He only shrugs, hands in his sweatpants pocket, like he couldn’t care less. “Everett called me last night, looking for you. Repeatedly.” I wince, having nearly forgotten the disaster that was this weekend—and yesterday’s conversation with my brothers. “He insisted on coming to get you. I told him to give you space, but you should text him or something. Don’t let shit fester.”
His tone is devastating—words laced with some kind of pain I don’t quite understand. I don’t want to look at August, so I turn, studying the spines of the books on his shelves. I run my hands across them again, finding comfort in their texture.
I don’t want to see my brother yet. I need a plan first. August offered me a room, and my initial reaction was absolutely the fuck not. I can’t stomach that—living with the ghost of my grandest sins. But continuing the dance of fallacy with my brothers has officially crashed and burned. Hiding in Everett’s home will no longer be tolerated, and the crushing weight of my family’s disappointment is a suffocation I can no longer endure.
Fully aware that I’m wearing a pair of August’s oversized joggers, a sweatshirt that damn-near swallows me whole, and last night’s rat’s nest of matted hair I failed to brush through, I exit the den and head toward the front door.
August follows me, and I realize the door he’d been standing in front of must lead to his bedroom. At least we’d be sleeping on two separate floors. I slip my shoes on, murmuring, “I’m just going to take a quick walk and clear my head. If Everett shows up while I’m gone, let him know I’ll be back soon.”
“Will you?”
“Yes?” I grit, lifting my head to glare at him.
“You don’t have the best track record when it comes to walking out that door.”
My eyes close, guilt washing through me. Shaking off thoughts of that night, I finish tying my shoes, toss open the front door, and head out into the bright morning without a word.
The air feels fresher now that the rain has passed, like it cleared the radicals clinging to the oxygen we’d been breathing, leaving only purity behind.
I did intend to walk, knowing I’m not wearing the most appropriate clothing for a jog, but as my feet hit the pavement, I crave that familiar burn and rhythm of running.
I used to run often, before the mere effort of getting out of bed was too tiresome to attempt most days. Running felt like a good form of punishment for my never-ending sins. It fucking hurts. It makes me ache and sweat, makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
I deserve to feel like I can’t breathe.
I used to run often after Zach died. It helped convince my family I was okay, because technically running is good for me. For my body. Others could be convinced that the fresh air is beneficial for my head and my soul, though both of those things are diseased without hope of cure.
But at some point, I no longer felt like running. In New York, there was no way for anyone to know whether I was keeping up with it, and it was then I realized what a fraud I was. I didn’t care if I was hurting and had no hope of ever feeling better.
After the confrontation with Everett last night, I felt the need to bolt. My masks were ripped off my face, and all of my ugly, unhealed wounds were exposed for all to see. When I hit the pavement, I had no idea where I was going—until I ended up in front of the house I’ve only been inside once, but still know all too well.
It was a moment of weakness to ask August to stay the night, the same kind of comfort I’ve sought out all my life when I was hurting. Like a lighthouse upon the rocky cliffs of my soul’s sea, he’d been a beacon—but I know better than to keep believing he still operates for my benefit.
He let me stay out of pity. I bet if it hadn’t been raining, he wouldn’t have even let me come inside. That understanding made me bolt again this morning.
Running with no destination in mind, I head west from August’s, toward the ocean. The smell of salt and the sound of seagulls amplify the closer I get, until I’m jogging up Oceanside Avenue. I stop at the familiar white house with blue shutters and honeysuckle bushes lining the front windows, placing my hands above my head as I breathe through the seizing pain in my chest.
I’m so fucking out of shape.
I shuffle up the walk that leads to the covered front porch, climbing the steps and rapping my knuckles on the door. I’ve had far too many tense confrontations via front door in the last twenty-four hours—I don’t imagine I’ll be getting out of bed for several days after this. But, at the very least, I need to have options before I meet Everett. I need to have a plan ready, even if I fail at following through with it.
It only takes a moment before Darby opens the door. There’s a soft, tired smile on her face, and I realize it’s far too early on a Sunday morning to be bothering them like this. That smile on her lips morphs into an “O” as her eyes go wide, and her body rears back at the sight of me. Her tumbling, straight golden hair sways with the movement, like she’s a fucking animated Disney character.
One hand falls to the ever-growing bump beneath her tank top, the other hand clasping her throat. “Elena,” she gasps. Huffing a laugh, she continues, “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you. Hi!” She eagerly steps aside, motioning for me to enter.
“Sorry, I know it’s early,” I murmur, shutting the door behind me and following Darby to the kitchen.
“Oh my gosh, no worries at all. I’m so happy you stopped by.” She stops at the island in the center of the kitchen. “Do you want coffee or anything?”
“Do you have tea?” I ask, immediately feeling like an asshole for making a pregnant woman shuffle through her pantry when I’m not even supposed to be here.
“Oh, of course.” She opens the door in the corner of the kitchen, lifting onto her toes to slide out a massive jar filled to the brim with a dozen types of tea. “Take your pick.”
She flicks on an electric kettle before grabbing two mugs from a cabinet next to it and setting one in front of me. “Leo’s surfing down in the cove right now, but he should be back any minute.”
How do you do it? I want to ask.
How do you watch him wade in the waves with faith he’ll escape them?
