CHAPTER ONE - EXCERPT
December 11
There has always been this gap between the
person I am and the person people think I am. It’s not that I’m fake—I don’t
mislead people and I don’t lie (too often). But I keep a lot of secrets. I hold
back parts of me so you can see the outline of the puzzle and make a guess
about the picture, but that’s all it is—a guess. My inner pieces? I don’t show
those to hardly anyone.
One of those pieces is Holden Hassler. Holden is
why I’m out in the frigid air right now, trudging up the winding road that
leads to the top of Puffin Hill, icy gravel slick beneath the soles of my
hiking boots. No one knows I’m meeting Holden tonight. No one knows I’ve been
meeting him for months. Well, except for Betsy. She’s the eight-year-old golden
retriever by my side. I’ve had her since she was a puppy. Right now she’s
tugging at her leash with at least half of her considerable strength. I give
her some slack, and she trots over to the nearest mailbox and sniffs around the
base of it.
“Smell someone you know, girl?” I bend down to
run my fingers through Betsy’s soft fur.
Movement on my left startles me. A door opens
across the street and a woman exits onto the porch, a broom in her hand. Mrs.
Roche. Her husband is a plastic surgeon in Tillamook, the nearest town big
enough to have specialized medical services. Mrs. Roche sweeps bits of dead
leaves and debris out into her yard. Our eyes meet for a moment. I force a half
smile that is not returned. As she disappears back into her house, I wonder if
she wants to sweep me away too. I’m one of the few poor kids lucky enough to
live in this town.
My mom and I live in Three Rocks, a small town
along the Oregon Coast. There are only about three hundred residents who live
here year-round. The rest of the people own fancy beach bungalows they use as
summer homes or rent out to tourists. Many of the houses on this street sit
empty right now, because almost no one wants to hang out at the beach in
December. It doesn’t snow much in Three Rocks, but the damp air cuts you to the
bone, and the wind sometimes blows strong enough to uproot bushes and shatter
windows.
“Come on, Bets.” I tug the dog away from the
mailbox and she trots up the hill at a steady pace, passing by the next few
houses with no interest in stopping. This block appears to be deserted. It’s a
little like being the only person on a movie set after all the crew has gone
home. There are signs of life—frosted-over flower gardens, walls of trimmed
ivy, wind chimes clanking out an angry music—but no people.
The steady crunch of gravel under my boots is
punctuated by the occasional whistling cry of a seagull. A gust of wind rustles
through the trees, chilling my face. Pulling my scarf up to cover my nose and
mouth, I pause in a clearing to look out toward the Pacific Ocean. It’s too
dark to see anything except a wide swath of black, a yawning nothingness on the
horizon. But I know what’s out there—I can practically feel the relentless push
and pull of the waves.
My phone buzzes in my purse. It’s probably
Holden wondering where I am. Right now he’s waiting for me in the lobby of the
Sea Cliff Inn, a quaint, three-story hotel located at the top of Puffin Hill.
The Sea Cliff is one of the town’s most famous historic buildings, and up until
the end of summer it was the place to stay for visitors to Three Rocks. But
then Mr. Murray, the elderly man who owned it, passed away, and his adult children
who live in different states haven’t decided whether they want to sell the
property or run the hotel themselves. Which means that right now it’s a really
nice place that’s for all purposes abandoned. Holden and I meet there on nights
when he doesn’t have to work at the gas station.
My phone buzzes again and I realize it’s a call,
not a text. Definitely not Holden—he’s a texting kind of guy. When I pull my
phone out of my purse, I’m surprised to see Luke’s number on the display. Luke
and I broke up—well, we agreed to “take a break”—when his army unit got
deployed to Afghanistan a few months ago. We email a lot, though, and I know
he’s hoping we’ll get back together someday.
Winding Betsy’s leash around my palm a couple of
times, I veer to the side of the road so I can take the call without having to
worry about dodging any cars. “Stay,” I tell her, my voice muffled by my
scarf.
She cocks her head to the side and then smiles
at me as if to acknowledge the absurdity of the request. Betsy is great at “fetch”
and “roll over,” but she responds to “stay” much like a two-year-old responds
to “no.”
I tug the scarf back down under my chin. “I mean
it.”
