There were times I thought about moving away. There are memories here that will always be painful to bear, but I can’t imagine not living near the sea. I can’t imagine not looking up at palm tree-clad sidewalks or smelling salt in the air at all times. I can’t imagine life without the pier, the surf, and the sprawling cliffs along the ocean’s edge. The world-famous sunsets that we residents have the privilege of witnessing nightly. My brother ran away from Pacific Shores once, too, and he came home because he realized there was no place else he’d rather be.
I think he’d be disappointed in me for a lot of things, but most of all, he’d be disappointed in me if I left the place he loved most. So, I refuse to do that.
“You sure you don’t want to stay for the event?”
I shake my head. “I know you guys are doing it for me, and I appreciate it, but I don’t think I have the energy to handle it tonight.”
Darby nods.
“Maggie will stick around the shop, though. She’ll have candy for the kids, and I still have two artists dropping in to do the fall and Halloween-themed presets for anyone who donates to the Foundation.”
Her blond hair catches the sunlight, making it appear truly golden, matching the smile that stretches across her freckled cheeks. I know her hazel eyes would be bright if I could see them behind her sunglasses. “I’m proud of you for going today,” she says, squeezing my arm.
I smile back. “Thanks for forcing me against my will.”
She chuckles as we both climb out of her car parked behind the building she and Leo own. I take a left, toward Boardwalk Tattoo. My business sits on the far end, closest to the pier, while Darby’s, Honeysuckle Florals, is two doors down from me.
“I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to see me before then too, Darby.” I grin. “You’re basically obsessed with me.”
She flips me off. “Careful what you say around my husband. He gets jealous.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware.”
Darby laughs, strolling through the back door to her flower shop.
Leo’s fucking crazy over her, has been since we were kids. It’d only been a number of weeks that they’d known each other before he had me tattooing her nickname across his chest in the garage of my childhood home. Leo wasn’t her husband then, of course. They were just two seventeen-year-old kids who met on a whim and fell deliriously in love over the course of a summer before falling apart. Ten years later, they found their way back to each other. Darby moved to Pacific Shores permanently from Kansas—and became my best friend.
It was about this time last year that she found me floating on my back in the ocean, fully clothed on a rainy Monday morning. It wasn’t a cry for help, and it wasn’t a suicide attempt—I don’t think. I hadn’t touched the water since the day my brother died, and we were swiftly approaching the third anniversary of it. I wish I could explain to anyone—to myself—what compelled meto walk down to the beach that morning and wade into the waves.
I don’t know what came over me, like my head was stuck in a fog I can no longer see.
I don’t know why Darby was walking in the rain. She said it’s just something she enjoys doing. She happened to find me and pulled me from the water, thinking I was drowning. I begged her not to tell anyone, and she promised she wouldn’t, so it’s our secret now. But after that, she never really left me alone again. I know it scared her shitless, and I feel bad about it.
But out of all my friends who could attach themselves to my hip in the spirit of my own well-being, Darby is definitely the least annoying, so I can’t complain much.
I think we’re kindred spirits. I think we hide behind ourselves the same way. Pain becomes numbness, and we have a tendency to become content with feeling nothing, rather than allow ourselves to feel anything unpleasant. I appreciate her for trying to pull me out of that.
Her husband likens her to flowers, but I think she feels like sunshine.
The shop is quiet as I step inside. I have a small office behind the front desk, but I don’t spend much time there. My least favorite part of owning a business is actually running the business. Sometimes, I almost wish I hadn’t opened my own tattoo parlor and instead continued working in a space owned by someone else, merely managing my clients. I’d prefer to spend my time creating art, not fostering the environment that allows us to create it.
Luckily, my only full-time staff member and piercing artist, Maggie, also helps balance the books. I’m certified in piercing, as well, but I don’t enjoy it as much. I’d rather ink.
May through August are our busiest months, with tourism slowly tapering off into the fall, and the winter being very slow.I’ve got to sit down and set my budget, utilizing the high profits from the summer to ensure I can keep the lights on through the winter, but doing so feels overwhelming, and for some reason, that therapy session exhausted me today.
“I’m back!” I call out to Maggie, who’s sitting at the front desk, playing solitaire on the iPad that doubles as the cash register.
She tosses me back a thumbs up as I slide into my office and inhale the remainder of my sandwich. Ignoring my laptop—and the spreadsheet opened on its screen labeled “September,” which I know I need to go through—I close it. Instead, I pull my sketchbook from the bottom drawer of my desk and a pencil, letting my hand glide across the page.
I don’t think when I draw; I just let the design flow through my veins and out of my fingers. I wish I could say I was visualizing something, and I just had an uncanny ability to bring it to life on paper, but I don’t. I’m not envisioning anything. I’m letting my hands work. Spilling out whatever subconscious thoughts and fears are plaguing me.
I don’t know how much time passes before Maggie calls out, asking if I’m heading home. The late afternoon sun has fallen behind the building, casting my office in shadow. I look down at my sketchbook, taking in the sight of roaring whitecaps and floating violets across the page.
3
VICE
