Authors: Unknown
Dr. Rose’s door stood ajar as I entered her office. The smell of cigarette smoke and a spicy scented candle greeted me, while some old New Orleans–type blues played in the background. I knocked gently on her door, and she glanced up. “Perfect timing. Please, have a seat. I was just talking about you.”
I walked over to the leather couch and she joined me in the chair beside it. “Talking about me?” I pictured her on the phone with my mother, describing my desperate request for this meeting, and felt my cheeks burn. “I was hoping my mom wouldn’t know about this.”
Rose’s face pinched in confusion and then she laughed. “Oh, dear. I forgot to mention to you my policy in our last meeting. I don’t usually discuss patients with parents, unless there is an emergency. It results in a muddled diagnosis steeped in an opinion that is rarely my own, and as the sole therapist of this practice, I cannot have that. So when I said I was talking about you, I meant that I was talking to Doris.”
I shook my head, trying to process what she was saying. “So . . . you haven’t ever talked to my parents about what happened?”
Rose’s gray eyes pierced through me. “I’ve talked with your mother twice. I know the basics, yes, but I don’t know what actually happened. Somehow I doubt even she knows what
actually
happened. Am I right?”
I cleared my throat and sat back into the couch, tucking one leg under me as I did whenever I was trying to process something. Rose was right. No one knew what had happened, because I was the only one there to survive. I shivered at the thought and peered back up at her with a new resolve. I didn’t want to be the only one to know, to carry this burden. “So, do you talk to Doris about all of your patients or am I special?”
Rose tilted her head. “Oh, I have no doubt that you’re special. But I usually talk to both of them as needed.”
I lowered my eyes to the woven area rug under the sofa. It was a thousand shades of green and didn’t match anything else in her office. I wondered if she bought it in the Market or if one of her patients made it. Maybe she made it. “So what did Doris say about me?”
Rose leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “That you’re ready.”
I hesitated. Was I ready? “I want to be.” Emotion swirled through my chest, and I fought to rein it in. I didn’t want to start the session by crying. That would come. For now, I just wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me.
“Okay then,” she said, leaning back into her chair. “I know what happened must have been traumatic. Horrifying, even. I can see it in your eyes, the deep frown lines on your face when you come here. I know that it must be hard to relive that night, so why don’t we start with the day of the incident? Close your eyes, relax, and tell me about that day. Not the incident itself. Just the day.”
I glanced at Rose to find her nodding at me that it was okay. I closed my eyes, and as though I stepped through a time machine, there I was, feeling Parker’s damp grass seep through my sandals as Matt and I made our way to his house. Parker’s parents had been out of town for the weekend, and his house was already overflowing with people. Matt opened the door for me and instantly, I heard my name shouted from the back patio door. Trisha.
I clenched my teeth together, a cold sweat bursting across my forehead. I started to open my eyes and felt Rose’s hand close over mine. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here. Tell me what you remember.”
“I remember the grass being wet.”
“Good, go on.”
I cleared my throat, my legs shaking.
“Olive?”
“I remember Matt’s voice. How he had tried to make himself sound cooler than everyone else. It annoyed me. Embarrassed me.” My voice broke at the honesty of my words. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Rose scooted closer to me. “Okay. But you will never heal until you are able to talk about this. Remember, this is just the day.”
I dipped my head and ran my free hand over my eyes. I finally swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I closed my eyes again and began speaking, describing each detail as quickly as the memory hit me.
Matt had gripped my hips as we entered the house and kissed the back of my neck, but I was already distracted by Trisha’s calls from the patio. I separated from him and cleared the back double doors to find Trisha at a Ping-Pong table. Across from her were Alec Martin and River Hampton, both on the lacrosse team and both on Trisha’s short list of guys she wanted to get with.
She winked at me, her mascaraed lashes showing off the green in her eyes. Her curly black hair was pulled into a high ponytail because she hated the way the humidity made her hair spazz out.
I gripped the edge of the couch, on the verge of hyperventilating. Rose pressed an easy hand to my back, steadying me. “Remember, you’re safe here.”
