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“They are happy. I’m happy you’re here.” We embrace again, but this time when we part, our hands stay together. The winds have changed, and the temperature has suddenly dropped. I think I’ve had enough of the cliffs today, maybe forever. Who cares if they’re gray or shine like diamonds. They almost stole him from me. I say, “I’m exhausted. Let’s go home.”
“Yours or mine?”
We start walking to the car. I think about his question, and only one thing comes to mind. “Wherever you are is home to me.”
28
Harbor
It happened so fast.
I went from spying on Lark in class to her being the part of my heart that makes it beat. One month?
That can’t be right.
A lifetime can’t explain what I feel for her. We’re in too deep, emotions too heavy, the weight of gold, and a thousand love stories all in one.
She moves around the kitchen, putting a dash of this and a splash of that into the large pot on the stove. Since I was banned from assisting, I’ve watched her cook like a professional. She said her dad taught her how to cook. The meals aren’t complicated, but they’re good. “It smells incredible in here.”
I think she also picked up a trick or two from working in the catering business.
We could’ve gone out. I could’ve treated her to the best meal in town to celebrate the occasion—our month-i-versary, as she calls it. She didn’t want that.
She wanted to stay home.
She wanted me.
I refill her glass halfway. I’ve already learned she doesn’t like the commitment of having to finish it. This is her second half glass, and I think tonight she’ll finish the job.
I sit back down on the other side of the bar with my own glass of wine. I don’t drink wine much, but I wanted to drink what she was having. I texted my mom for a recommendation. I know it’s a good wine, but expensive, so I asked Lark to stay in the car when I ran in to buy it.
“I’m so hungry,” she says, leaning against the other side of the island from me. She takes a sip and then licks her lips. Always a good sign that she likes it. Like the little wiggle dance she does when she’s enjoying her food, she’s so easy to read and so adorable.
“Can I ask you more questions?” she asks like that isn’t already a question.
“It seems I’m an open book for you, so go right ahead.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin our night.”
She doesn’t see how much she’s helped me. Not yet. I finally feel like I can breathe again. I feel light, like I did before . . . just before. The debt of gratitude I owe her is immense. I’ll spend my days thanking her any way I can. “You can’t ruin our night.”
With each question she asks, I answer, my soul lifted from the hell where it’s been living. But then just like she always does, she gets to the heart of the matter. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I did, but my aunt called me a liar. She said the police report proved her son would never do that. And before my parents had a chance to arrive at the scene, she had police officers questioning my involvement as a suspect.” I take a big gulp of wine. I thought about all the stuff a million times, but saying it out loud for the second time feels unnatural. “I know what happened. The only reason I survived is because I put on more muscle than he had that summer.”
She looks at me lost in thought and hesitates to speak. I can almost see the words on the end of her tongue. But she moves to the pot and stirs, appearing to debate whether to ask.
“Anything, Lark. You can ask me anything.” Though I keep my eyes on the wooden spoon as it takes another spin around the pot as a distraction.
She turns the knob, and then asks, “Do you know why he did it?”
“I know he’d been troubled for a long time. At one point, he wanted help. It was something we had talked about a few times.” I spin the glass by the stem, but the memories are too strong to stay buried, and the conversations, confrontations we had come flooding back. “We had a big blowup that ended up in punches being thrown. I hit him first, but it was to stop him from getting in the car. He was high as fuck and just as drunk. Lucas knew just how to get me to react.”
I gulp, ready for the good times to replace all the bad memories he left me with. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved him as a brother. He had a way of twisting things on me, having me take the blame, so maybe what happened after his death was part of the pattern.”
It took me more than a year to realize the day at Devil’s Edge was a cry for help. Before that, I’d always considered it an attack.”
She comes around and rubs my back. Resting her head on my shoulder, she whispers, “What caused his anger?”
