat in it at all. “Do you want me to leave?”
Nothing. Just that mile-long stare that’s blank but says a thousand words all in one.
Then, finally, he gives me nine more. “Whatever you want to do, it’s up to you.”
I almost laugh. It’s such a non-answer it might as well be yes.
Since I owe him one, I make the call I know he wants.
“Thanks for having me. Please tell Aspen I had to leave, but let her know I had a great time.”
He doesn’t say anything.
And I don’t wait around for him to.
I move for the door, breeze through it, feeling his gaze stitched to my back the whole way out.
I didn’t mean to end up here.
Didn’t mean to end up anywhere, really.
The only real option was our beach-house, but that didn’t feel right either. So I just walked.
Now the comfort of company is gone and all that’s left is this. The sound of waves brushing the shore. The give of damp sand beneath me. The hush of a sky.
It’s not quite night yet, but it’s close. That hour where everything seems smudged around the edges.
I stop.
Take a breath.
Then I let my legs carry me forward.
The ocean looks hungry tonight, it’s push and pull reaching for me.
Fear sparks, of course it does. But two days ago, I wouldn’t have even been able to stand here. Not this close, with water skimming my ankles.
It creeps higher, as if asking how far I’ll let it come, but all I feel is relief.
Hard and fast relief.
I’m not paralysed by it anymore.
And yeah, I’m still pumped full of alcohol so maybe the edges of my fear have been dulled for now. Except, deep down in my bones, I know. Something’s changed.
I can do it now. Learn to swim. Yesterday wasn’t for nothing.
“You gonna dunk in again?”
I startle, glancing sideways. Carson stands in the fading rays, all gold and shadow, but his expression full of bite.
The weight of my revelation presses against my chest, so when I answer, it comes out small.
“No.” Fragile, too.
He pauses, pupils lifting to mine, and for a single moment, just one, the cold recedes. But it’s back just as quickly.
He holds something up. “Forgot to give you these.” My earphones dangle from his hand.
“Oh,” I clear my throat, trying to shake the rasp. “Thanks.”
He makes no move to bridge the gap so I step off the tide line toward him. Our fingers barely brush before he snatches his hand back.
He turns a fierce glare on the ocean, and there’s something indecisive about his stance. It takes half a minute to abate, but when it does, he slants me a look. It’s in a language I can’t understand, and don’t have time to translate because he’s already walking away.
That’s when some of my bearings return. “You’re not going to offer to walk me home tonight?” I call after him.
His back is rigid with departure, one hand lifting in a lazy dismissal. “You’ll be fine.”
You’ll be fine.
“Promise?” I whisper.
But the only answer that comes is the ocean stealing it away.