Chapter 4
Harbor
Lark.
Her name is as beautiful as she is. “Lark,” I say the name just to feel it roll around on my tongue. Her gaze slides from the floor to my face, seeming to linger just below my eyes before they finally move all the way up. “Go out with me, Lark.”
“I . . .” Her chest rises with a breath she takes, making me wonder how she’ll look naked. Shifting away from me with a faltered step, she says, “I could get in trouble for being here, for being with you, Harbor.”
“What kind of trouble could the two of us possibly get into just from being together?” The question feels better suited for a moment bigger and more important than a stolen one in the upstairs hallway.
Her smile is so sweet that it’s tempting to taste. Tilting her head, she laughs. “I think I better go before we find out.” She’s quick to the stairs.
“Hey, Lark?” She turns back with that smile still on her face. “What do I have to do to see you again?”
Her gaze dips between us as her smile falters. When she looks up again, a look of determination has set her features. “We don’t always get what we want when we want it. Sometimes we need to follow our destinies instead.”
Cocking an eyebrow, I sigh, despite enjoying the exchange. “Patience is a virtue?”
“Exactly.” Her smile reappears. “Only time will tell.”
“Only time will tell.”
She catches my gaze for the shortest moment in time, and then she turns away.
I didn’t expect to be drawn to someone, pulled toward her as if I’m hooked on the end of her fishing line. From the way she moves, so unaware of her appeal, to the mystery that resides in her eyes—pain and happiness cycling through her gaze—she’s utterly captivating.
Is it wrong to long to hear the secrets she keeps from everyone else, to want to kiss her with the same determination as a thief desires the crown jewels?
Desire.
Craving . . .
I’m crude in my need to hear her call my name not just in ecstasy but in reverence when she thinks of me long after I’ve gone.
Fuck.
She’s doing my head in. My shoulders press to the wall as I watch her descend the stairs before she disappears.
I give her enough time and distance to return to wherever she’s stationed before I head down the stairs.
As soon as I enter the family room, I see Lark and her boss talking in low voices to each other.
He sees me and takes a step back from her as well as a deep breath as if my presence is an intrusion.
“Evening, Mr. Westcott.”
“Evening,” I reply, my gaze maneuvering from him to Lark. “Evening,” I add for her.
“Good evening.”
As I pass by, I notice the rack has been emptied and stands outside the door. I duck out, not sure how long I intend to stay. I’ll greet a few guests, make the rounds to please my parents, and then hopefully make a clean escape without being noticed.
My older brother is the picture-perfect son standing beside my mom greeting guests, the first in line to helm Westcott Law Firm after my dad retires.
A clap on the back and a squeeze of my shoulder signals my dad’s presence before he says a word.
“Your mom and I appreciate you being here.” And when he does speak, his tone is lacking the judgment he has every right to feel, forgiving of the disappointments I’ve brought on the family.
“It’s the least I can do.” I shove my hands into my pockets and shift my weight to my heels. “Hopefully, this event will raise a lot of money for the university scholarship program.”
“I’m sure it will.” My dad may be the quieter of my parents, but he’s not usually at a loss for words. We stand, both looking around for something to talk about.
I finally say, “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”
“Eh, you have your life to live.” His eyes find me again, and he grins. “As parents, we’re supposed to raise you to be independent.” He takes a sip of his drink and savors it. “I’d say we’ve done a good job.”
Guilt still comes in waves, reaching the shores of my conscience the more time I spend with him. I take a step away, but he notices, and says, “No one blames you, Harbor.”
“I blame myself.”
“Lucas made the decision—”
His decision almost killed me, but I keep that part to myself, always locked deep inside. He dragged me out of bed, challenged me to the edge of that cliff. I’m always so fucking competitive. Was . . . still am, I suppose.
As best friends, we’d push each other to do shit we shouldn’t.
We did with all the guys, but that afternoon it was just the two of us.
I wasn’t in a good mood. Cliff jumping was the last thing I wanted to do, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the weather had turned warm after a long and cold winter.
I gave in to shut him up, though I should have stopped him. No one saw what an asshole Lucas could be except me. He was great at getting away with murder. I used to admire his skills. Now I resent him.
He left me carrying the burden of the truth.
He left me to tell lies.
