1 Everleigh Ghosts That We Knew—Mumford & Sons #2
All to maintain the image. The carefully curated, perfectly constructed, necessary image of marital bliss. An image passed down to me from my mother and reinforced by a man who lavished in the public eye.
Now I’m sleeping in an empty bus shelter in the middle of nowhere, completely broke with hair so greasy it’s stuck to my skull, wearing unwashed, second-hand clothing and carrying a painfully empty belly.
But at least I’m free.
A sob opens up my tight lungs. Moisture swells until the riverbanks burst and my cheeks sting with pouring tears. The terrified keen rips from my mouth, echoing in the night’s fog.
Burying my face in my hands, I let the childlike cries spill out of me. I’ve lost everything. My entire shallow, false existence. For the designer handbags, thousand-pound high heels, and weekly blowouts, I do not grieve. They never meant anything to me.
But I’m grieving the years I’ve wasted trapped in a gilded cage.
Silent. Obedient. Numb. Wearing a smile to hide sleepless nights and an aching emptiness.
The countless prescription bottles. Rejected friendships.
Stashed razor blades. Never letting anyone or anything get close to the truth of my marriage.
Crumpled in a deserted bus shelter, I hysterically cry for the first time in years. Perhaps I shouldn’t have run. It would’ve been easier if I stayed and let his venom strip the remaining skin from my bones until I shrivelled up into a husk and left this world for good.
But I did run.
I escaped.
Because deep down, I want to live so badly. I want the chance to exist free from his rules and control. From a slow, silent death. I want to experience the things that make everyone around me smile—for real.
Ditching the backpack, I curl up on my side. The rough concrete is ice cold beneath me as I collapse into myself like a dying star. Only this star never burned at all. It died in the darkness, unseen and alone, never to be witnessed by the world watching below.
I slide into a familiar trancelike state of numbness until my eyes grow heavy. Dozing fitfully, the freezing cold temperature and rock-hard concrete mattress keep me from dropping off.
Each cracking twig or gust of wind causes me to startle, convinced I’m going to see a sleek black Rolls-Royce pull up to the kerb to whisk me back to my golden cage. The darkness only intensifies my fear.
By the time the February dawn rolls around, bringing with it glittering frost and more wet fog that’s drenched me to the bone, I’m a shivering block of ice.
“For the last time, Andy . . . she’s your daughter too. I’m not asking for much!”
Jolting at the sound of a voice, my muscles scream in protest.
“Then you tell her why you won’t be attending her birthday party. She deserves to hear it from you!”
Clearing my vision, I find the source of the yelling. Stomping towards me, a woman is screaming into her mobile phone. She’s ensconced in a blue puffer coat, and a woolly hat covers long copper ringlets.
With a curse, she jabs her thumb against the screen, then angrily stuffs the phone into her burgundy handbag. Her scowl pulls taut her pale skin, vivid-green eyes scrunching at the corners when she swears again.
Before I can work the blood back into my limbs and scrabble to my feet, her attention catches on me. Anger morphs into surprise. She’s small, perhaps barely five feet tall.
“Hello.”
I stare back in fear. Silent. Frozen.
Crossing the street to approach me, she moves uncertainly. “Are you okay?”
I’ve practiced my answer enough—Yes. I’m fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. When you say the word so many times, it starts to sound alien even to your own ears. The syllables jumble and become one unfamiliar guttural sound.
Staring into her emerald gaze filled with concern, I can’t get my lips to form the traitorous four letters that will send her packing. The numbness is back. Chilling. Spreading. Holding the lie hostage in my mouth.
Her full lips pop and roll, seeming to chew something over. Probably whether to call the police to collect the crazy woman from the street.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
When my voice bursts free, it’s rough and scratchy. “No.”
“Right . . . Do you need help?”
Shrugging, I avoid looking at her.
“Did you sleep out here? Christ, you’re soaked through.”
“I got stranded. I’m fine.” The lie elongates on my tongue, eventually breaking free.
“You don’t look it. The temperature’s freezing out here.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Do you have somewhere to go and get warm?”
“Um, not exactly.”
Why does she even care? She doesn’t know me. I’m a stranger camped out on the street. It’s hardly an uncommon sight in London these days, and no one there ever cares about the welfare of other human beings.
“I’m opening up the pub in an hour for the breakfast shift. We just got a new espresso machine.” She offers a small but genuine smile. “Makes a mean latte if you’re interested.”
A tiny flicker sparks within me. “Coffee?”
“Sure. How else do we deal with the day’s bullshit?”
My lips twitch, almost forming a smile.
“Besides, it looks like you could do with warming up.”
Another full-body shiver sweeps over my trembling limbs. Warmth feels like a distant memory after last night’s deep freeze. The offer of coffee sounds close to nirvana right now.
Despite everything screaming at me to wave her on and stick to the plan, a scared, exhausted part of me is desperate for an ounce of comfort before I have to be invisible again.
“If you’re sure . . .”
“Of course.” Her soft smile holds strong. “Call it my good deed for the day.”
Getting the frozen icicles that have replaced my feet beneath me, I drag myself up, then lift my backpack. Her eyes travel over me, seeing far more than I’d like.
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“Don’t mention it. The pub’s right this way.”
Stretching out a dainty hand clustered with gold stacking rings, she gestures for me to follow her. I gingerly swing my backpack on my shoulder and squeeze the strap in a death grip.
“I’m Cassidy,” she offers. “Do you live around here?”
“N-No.”
“I figured—I haven’t seen you around. This town’s pretty close knit. We only really get visitors or tourists once spring arrives.”
I sneakily cast her a glance. She looks several years older than me, in her mid- to late thirties, but seems nice enough. Neighbourly. Except to deadbeat dads, or so it sounds.
“Um . . . where exactly are we?”
Cassidy almost trips and stumbles in her leather ankle boots. Internally cursing, I wish I could take the question back.
“You don’t know where you are?” She tries to keep her voice neutral.
“Not exactly.”
“But you got stranded here?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
Fixing her stare on the frost-speckled road ahead, Cassidy, thankfully, doesn’t freak out any further. This woman must’ve seen some shit to be so calm about the state she’s found me in.
“Well, this is the Lake District, hun. We’re about thirty miles from Lake Windermere.”
“I’ll be damned,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yep. Not much here but mountains, lakes, and sheep.”
I put very little thought into the series of buses that trundled me away from Sheffield, but I didn’t realise I’d end up in the vast, rolling countryside of northwest England. I’m truly lost and a long way from home.
“So, have you got a name?” Cassidy asks.
Wrestling my rapidly returning panic, I fumble for the story I’ve formed in my mind. The persona I crafted over years of longing for an escape. I lived in the mindset of a secret identity long before I found the courage to run.
The lie now comes easier than the truth.
“I’m Eden,” I say with certainty. “Eden Coles.”
She nods with a smile.
“Welcome to Hawkthorpe, Eden.”