Page 1 of Black Waters

Chapter One

Façades

Secrets can be harmless, or they can be torturous inner struggles that devour you from the inside out. That is what my secrets did. The thing is, they weren’t just mine, they were ours, and they exposed a much bigger, twisted story that unraveled, costing lives—innocent lives.

In the dark, I had been able to fool myself—time and time again. Caught up in the moment, I moaned, “Whit.”

“Reether? W-What did you just say to me?”

Everyone wondered why Constance hated my best friend with a vengeance, but this was why. Girlfriends don’t take it well when, while kissing them hungrily, you call them the wrong name, especially when it’s the name of a girl your girlfriend is constantly accusing you of loving in more than a sisterly or best friend kind of way.

In Connie’s feminine, light, blue bedroom, my forehead dropped to her shoulder. “Babe, don’t start. I got off the phone with Whit before I got here. It was a slip of the tongue.”

Connie pushed me off her. “A slip of the tongue while your tongue is in my mouth!”

“Shh, your parents will hear you.” I lay on my back instead of on top of my girlfriend, who was clearly shutting down a much-needed sex session.

“Go home, Reether.”

I sat up, sorely disappointed, if you know what I mean, sticking my unused condom back in my front pocket. “What about the movies? The reason I’m here?”

“We both know why you’re here, Reether.” Connie put her blouse back on, trying to act strong, but the poor girl had it bad for me, and I used her vulnerability like the asshole I was. That’s probably why God wasn’t allowing me to have the girl I really wanted.

Once dressed, Connie faced me. “If I decide I still want to go, I’ll ride with Harlan.”

When I got up from her bed and my toes couldn’t feel her plush carpet, I realized I hadn’t even bothered to take off my sneakers.

Hit and run.

Slowly, while buckling my jeans, I walked to her with shame in every step. Connie wouldn’t look in my eyes as she retreated until her back was up against her bedroom wall. She had every right to feel disrespected and used. She was a victim of sorts.

My hand gently grabbed the nape of her neck to get her to look at me. “I’m sorry.” I kissed her cheek and left her room. I meant it. I was sorry—sorry for loving my best friend in ways I shouldn’t and for not loving Connie like I should. It wasn’t fair to either of them, but I couldn’t control or stop what was in my heart.

As I exited her overly decorated home that announced the quantity of cash rolling through her family’s bank accounts, I was unaware how that night would become sweet revenge for Connie, and that she would use it against me—against my only weakness.

Unlike Whit’s parents, mine were always home and had already retired for the evening. My bedroom smelled of fresh paint. Mom thought white walls were more uplifting than my old brown. She seemed to feel I wasn’t cheery enough. Worrying about my well being was her priority. I couldn’t understand why she worried; I was fine.

I blinked my lamp light for my “good night” to Whit and got into bed. My down comforter made its familiar paper crackling noises. In the dark, staring at the ceiling, I thought about how Whitney’s face had lit up looking at the suspicious guy we’d met at the movie theater—Crash. On his neck, he had a tattoo saying “Life 1982,” whatever that meant.Whit seemed infatuated with the tattooed character and seemed to recognize him as the trouble she believed she needed to amp up her life—a life she considered to be lacking excitement.

Chasing Whitney around and trying to control her “need for speed” was like trying to be Superman, stopping a tornado with my bare hands. Maybe because I was without a ridiculous red superhero cape and blue tights, I was shit out of luck.

My cell vibrated on my nightstand. Let me in. I groaned. Seeing Connie and hearing more of her bitching was not high on my to-do list, but I went downstairs and opened the door.

“We need to talk,” was all she said.

I turned and walked away, silently telling her to follow, and internally cussing my regret for opening the door in the first place. The high heels that annoyed the shit out of Whit clicked on my mother’s imported Italian marble flooring. Connie always wore them because I’d told her I liked taller girls, trying to throw her off track of my true feelings for the short redhead who kept me in a constant state of starvation. I was to blame and truly had no right to find the noise irritating, but I did.

Back in bed and staring at the ceiling again, I tried to return to my thoughts of Whit, but it was impossible with Connie crawling into my bed. Next to me, she whispered with disdain, “It hurt to watch you watch them.”

I glared at her, wondering what she was babbling about.

Connie nodded. “Whit was becoming enthralled with another guy—literally under your nose—and watching it bothered you. Knowing you’ve been lying to me makes me sick. That’s why I excused myself to the restroom.” She glanced down then back to me. “And the fact that this guy looked like a shorter version of you tells me Whitney is lying too. That is why I made that rude comment.”

“I don’t look like that guy.”

“I’m not saying you could pass as twins. I’m saying that it is more proof that Whitney unconsciously wanted to be with you.”

Not missing the past tense part of her statement—wanted —I rolled to face her. “It’s not like that. Whit and I are—”