He left me living when so many wish that I was the one who died.
Fuck him.
I warned him not to tempt the fate at Devil’s Edge. There was so much more life to live, and he chose to throw it away over a bet for a burger and fries.
Fuck him for leaving.
I close my eyes and scrub my hand over my face, then rub my temple to lessen the throb threatening to ruin my night.
“Lucas was following me,” I say, the lie comes easy after two years of repeating it. I don’t know if I’m lying for me or my cousin anymore, but I’ll say anything to make his death easier on others. The better they feel, the less they interrogate me about how I’m doing.
I’m a quick learner. The survivor doesn’t matter, leaving me caught in a purgatory between lucky for walking away and condemned to spend my life reliving it for other people’s pleasure because I’m the one who survived.
If they only knew how close I came to meeting my own demise. Regret still taints the luck I had for not dying.
But I continue to tell the lies to protect him and his memory, to protect his legacy.
Straight A’s.
Star athlete.
Going off to the Ivy League.
Everyone loved Lucas Westcott. Especially the girls . . . I don’t do bad, but he was the golden boy.
“Harbor?”
My dad’s voice brings me back to the party. I turn to him, and ask, “Yeah?”
But I’m greeted with the sadness I’ve put in his eyes. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure. How long do I have to?”
He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder again.
I’ve learned it’s his way to hold on to me, to tell me he’s here for me, to be a support when words fail him.
The thing is my parents have always been here for their kids.
They have a brood of four, but they love each one of us enough to make us feel like an only child.
“Your mom would like you here for a little while. If you can do that for her, I’ll cover the rest of the time.”
“I can stay.”
He looks over at her, and says, “I should get over there and rescue your brother.”
Rescue . . . the word lassos the memories I try to forget. I push them back down, the feelings growing inside, and put myself back at this moment instead like I’ve practiced. “Thanks, Dad.”
“For what?”
I shrug, sometimes finding it difficult to locate the words as well. Like father, like son. “For being my dad.”
He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets like son, like father, and walks across the lawn.
My mom’s eyes brighten when she sees him, her arms welcoming him into her embrace, not caring that the whole of Beacon and the estates is watching them.
They’ve been together thirty-two years last summer.
They share a love that I’ve come to realize is special, not often found if found at all.
Loch’s eyes find me, and he nods in acknowledgment as if he’s seeing me for the first time. I understand. Some days I’m a ghost among the living, going through life with one foot in the afterlife. Other days, it feels good to be alive. Today, it’s the latter.
The accident healed some wounds with my family. Sowing wild oats was a good excuse to act out. Growing pains on my part caused some issues. There was a side of myself that needed to push boundaries to be seen. The irony is I found out my brothers, my sister, and my parents saw me all along.
I nod in return and head to the bar. No way do I plan to get trapped in conversations with my parents’ friends and colleagues without loosening up first. And I can always order a car to drive me back to the apartment tonight.
My body tenses when I see the bartender.
I’d never say we were friends. We’re not, though we’ve been at some of the same parties, mutual friends bringing us together.
Lucas liked to party in Beacon on a side of town that wasn’t always safe to park our cars.
It might have been my cousin who once introduced us.
This guy acts low-key cool, but he can also be an asshole.
He’s big on keeping what he considers his to himself, never keen to have estate kids at his parties.
I’ve never cared about what side of the line—Beacon proper or The Pointe Estates—you reside.
He did, probably still does. It would be easy for me to call it jealousy, but that chip on his shoulder seems to have a grudge backing it up, judging by the disgust on his face.
When I get closer, I say, “Hey, man, I remember you.” The name tag on his shirt catches my attention. “Dane, that’s right.”
“You’re Lucas’s cousin, right?” His tone is as indifferent as his expression while he runs a towel over a bottle of gin. “Another Westcott from what I remember.” There’s no hiding his feelings in the words. The disgust on his face is threaded in his tone as well.
I focus on the partygoers, not wanting a confrontation at my parents’ home. “Yeah.”
“It’s too bad what happened.” The change in tone—from aversion to something sounding more sincere—has me drawn to look back at him again. “We used to hang out occasionally.”
“I know.” Not sure if he’s wanting to relate to me somehow but it’s not going to happen through the death of my cousin.
“What can I get you?” he asks.