I nodded. “I just . . . need a minute.”
We sat in silence as I tried to clear my mind of Trisha’s face, smiling and happy. Alive.
“Who is Trisha?” Rose asked.
I dipped my head again and clenched my eyes shut, needing another moment, then reopened them and stared out into Dr. Rose’s office. The grandfather clock hit the twelve and a tiny blue bird shot out from the center of the clock face.
Cuckoo, cuckoo,
it called.
“She was my best friend,” I said.
“And she was with you that night?”
I nodded, wiping an orphan tear from my cheek. “We were playing Beer Pong with Alec and River. I’m really good. Anyway, Trisha knew that, so we played and of course won, and then she went off with River . . . and that was the last time I saw her.” I rocked back and forth, swallowing a sob. “I . . .” I shook my head, trailing off. What could I say? That I didn’t get to say goodbye? That I didn’t get to tell her she was the best friend in the world? That I loved her? None of that mattered. What mattered wasn’t that I didn’t get to say goodbye, but that I didn’t try. I didn’t go back. I let her die.
I released Rose’s hand and gripped my head, unable to maintain control any longer. I cried into my hands, the weight of the memories crushing every cell in my body until I felt as though I were nothing at all, only guilt and pain.
“Let’s stop for today,” Rose said, patting my shoulder. “I will have something for you at our next session. For now, try to think only of as much of the night as you have spoken to me out loud. Nothing more, understand? Just the wet grass on your feet. Would you like to come back this week?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped away my tears. “Does that mean you think you can help me?”
Rose smiled and draped her arm around my shoulders, hugging me close. “You’re a little wrinkled right now, and I understand how heavy those wrinkles can feel. How
permanent
they can feel. But I’ve never met a crease that time couldn’t iron out. You’ll be fine. That I can promise you. You just have to have a little faith. Faith is the magic of mountains.”
***
I thought of Rose’s words long after I left her office. The magic of mountains. The opinions of ghosts. The more time I spent with her, the more I questioned the sanity of my therapist. Somehow that gave me more confidence in her ability to help me. You’d have to be insane to fix me.
I draped my cross-body bag—a dark brown patchwork I bought at the Market—across my shoulder and started down the sidewalk, wishing I were the sort of girl that carried makeup on me. I knew my face showed every bit of the disaster I’d become moments before. I could tell from the way my skin still tingled and my eyes burned. And by the looks I received from people passing by, like they wanted to make sure I was okay, but were too afraid to speak out. Too afraid of what I might say or do.
So I kept my head down and my thoughts inward, which was why I didn’t notice the truck slow down beside me and the window roll down, the smooth sounds of Bob Marley beckoning me to look over. When I did, I immediately wished I hadn’t.
Preston leaned easily against his steering wheel, a bandana wrapped around his head, reflective blue sunglasses covering his eyes. His lips were turned up in his classic smirk. He opened his mouth, likely to say something smart, but then his mouth snapped back closed and his head tilted to the side. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I didn’t have to. They were roaming over my face, taking in each detail. Red eyes. Puffy nose and cheeks. Hair that looked as though a bird had flown in and gotten trapped. I wondered if I could keep walking without becoming a conversation topic between Kara and him later. Doubtful.
“Uh . . . hey.”
“Hey,” I replied. What else could I say?
He glanced over his steering wheel, like he was no longer sure how to talk to me. “Can I give you a ride?” he asked, focusing back on me.
“No. I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
I started down the sidewalk, when he called, “Olivia. Please. Let me give you a ride.”
I contemplated what was worse: taking the ride in awkward silence or declining his offer, which would make me look insane, given the state of my appearance. I glanced back at his truck, deciding I’d rather deal with the awkwardness than run into at least twenty more people, potentially all my future classmates, during my walk all the way back to Liberty.
I opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside, glad that at the very least, I had worn my hair down. I draped it across my left shoulder to shield my face, a curtain of brown and blond strands, thanks to Mom’s insistence that I have it highlighted before coming to school. I expected to continue in silence, when Preston said, “I’m sure whatever it is will be fine. Better. Or . . .” He released a breath. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at the whole comforting thing.”
“It’s fine.” I wondered if my voice sounded as hoarse as it felt.
“Really?” He peeked over at me. “Because it doesn’t look fine. What were you doing all the way over here, anyway?”
I closed my eyes. Random awkward stares would have been so much better than this. I opened my mouth to spout out a lie, but I was tired from the session with Rose, my emotions raw and too accessible to be ignored. “I was seeing my therapist.” I cringed as I waited for his response. The look. The laughter. The tone that placed me on the crazy shelf, with my cover facing out for all to see.
“Does it help?” he asked after a moment.
I thought of all my therapy over the last four months. The Harvard-degreed Dr. Blackson, who talked to me like I was ten. The sweater-vest wearing Dr. Allen, who spent more time arguing with her soon-to-be ex-husband on the phone than listening to my problems. I had never once felt better in any of the dozens of appointments I had with those therapists. But Rose was different.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I used to think they were worthless. But this one—Rose—she makes me think it could eventually help. She gives me hope, and I guess that’s the most we can ask for.” Maybe if
faith
was the magic behind mountains, then
hope
was the streams that shaped their valleys. But then I felt silly and Rose-like for thinking such nonsense.
Preston nodded. “I’ve thought of seeing someone myself.”
My eyes snapped over to him. “You?”
He laughed. “I see how it is.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem so . . .”
His face turned serious. “Irresponsible?”
“Self-actualized. Like, nothing could bother you. It’s a little intimidating,” I admitted.
Preston’s mouth set into a hard line, and then he said, “When I was little, my dad used to tell my brother and me that a man was defined by how he carried himself day to day. Not by his responses during good or bad times, when even the weak could rise, but how he handled himself when he thought no one was paying attention.”
I thought of his words and what they meant. “You’re good at it. Your dad would be proud.”
He laughed again, but the sound didn’t possess the easiness of his laugh from before. “My dad doesn’t know what the word
proud
means
.
He only knows judgment and criticism.”
“But you’re studying to be a doctor. You own the boat storage place. You work. You seem to be head and shoulders above everyone I know.”
“Yeah, well, those things are nothing to my dad. My grandfather owned several businesses in my town and left them to my dad, his only child, when he died. My father expected my brother and me to join the family business, so when I decided I wanted to do something else, I became the disappointing son. I bought the storage place with some of my inheritance from my granddad. A wasted investment in my dad’s eyes.”
“So why did you decide to go into medicine instead of joining the family business?”
Preston’s mood shifted noticeably darker, and I could tell his moment of revelation had passed. He’d revealed as much as he planned to reveal. I realized that I should offer him something of me, a trade for the information he’d given, but I wasn’t ready to reference that night in any kind of context. Especially not with Preston Riggs.
“Why did you really come here instead of wherever your parents wanted you to go?” Preston asked, surprising me. “Something tells me it isn’t the culture.”
I stared forward, wishing, yet again, that I’d never taken this ride. “I came here because a friend of mine couldn’t. I came for her.”
He nodded once. “Is she also the reason you see Rose?” I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, but his curiosity had won out.
“Are you going to answer my question?” I already knew what his response would be, which was the only thing that gave me the courage to ask him. If he agreed to answer a question for a question, I would be forced to seal my mouth and tuck my secrets away. But that wouldn’t happen. I could see it on his face. His secrets were as tightly locked as mine.
“No,” he answered. “But not for the reason you’re thinking. My coming here, studying medicine, isn’t . . . the reason . . .” He shook his head. “It isn’t my story to tell.”
We reached Liberty before I could process what he meant, but one thing became clear—Preston Riggs was much more complex than I’d originally thought.
“Olivia, it’s your turn to read.”
