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I’m almost back there, sixteen years old, at the first rave I snuck into with them. We all had matching pink synthetic wigs and white velvet American Apparel dresses, and we spent most of the night exploring the abandoned factory the rave was in when we weren’t giggling at any guy who tried to talk to us or dancing so hard we were out of breath. We’d requested this song from the DJ so many times he’d ended up flipping us off.
We were still immature, stupid kids then. Things were still easy in the way they are before you grow up.
When the song’s done, I’m already dead tired. Might be thanks to the part when we all started jumping frantically. Or where Josie and I lifted Sierra to our shoulders, the three of us laughing and laughing.
Or maybe it’s how, near the end of the song, I saw him.
He stood off to the side, looking at me as if I were some kind of physical barrier between him and the dance floor. As if I were the one who’d ruined things all those years ago.
“I’m going to take a breather,” I tell my friends, even though we’re already outside and it’s already cool.
But a breather for me means—has always meant—being alone. Quiet. Having space to think.
Even though that last part rarely does me much good.
It takes me a few minutes of walking down the beach, away from the music and the happy wedding party and away from the odd hotel beach lounger and romantic couple, before I’m really alone. Finally.
I plunk my butt in the sand and stare out into the roiling waves. Advance, advance, advance... crash.
Closer, closer, closer... crash.
A lone gull from somewhere wheels. Somewhere further off, someone whoops.
I don’t know why, but I’ve never felt lonelier than when I hear other people having fun when I’m not.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
I can smell the salt in the air, taste it.
I let my heeled feet dig into the sand, let my head fall back.
Ah, now this—this was exactly what I needed.
Suddenly, my back stiffens.
My eyes are closed, and there hasn’t been so much as a sound or murmur out of place, yet... I know.
Someone’s here.
“Imagine seeing you here,” an all-too-familiar voice says.
Chapter 2
Emerson
Goddamn, does she look good.
Same thin body, even fitter now. You can see it in those colorful tatted-up arms.
Yes, that’s Wynona Cowell, all right.
Same pale triangle of a face. Same hair the color of ravens. Same lip piercing and bright red lipstick I want to taste.
I wonder, does she still kiss the same?
Her cold voice breaks my reverie. “What do you want?”
“Just to talk,” I say, sitting down beside her.
She keeps staring out at the waves. She always had a way of doing that, zoning out when things got tough. Not that I was much better.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she says, her voice firm.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry about before, but—”
Next thing I know, she’s on her feet, glaring at me again. That same glare that now wants me to throw myself into the ocean and not come out.
“Don’t do this,” she hisses, stalking off.
I can’t stop myself. I follow. “Won’t you give me a chance to explain?”
She throws herself forward as fast as those toned legs can carry her. “What’s there to explain, Emerson? There is no reasonable reason for you to have played that song. Yet you did.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I growl. “I was just lost in thought, and... it just happened. It felt good. Like seeing an old friend again. I hadn’t played it for a long time, not since—”
“Don’t.” She freezes, stabbing out a finger at me. “Just don’t, okay? These past few days have been hard enough already. Didn’t you notice how I was avoiding you?”
“Yeah, I noticed,” is all I can think to say.
She keeps walking. So do I.
“Tonight is about Sierra,” she says firmly. “I’m not going to make some scene and then have to explain to her why I never mentioned that you were my ex. The ex.”
“The ex,” I repeat with a little chuckle. “Guess I should be flattered?”
She stops dead and gives me another one of those signature glares of hers. “No. You shouldn’t be. Believe me.”
As she continues away, head held high, I call after her, “No temporary truce, even?”
She lets the blossom-scented breeze carry my question away.
I stand there, feet rooted in the sand, like a complete idiot.
I guess I deserve this. What the hell else did I think would happen?
Hell, it’s been over five years now, and the last time Wynona and I spoke...
I grind my teeth.
No. It’s better not to think of that.
Better to just drink and drink some more—not enough to worry my older brothers, though. They’re still a bit overprotective after that incident some months back, as much as they profess to admire me for ‘how far I’ve come’.
