“The first day of school,” I muttered, regarding myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. “What a joke.”
What did anyone at a pitiful little high school tucked in a redwood forest think they could possibly teach me? I’d been to the edge of the abyss and back. There was nothing left for me to learn but how to survive with the scars it gave me.
To hell with everything else.
Do you want the money or not?
“On the other hand…”
I drew on Gucci jeans, a long-sleeve black button-down, and black Balenciaga boots as morning sunlight streamed in from the bay windows and spilled across the cedar floors of the guesthouse Mags and Reg set me up in.
Admittedly, they’d done good. I had a mini living room, bathroom, king-size bed, an ocean view, and built-in bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. I’d already begun filling the shelves with the dozens of books I’d bought over the last few weeks and my own journals.
Though the view outside my window forecast a sun-drenched day, I put on a heavy black peacoat and looped an emerald-green scarf with gold paisley swirls around my neck. My armor.
You’re not physically cold, said the ghost of therapy sessions past.It’s a psychological manifestation of the trauma you endured during the conversion therapy.
I’d had an entire year’s worth of round-the-clock treatment, and that “false cold” still felt pretty fucking real to me.
A soft knock came at the front door of the guesthouse.
“Mr. Holden? You will be late for school.”
Beatriz Alves, the Brazilian housekeeper, was the only person in this house I could tolerate, including myself.
“Bom dia, Beatriz. Estou indo.”
“Muito bem, senhor.”
On my way out, I closed my journal—the black-and-white speckled kind you could find anywhere—and set it on the stack of others like it on my mahogany desk. More journals filled a locked trunk I kept under the window. My life story. A story I’d been writing since I was ten years old and desperate for an outlet for the clamoring voices in my mind.
Loud voices that told me to be bold and live life fully and never give a fuck what anyone thought of me.
Quieter voices that whispered sinister things in my ear: that I was broken, that my mind was a labyrinth that I’d never map.
Writing was my map.
Someday, I’d write something official. I’d distill my life through fiction. Pile the pain on a hapless character and make him suffer. Maybe he’d get a happy ending.
Hell, one of us should.
I dropped my Djarum Blacks into one pocket of my coat and a silver flask filled with Ducasse vodka into the other, then took the path through the backyard, past the pool I’d never swim in, to Mags and Reg’s huge beachside craftsman.
Because they had more money than God and not a shred of imagination, the house was slathered in nautical decor. Blue-and-white-striped everything, anchor-themed art on the walls, and glass bowls of seashells for days.
In the depressingly cheery kitchen, Mags and Reg lounged overbreakfast, their mugs filled with steaming coffee. Beatriz, small but spry for a woman pushing seventy, maneuvered around the white and chrome kitchen.
“There he is,” Reg exclaimed, then frowned. “You look quite…elegant, Holden.”
I could hear today’s weather report behind his words, but over the past three weeks, my aunt and uncle had learned not to question my winter wardrobe choices. Not unless they wanted an earful of Alaska.
“Thanks, Reg,” I said, pouring myself a cup of black coffee from the French press. I stifled a yawn and joined them at the table, stretching my long legs.
“You’re something of a night owl, eh?” Reg ventured. “I heard some activity late last night down in the basement gym.”
And before that, I snuck out to break into your neighbors’ empty house, Reg.
It was a little habit of mine, begun when I was a kid in Seattle and driving my parents crazy with my “sociopathic antics.” Breaking into people’s houses was easier than you’d think—a key under a pot or a window left open. I never stole anything; I just liked to see what real homes looked like.