I glanced up at my poetry professor, my hands shaking enough to make the paper in my hand rattle. I had spent the last week going through my journals, desperate to find something that spoke of emotion without revealing the insides of my heart. Finally, I selected the poem and brought it into my session with Rose the day before, eager for her opinion. But when I finished, she just stared at me with those gray eyes of hers. She didn’t clap or say good job or even hint that she’d enjoyed the piece. Instead, she came over and hugged me, and then told me to double my sessions for the next week.
I walked to the front of the class, unfolded my crinkled sheet of paper, and stared out into the class, trying not to focus on any one set of eyes. I glanced down at the sheet, the words written in pencil, marks made and erased so often the once white sheet now held a gray cast. Just like the words themselves.
I opened my mouth and closed it back, eyeing Lauren, our professor. “Go on,” she said, as supportive as ever. She told us whatever we turned in to her would remain private, so for me to read something of mine out loud felt like I was intentionally putting myself in the spotlight. We weren’t required to read our own work, though several had already. The strange thing was that I wanted to say these things out loud. Say all the things I couldn’t say to my parents. Poetry class gave me that freedom. I just had to be careful which poems I turned in to Lauren and which I read in class. Some . . . some should never be uttered out loud to anyone.
I peered down at the paper, though I knew the words by heart.
It came one day, fast and great.
The world changed through heated eyes.
The screams drew close . . .
The house, it quaked.
Voices were smothered in ash.
The house, it is where I remain.
My bottom lip shook, so I clamped my teeth over it and went back to my seat without looking up. Lauren didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “Wonderful emotion, Olivia. Thank you for sharing.”
Typically she would break down the problems in a student’s work. But instead of tearing mine apart, she glanced at her watch and said, “We’ll end on that note.”
I eyed my watch. We still had ten minutes left in the class, and she had never ended early. Suddenly, I wondered if I’d shared too much. Given too much of myself. I knew the answer when she called my name as everyone else began to leave. I stepped up in front of her, my face as clear as a summer day in Westlake. I refused to show how much the poem affected me. “Yes?”
She started to say something, then stopped. “Olivia . . . if something’s . . . if you need to speak to someone. There are people I can put you in touch with.”
I almost laughed. My parents had sought out the best therapists in the country to help me. Somehow, I didn’t think a support group would do the trick. I needed a lot more than support and conversation. I needed a three-step plan or something. I needed Rose Campbell.
“Thank you,” I replied, because that was what my mother would have me say. “But I’m okay.”
“I know,” she said. “But being okay isn’t always enough.”
I lowered my head and briefly closed my eyes. After the few poems I’d turned in already, I shouldn’t be surprised that she was asking me about counseling. My work was riddled with depression and anger. “I’m seeing someone already,” I finally whispered. I couldn’t bring myself to say it any louder. I didn’t want to risk someone in the hall hearing me.
“Someone?”
“A therapist.”
She considered me, her eyes filled with pity. That was the worst part of people knowing that I was from Westlake. They knew what had happened, even if they were unwilling to ask. “Good,” she said with a small smile. “And you’ll let me know if I can do anything to help, right?”
I nodded to her and started for the door, when she called, “And Olivia?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stop writing. I know it’s hard, but trust me, it helps.”
I nodded again and then raced out the door, only to find Taylor leaning against the wall outside the door, one foot propped up against the wall, one on the floor. He wore red-rimmed glasses, a solid gray T-shirt, and dark jeans. It was the most normal look I’d seen on him yet.
I faked a smile as I started past, but he pushed off the wall and fell in step beside me. “So . . . Ms. Warren. You’re a little dark thing, I see.”
I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Lauren. And certainly not with too-pretty Taylor. Why did I read that poem?
“I suppose we all are at times,” I said.
“Not really.”
I sighed and turned toward him. “Did you need something?”
“Yes, in fact, I do. Lunch. You and I. Let’s discuss your dark side.” I started to walk away, when he reached for my arm, a smooth smile on his face. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t funny. I do want to get lunch, though. Are you free?”
“No.” I smiled at his hurt expression.
“Okay, but I know in time you’ll change your mind.”
“That’s pretty doubtful,” I said, but he continued to grin as he walked away.