Slowing in front of a bright turquoise bungalow
with windows that have been boarded over to protect the glass, I swipe at the
screen of my phone. “Luke,” I say, trying my hardest to sound excited. “This is
a surprise.”
“Hey, Embry.” Luke sounds happy. He always
sounds happy. Well, unless one of his sports teams loses. “I’m glad I caught
you. Can you talk for a few minutes?”
“Sure. I’m just out walking the dog. Hang on a
second.” Glancing around, I find a place to sit at the bottom of a wooden
staircase that leads up to a house on stilts. Betsy angles her head again,
surprised by my deviation from our normal routine, but eventually she lies down
on her belly next to my feet.
“What’s up? How are you?” I ask.
“I’m good,” Luke says. “Great, even.”
“Are you still in Kandahar?”
“Yeah. I tried to get leave for Christmas, but
we’ve got more senior guys who requested it, so I won’t be home again until
after the first.”
“That sucks. I mean, I’m sure your family is
really going to miss you.” I lift my free hand to my face and blow on it. The
tips of my fingers are freezing. I arrange my wispy blond hair over my ears,
which also feel like ice. I should have dressed warmer for this walk, but I
hate the way hats and gloves feel, all tight and constricting.
“Yeah, I already talked to them and they’re
bummed, but they know how it is.” Luke pauses for a moment, then blurts out,
“Hey, so I had a crazy idea and I wanted to run it by you.”
“Okay.” I tighten my coat around my body, blow
on my fingers again. “Shoot.”
“Assuming I can get leave in January . . . what
do you think about the two of us getting married?”
I snort. “Funny.”
Betsy looks up at me, curious at the noise I
made. I reach down and pat her on the head.
“No, I’m serious,” Luke says. “I was
thinking—”
“Luke, come on. We agreed to take a break while
you’re overseas.”
The break was my idea, and at the time I really
thought I was doing it for Luke’s benefit. He had no idea how long he might end
up in Afghanistan. His commander or whoever said they were scheduled for six
months, but that their tour could be extended if needed. I don’t know much about
war, but I know a lot of soldiers come home with PTSD, with traumatic memories
that I’ll never be able to relate to. We’d already been apart for several
months while Luke did his basic training and specialized medic school. The last
thing I wanted to do was heap additional stress on him by forcing him to remain
faithful to a long-distance relationship if it turned out he needed comfort
from someone there with him, someone who could understand everything he was
going through. What happens in Afghanistan stays in Afghanistan—that was pretty
much what I told him.
But given how things have turned out, now I
wonder if maybe my benevolent gesture wasn’t so benevolent, if I was trying to
free myself from the stress of a long-distance relationship but just spin it to
make it seem that it was for Luke’s benefit.
It’s possible I’m not a very good person.
“I know what we decided, Embry. But just hear me
out.”
“Okay.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my
knees. Strands of hair blow in front of my eyes. The night seems alien and
strange through the hazy blond filter. Dead leaves whisper to each other as
they tumble across the gravel road. Naked tree branches tap at the windows of
the bungalow across the street.
Luke is saying something about how we could have
a small wedding with just our friends and family. Betsy fidgets, and I wonder
if her paws are freezing on the cold ground. I jiggle her leash as I rise to my
feet again. She lifts herself up and stretches her furry legs. The two of us
turn back to the road as Luke continues talking.
“I know you and your mom are struggling
financially, and if you were my wife you’d qualify for housing assistance plus
a monthly stipend. It would help you guys a lot,” he continues.
My wife. The idea of being someone’s wife feels
completely detached from reality, like becoming an astronaut or winning a
million dollars on a game show. I glance up at the top of the hill, at the Sea
Cliff Inn where Holden waits. If Luke only knew.
I blink hard. In a lot of ways, I wish he did
know. Then he’d leave me. Then I wouldn’t have to figure out how to permanently
break up with a guy who’s everything a girl could ever want. Okay, that’s a bit
of an exaggeration—in addition to the aforementioned obsession with watching
sports, he’s also a proud hunter with a rifle collection and prone to
occasional road rage, two things that have always bothered me a little.
