Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Most days it’s natural to slip into a state of pretence. To showcase a smile, and outpace the haunting truths. To put a lid on the memories, the ones so good they fuel the unforgiving ache in my soul, and keep that box tucked firmly against my heart. To breathe. To move. To laugh. To live.
Then there are days like today.
Days where the ache has teeth, and it bites into my ribs and claws at bone.
I curl up tight, folding inwards like maybe, just maybe I can disappear into myself. It’s an exercise in futility; I’m battered and bruised under the lashes of a whip harnessed by grief.
This is where I’d seek a high. That little white line a shield, however temporary, against the torment of missing her. The echo of her laughter. The faint trace of lavender. My safe space.
But Janson’s no longer an option, and something holds me back from seeking alternatives.
I’ve seen people explode…
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I don’t look.
Can’t. It’s probably Aspen, checking in on me.
I don’t know how much time has ticked by since she called with the offer of going to Sand Bar, but it’s definitely been hours; the harsh glare of the sun has faded into the sickly orange glow of sunset.
Then it hits. I haven’t left this bed all day.
The covers suddenly turn suffocating. I kick them away and stumble upright, catching myself on the edge of the nightstand as my head spins. God. What am I doing?
I don’t know. But after pressing my ear to the door and finding the house empty, I trade four walls for the front deck, my bed for the sway of the bohemian chair.
The breeze finds me, cool fingers brushing bare shoulders. I drink it in, deeper and deeper, until salty wisps hit my tongue.
Another text buzzes in. I ignore it, clicking onto Spotify. Music’s the only thing I want right now. I shove in my earbuds, press play, and beg the noise to blur everything out.
Six songs slip past before I sense it, the air thickening. My eyes snap open—and freeze on grey.
Carson. Standing on my deck. His lips move, but whatever comes out is swallowed by bass. I fumble to hit pause.
“—you okay?” He’s scanning my face with too much precision, and his frown cuts sharp against the fading light.
I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing exactly what he’s seeing. Knowing none of it is good. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” My head bobs uselessly. “I’m just trying to… I’m just…” Trying to what? To keep breathing? To outrun grief?
His features rearrange, gentling in the shadows. He indicates the space beside me. “Can I?”
He wants to sit with me? My nod is tentative, undermined by the nerves coiling through me. I don’t want to be seen like this… by anyone.
But it’s him. And I can’t deny him, not after everything he’s done for me.
The swinging chair is barely enough for two, so I move to swing my legs off but his hand stills me at the knee.
“I don’t mind,” he rasps, forehead close enough to almost skim mine. He taps the earbud cord between us. “Can I listen?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me a reprieve. One I take willingly, because in the glow of amber, and under the precision of his gaze, I feel far too exposed.
I offer him the earbud and press play.
Then, as if it’s always been ours, he leans back and lets his eyes close. His arm presses to mine; his fingers remain loose on my knee.
I can’t tear my eyes away.
I’ve never seen him like this… almost relaxed. The lines of his body no longer so rigid, the planes of his face no longer so sharp. Even with my leg half draped over his, he seems at ease.
Bit by bit, I start to relax too. The music fills my ears, but his warmth fills everything else. Intimate. Familiar. A déjà vu that whispers of the night beneath the North Star.
Time blurs. His hold changes, feather-light touches so subtle I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. Of course I feel every one, touch-starved as I am.
For a brief moment, I wonder what my parents would think if they walked up right now. One comforting the other, or two people leaning on each other? Because, sometimes, it feels like Carson and I carry pieces of the same hurt.
The tug of my phone pulls me back. He’s bent over it, scrolling through my playlist. When he looks up, a faint smile glimmers. “Good taste.”
The earbud cord tethers us close, our faces inches apart. His smile fades, and suddenly the music, the hurt, the thoughts—all of it shrinks to background noise beneath the drum of my pulse.
He traces the cord with his thumb, slow as his voice. “Always in your own world with these.” His eyes darken. “Since the first time I saw you with them, I’ve wanted to know what you’re chasing in it.”
Nothing I want to say, but I can’t. I’m too torn by the pull inside me. Temptation. Its dulcet whisper weaves through me: close the gap. It would be so easy. To lean in, press my lips to his, lose myself in the feel of him.
He’s beautiful, softened by dusk. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just… a high. Bliss under his skilled finesse.
As I’m about to throw caution to the wind and lean in…
His demeanour switches. The banked heat diminishes, and my earphones slip free as he pulls back. The shift is so swift, so clean, I almost doubt what I saw.
He runs a hand through his hair, as if shaking off some unseen frustration, and sense crashes over me.
God. Would I really have done something so irrational? Carson doesn’t like me like that. I don’t like him like that. I’m just teetering on a razor’s edge, reaching for the first person who might pull me off it. Right?
Right. We’re friends, on a path to becoming good friends, and I’m not about to blur that line. The ache in my stomach? It means nothing. Nothing.
“Why… why are you here, Carson?”
Tension cords in his face, and he barely looks at me. “I texted you.”
“You did?” I think of the two unanswered buzzes. “Did Aspen give you my number?”
“Had it from when you sent that picture to yourself.”
“Oh.” I tilt my face skyward. The North Star isn’t out yet, but it will be soon. “Did you… need something?”
Silence stretches. When he finally turns, his face is all control, but his eyes dodge mine. “You didn’t come with us to Sand Bar.”
I rub my knee, my voice catching. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
He straightens, and like a house of cards, all impassivity collapses. “Is it your foot?”
I open my mouth, but my vocals cords jam, relief clogging them.
He’s not pulling away.
“Brielle?” His frown deepens. Worry, not anger.
“You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” His head jerks back. “Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”
“I thought… I thought…” I purse my lips, desperately reaching for some control. “You looked frustrated.” It comes out small.
His eyes gentle, and the look soaks into hollow cervices inside me like a balm.
“I’m not frustrated with you, Brielle. ’Course not.” A pause. “I’m frustrated with—” He stops, tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. Just a migraine.”
He doesn’t buy it, I can tell, but he lets it slide. He sets my phone on my lap then rises.
He’s leaving. Already?
“Does that mean you’re not up for a swimming lesson, then?”
Oh. My eyes flick to where the dark stretch of the ocean is.
“Not there.” His mouth curves, a kind of half-smile that feels crafted just for me. “In a pool. Where there won’t be any sea urchins.”
I should refuse. Pools mean smaller spaces, more people, nowhere to hide. But, with his silhouette stretching over me like armour, I find myself saying yes.