Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
Sixteen Years Ago
I was inside Ryden Spectre’s house.
This, this is where the lonely boy grew up.
Where he witnessed some terrible things.
I was young, sure. But bright and brilliant.
All the stories he told me, about the holes in the walls, the cracks in the floors – they were coming to life like dead weeds witnessing a miracle.
Right before my eyes was the map of Ryden’s life. Ryden’s trauma. His mother’s abuse. His step-whatever’s anger.
A mantle was broken.
A tile was chipped.
Pockets of wall were caved in, here and there –
Everywhere.
“What are you doing?” he asked, yanking my arm away from a dent in the drywall.
I didn’t even know I was touching it.
“My hands have a mind of their own,” I said.
“I don’t want Corban to notice –”
“Yeah, Ryden, I bet he’d notice me touching all the stuff he already broke.”
He made a face. “That’s not funny.”
“And I’m not laughing.” I walked away, running a finger over the dusty picture frames lining the hallway. “Is this you and your mom?”
He sighed, coming to step beside me. “Yeah, New Year’s Day. Uh, four years ago.”
“Was Corban around, then?”
“Maybe.” His lips thinned. “She was good at hiding him in the beginning.”
“You couldn’t tell that she was being abused?”
“Scarlett.” My name in his mouth felt like nails through a palm. “You can’t just say things like that.”
I backed away from the wall. “There are usually tells.”
I didn’t stay to see his reaction.
***
“So where is this big surprise?” I asked, swinging my feet above the kitchen floor.
I was on the shorter side, but the ground felt unusually low. Like it concaved from the weight of something heavy. Or someone.
“Is Corban fat?” I asked, eyes darting from the canary yellow wallpaper to the beige fridge. [So many stains.]
“He’s burly.” Ryden responded. “Now, close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to grab your gift.”
I frowned. “Why do I need to close my eyes, then?”
His brows furrowed. “Has no one ever surprised you before?”
I swallowed, cheeks reddening in embarrassment.
[What were parents? What were surprises?]
I only knew Sinead and Flack.
Their actions were never surprising.
No hiding. “Of course I’ve been surprised!” I smiled, maybe too wide. He looked scared. He looked –
Sad.
“Anyway, anyway,” I shooed him off. “Go fetch the birthday girl her present.”
In his absence, I felt alone.
For only a few short seconds did it hit me that I relied on Ryden just as he relied on me.
He was my anchor, I, his ship.
I’d never tell him that.
But I needed Ryden.
He was…
He was my missing heartbeat.
***
“You’re peeking!” Ryden accused, coming up behind my chair.
“Nuh-uh.” I was.
He groaned, “C’mon, Scar,” then my vision darkened.
The weight of his hands covered my eyes.
The feel of his skin wrapped around my temples like silk ribbon.
Even though he didn’t mean to, [who ever could], the touch was tender. If tender was a word that someone made of sand could even feel.
I closed my eyes.
“You still peeking?” he asked. His breath was closer to my ear now.
I shook my head, held my breath.
“Good.” And then his footsteps faded until they didn’t, and then there was a scratch, a crinkle of paper, an oomph! The kitchen table squeaked.
“Okay,” he said, “Open.”
I couldn’t have prepared myself for what was in front of me.
“What is all this?” I asked, carefully leaning over a giant black box filled with RED –
Red roses (hand picked by the florist on fifth).
Red crayons (‘more to play with, more to melt.’ He laughed at his own joke).
Red candies (Swedish berries and cinnamon hearts. I hated cinnamon hearts but I loved liked him).
A red blanket (because you’re always cold).
If only he knew the half of it.
“How did you afford all this?” [Why did you do this?]
“Pocket money from running Corban’s empties to the beer store.”
“You spent your pocket money on me?”
He lifted his shoulders nonchalantly. “What else would I spend it on?”
As if it were the most natural thing in the world. To make me happy, simply because he wanted to.
The thought made me shudder. The thought made me weak.
No.
The thought made me whole.
“Ryden,” I swallowed, extracting a small pouch from the bottom of the box. “What could be left?”
“You’ll see,” he smiled, dimples peeking in like dents.
I pulled apart the velvet string, opening the pouch. “Is this a –
“Guitar pick,” he interrupted, pulling the kitchen chair next to me. One of the legs wobbled, and he gave a jovial ‘whoops’ before clearing his throat. “Maybe we can both be rock stars together.”
I couldn’t form the words. “But I don’t play an instrument.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I don’t sing.”
He smiled. “That’s a lie.”
I pricked his skin. He let me. “I don’t sing,” I repeated.
He plucked the triangle from between my fingertips, pulling his purple eagle pick out of his pocket. Side by side, the purple and red complimented each other. Like the stem of a flower, poisoned by belladonna, and the bloody thorn that coloured the pale petals.
“What’s that in the centre?” I asked, grabbing back my gift.
I watched the stone in his throat bob. “A dove.”
Something warm pooled in my stomach, a sunrise to my heart. “A dove,” I repeated, glancing over the array of presents his thirteen-year-old self had no reason of buying.
But he bought it all for me.
Because –
Because I mattered.
“Happy twelfth, Scar.” He smiled, shy eyes shaded by the locks of his raven hair.
My pulse was quickening, faster and faster by the second and before I could think, I fell into his arms, a tear forming in the corner of my eye before melting onto his shoulder.
“You remembered my birthday,” I whispered.
His hand rested on the small of my back, the other on top of my head. “I’d never forget it.”
I squeezed that guitar pick in a vise grip, until my palm was pricked and bleeding, the memories of old birthdays fading, and the thought of life renewing.
“”Your favourite bird… is it a dove?” I asked, cheek resting on his shoulder.
I could feel his [tender] smile. “It is now.”