But other than that, he’s basically
perfect—smart, respectful, selfless, brave. I used to joke that he’d turn out
to be a serial killer because no one could be so wholly decent and good. I’ve
known him since we were kids because our families run Fintastic and the Oregon
Coast Café, two of the four restaurants in town. We started dating when I was
in tenth grade and he was a senior. He had to ask me out three times before I
finally said yes, because I thought he was way out of my league.
My phone buzzes with a text alert. That’s
probably Holden, wondering where I am. I clear my throat. “Luke. The fact that
you would offer something so huge just to help out Mom and me is . . . surreal.
I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say yes.”
I sigh. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Luke’s voice rises in pitch.
Disappointment. Pain. Two feelings I am extremely familiar with.
“I—I don’t know. I don’t want to marry you for
money from the government. It feels . . . gross.” It feels like prostitution,
but I know he means well, so I’m not going to tell him that.
Betsy continues to pull me up the hill. My
fingers have gone from cold to numb. I tuck the hand holding her leash into my
pocket and make an attempt to hold my cell phone with my neck so I can warm my
other hand as well.
“I know, but it’s free money. Like a thousand
dollars a month. And we can get married again for real someday after I’m out
and you’ve graduated. Bigger ceremony. We can invite the whole town. Honeymoon
anywhere you want.”
A thousand dollars a month would cut down on our
struggling . . . a lot. Mom tells me that we’re doing fine, but we were barely
scraping by before she was diagnosed with breast cancer this summer. Now she’s
recovered from the chemo and surgery, but even with insurance I know she’s got
thousands in medical bills to deal with. I’m pretty sure her definition of
“fine” is dire financial straits for most people.
Struggling financially is just as exhausting as
struggling emotionally, something else my mom is no stranger to. She was
nineteen when she found out she was pregnant with me. My father was—is—married
to another woman. He’s some sort of tech investor who met my mom at our family
coffee shop where she was a cook and barista. They struck up a friendship of
sorts and one thing led to another. And then that thing led to me, and a giant
scandal. He and his family moved two and a half hours away to Yachats, an even
fancier coastal town, before I was born. But small towns never forget, you
know? Gram said for almost two years afterward, the business at the coffee shop
dwindled down to nothing. Once my mom started showing, Gram wouldn’t even let
her pick up shifts anymore. Even today there are people in town who give my mom
dirty looks when they pass her on the street, as if she were solely to blame
for what happened, even though my father was thirty-one at the time.
“Why are you even bringing this up right now?” I
ask. “I mean, where is this coming from?”
“I don’t know. I miss you. I miss home.” Luke’s
voice gets soft. “I guess Thanksgiving got me thinking about the things I’m
grateful for. Plus, one of the guys on my team just married a platonic friend
of his so the two of them can split the money. They have no plans to stay
together and they’re going to get a divorce or an annulment or whatever after
he gets out.”
I gnaw on my lower lip. “That sounds like
fraud.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it doesn’t apply to us,
because we love each other.”
Yeah. If only love were enough.
I look up the hill again, to the hotel where
Holden is waiting.
“I’ve always dreamed of marrying you someday,
Embry,” Luke continues. “So why not do it now if it means that I can help out
both you and your mom?”
I don’t know how to respond to this. The first
few months Luke and I were together, I had this same fantasy. Somehow the
intoxicating rush of physical affection was enough to bridge that gap—the one
between the person I am and the person people think I am. I knew Luke assumed
the two of us wanted the same things, and I didn’t care that he was wrong.
Kids, family, future, whatever. We’d figure it out later. Just shut up and kiss
me already.
Intimacy is like a drug. It messes with the
chemicals in your brain or something. That explains why I was all-in on Luke
until he moved away and I didn’t have the constant physical highs to keep me
distracted from reality.
The reality is, Luke’s world is completely
different from mine. He has a sister, Frannie, who is a year younger than me,
and three older brothers in their twenties and thirties, two of whom work as
bartenders at Fintastic here in town and one who is trying to open a second
restaurant up north in Astoria. They are focused, they are driven, and they are
an extremely tight clan. Anytime one of them has a problem, the whole family
usually ends up pitching in. So many different people relying on so many other
different people. I’ve never been part of a group like that. Since Gram died,
it’s been just my mom and me. We trade off taking care of each other, depending
on who’s struggling more. Just this small agreement is sometimes more than I
can handle.
