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I want to say something to Bishop. He seems broken. Instead, I let my feet take me to the foyer. He’s hurting, and it’s obvious it’s about this Madison girl. I did the Myers-Briggs personality test online once. It said I was an empath. I didn’t know what that was until tonight. Until I was surrounded by a group of people. I felt Bishop’s pain, Tillie’s betrayal, and Nate’s anxiety. When it came to Brantley, though, all I felt was cold.
We left after that. By we, I mean they didn’t really give me a choice. Not that I would say no. When they directed me toward a matte black Maserati, I knew these boys definitely were not from here because I would have noticed their cars.
He drove us out onto the highway, and then over the bridge. I should have asked where we were going, but I didn’t. Too lost in my drunken thoughts and too thirsty for more.
“We going somewhere else?” I asked, and they both looked at each other, then the one driving—the disinterested one’s—eyes came to mine in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, the night’s still young, don’t you think?” Whenever either of them spoke, I got the feeling they meant something else. Like their words were only foreshadowing what they were really wanting to say.
“Sure.” I ran my tongue over my bottom lip. The music was louder, the car moved faster, and before I could even register where we were, I noticed the Hamptons sign.
Shit. I was told to stay away from this side. But I was also told to stay away from boys, and I never listened to that advice. Clearly, which is why I was in this situation to begin with. We drove through the township, until the angry one raised his phone to his ear, cranking down the music. It was perfect timing really, because I just caught the first thing that whoever it was on the other end said.
“Brantley, turn around.”
Saint
The sky is the color of sadness today. It’s as though someone dipped the tip of a paintbrush into bland gray and took angry strokes through a placid blue.
I like it.
Unlocking my phone, I check the forecast quickly after changing into some comfortable clothes, hoping I’ll have time to plant my new desert rose when a text comes through.
Unknown: Is your name Saint?
I sit up, confused. I’ve never had a text message before from anyone. Well, unless it’s Brantley who sends some basic line like make sure you lock the gate or one of your tutors is canceling a session—which never happened.
My fingers fly over the keypad.
Saint: Yes.
I toss my phone onto my bed and start French braiding my hair to one side. It’s not long after I tie the end when my phone dings.
Unknown: Can you keep a secret?
I feel my brows knot to the middle as I fire off my reply.
Me: Who is this?
Now that I’m invested, my phone remains in the palm of my hand as I wait for the reply.
Unknown: Your new secret. Change your passcode to your phone and don’t tell anyone about this.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a few seconds as I think over what I just read. When I grasp for every reason as to why this person is texting me, I fall short. I’m not experienced in social situations or dynamics. Maybe it’s Tillie. Maybe this is what girls do and how they text.
I open my settings and set a new passcode, saving the number as a ?. Grabbing my AirPods, I push them into my ears while I make my way downstairs. I move through the large living room, opening the old wooden doors that open out onto the patio. This house is like a dark maze. It’s shaped like a U and the middle is filled with gardens so rich and vibrant they almost look too wonderful for the house. There’s also a pool in the middle, which never gets used but is always maintained. Behind the pool is a concrete archway that has the letters EKC stamped over top. Moss and ivy claw up the sides of the stone, reaching for everything it can to grow and climb onto. Behind that archway lies the Vitiosis cemetery. I don’t go in there often.
Scrolling through my phone, I push play on an old classic I’ve been trying to learn. Gardening helps my mind breathe.
Breathe…
Past
“Breathe,” Brantley whispered, closing the door behind him.
I shook my head. “I don’t know what he wants me to do.”
Brantley’s dark hair flopped over his forehead, distracting me momentarily. He needed to cut it, I thought to myself. Or maybe he wanted it to look like this. He was thirteen, and I was nine.
Brantley’s jaw tensed, his fingers diving into his hair as he slid down my bedroom door.
I took the two steps toward him, kneeling in front of him. “Does he do this to everyone?”