I know Luke wants to be part of the family
business someday, and I know he wants lots of kids—he’s never made a secret of
this. But I don’t know how I feel about either of those things. And I’m not
sure if I want to get married ever, let alone right now. It all feels like so
much pressure. After Luke left town, his emails went from “I miss you” to
“Here’s where I think we should live after you graduate” in the span of a
couple months. While he was talking about us moving in together, all I could
think about was the inevitable day I would fail to live up to his expectations.
He would discover that gap between who I am and who I pretend to be, and then
he would leave me—not for three months or six months for a deployment, but for
good.
“Embry? Are you still there?” he asks.
I’ve been walking this whole time, and Betsy and
I are almost to the Sea Cliff. “Mom and I will survive,” I say stiffly.
“I know. I didn’t mean to imply you guys needed
help. Just that you deserve more than you’re getting. Why not let the
government hook you up?”
It’s tempting, but if I get married someday, I
want it to be for love, not for housing assistance or monthly stipends or
whatever else Luke is talking about. So as much as Mom and I could use the
money, I know what my answer is going to be.
But it’s not an answer that I want to give him
over the phone, especially while he’s living in a combat zone.
“We’re still good, right?” he asks. “You haven’t
. . . changed your mind about us?”
I wince. “We’re good,” I say, unable to lie
about the second part of his question but also unwilling to tell him the
truth.
“So then just think about it,” Luke says. “Until
I see you again.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.” I would prefer not
to think about it, but chances are I’m not going to be able to forget it
now.
“Awesome. If you don’t hear from me again before
Christmas, don’t worry. We’re supposed to be heading out on a mission soon, and
I won’t have web access until we get back. But I’ll email you when I can,
okay?”
“Mission where?”
“I’m not even sure yet,” Luke says. “But if I
was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“Right,” I say. “The whole classified info
thing.” My phone buzzes again.
“Exactly,” Luke says. There’s an awkward pause,
and then he adds, “Well, have a good night. Love you.”
“You too.” Shaking my head, I switch over to my
messages and find two texts from Holden:
Holden: You coming?
Holden: Everything ok?
Just seeing Holden’s words sends a rush of
relief coursing through me. With Holden there are no expectations, no lies, no
pressure to be someone I’m not. I feel safe with him in a way I never have with
any other guy. It’s probably horrible that I can hang up the phone with Luke
and be comforted by thoughts of Holden five seconds later, but it is what it
is. Sometimes horrible things are true.
I slide my phone back into my purse without
answering the texts. The Sea Cliff Inn stands in front of me. It’s a Victorian-style
three-story building with a lobby, dining area, kitchen, and eight rooms for
rent. I know this because Holden used to do landscaping for the place before
Mr. Murray died. No one knows that Holden made himself a copy of the key before
turning everything over to the Murray family’s lawyer. Holden’s mom is a cop
with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, so he’s always on the lookout
for places he can go to escape her watchful eye.
I let Betsy tug me through the frozen grass and
around to the back of the hotel. There’s a small clearing with a gardening shed
off to the side. Beyond it there’s a sheer drop-off of about five hundred feet.
I look out at the dark ocean for a few seconds, resisting its siren call.
I’ve thought about jumping from this cliff once
or twice. The idea of the ocean swallowing me up is strangely comforting. Maybe
a little too comforting.
I turn to the back door, which I know will be
unlocked the way it always is when Holden is waiting for me. I pause for a
second, my hand on the tarnished door handle. I think about Luke calling me his
wife. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I shouldn’t do this. I could turn back
the way I came, go home and do my homework. I could try to be a better
person.
But the pull of what I want is too strong. Not
just comfort. Freedom. The chance to let someone see me. For some reason, I
don’t hide those inner pieces from Holden. And that is its own kind of
intoxicating.
Besides, what good is being a better person if
you still lose? If you look back throughout history, when has the better person
ever been rewarded? Better people are exiled. Better people are executed.
Better people throw themselves into the ocean because they’ve spent their whole
lives denying who they are and what they really want.
For better or worse, this is who I am, and what
I really want is Holden.
Copyright © 2018 by Paula
Stokes
Project Prometheus
Project Pandora