“Who was that?” a gruff voice asked from over my shoulder. I turned to see who had spoken and nearly slammed into Preston.
I took a step back. “Do you stand that close to everyone? That’s like the third time I’ve nearly knocked you out.” I shook my head, flustered. “That was a friend of mine from class.” I thought the term
friend
was pushing it, but the description was easier than
oh, just some guy who wants to explore my dark side.
Preston continued to look in Taylor’s direction. “He seems less friend and more like a guy that wants to get in your pants.”
My eyes snapped up. The statement was true enough, but I didn’t like the idea of Preston thinking I was some idiotic girl who fell for guys like that. “He’s harmless.”
His eyes settled on me, all grays and blues. They were intoxicating. Like watching a storm brew over the ocean. His emotion overflowed from his eyes. I wondered if he was unable to control it, or if he realized the emotion was there and just didn’t care.
“No one’s harmless,” he said.
For a long moment, we stared at one another, trying to find something in the other’s face, and then someone rushed past me, bumping into me with her bag and yanking me out of Preston’s trance. “I have a class.” I motioned to the stairs. “See you around?”
He nodded, then after a beat, “You could skip.”
I peered around at him, my eyebrows raised in question.
“I’m heading out to the water. You could come . . . if you’d like.” His eyes flicked between each of mine, studying me. Waiting.
I thought of my next class with Dr. Myers. He never took attendance and typically put on some film adaptation of a novel. I felt sure I could get the notes from someone in the class. But none of that was what made me pause. I knew myself, and I knew that despite everything, I was slowly growing attached to Preston. I couldn’t put my finger on why or how it had happened. I liked being around him, how easy it felt, how comforting. He never made me question myself. I was just me, Olive. And that was when I realized what drew me to him. Since this summer, I had separated myself into two people—Olivia, controlled and sure, and Olive, carefree and happy. I’d tucked Olive away, but the more time I spent with Preston, the more I felt her seeping out, peeking at me from a closed closet, begging me to let her be a part of myself again.
I glanced down at my watch—a giant silver face against my tiny wrist. Class began two minutes ago, and I hated being late. My eyes drifted back to Preston. “Where’s your truck?”
***
I slipped into the passenger seat, ducking under the tips of two rods that stretched from the backseat to the front. “So where are we headed?”
Preston started up the truck and grinned over at me. “I thought we’d do a little deep-sea fishing. It’s a little rocky today, but you should be fine.”
My spine snapped straight. “What?” Suddenly, I questioned Preston’s judgment. A little rocky to him could mean massive waves to me. I’d survived a near-death experience once, and I wasn’t ready to categorize myself with the adventurous sort just yet.
I opened my mouth to tell him to just take me to Liberty, when he burst out laughing.
“Seriously. You should see your face. You’d have thought I told you we were going diving with sharks or something.”
I let my pulse settle down, and glanced over at him. “So no deep water stuff?”
His smile widened. “No.”
I relaxed into my seat and turned so I was half facing him, my left leg under my right. “Have you actually scuba dived with sharks?”
“Oh, yeah, though not by choice. They tend to be drawn by all the blood that comes out into the water when we spearfish. Once, my brother and I decided to go on this night dive. We’d been certified for several years and thought we were badasses. So we dove in, and then along came this jewfish the size of a wall. I’d never once been afraid during a dive, but we ran from that thing like it was going to swallow us whole. I’m smarter about it now. Safer.” He shook his shoulders as though he could feel the presence of the fish even now.
I watched him as he launched into story after story. Some of dives. Others of deep-sea fishing. Each story was about some horrific thing that happened, some chance encounter or faulty equipment that could have left him dead or stranded. All the while, I waited to hear some cocky remark about how only an expert could survive those experiences, but the arrogance never came. Instead, he spoke of each instance with respect, admitting his fear, as though he bowed to the ocean and its creatures, not the other way around.
“Does your dad ever go out with you and your brother?”
Preston’s jaw ticked. “He used to when we were younger. He’s all work now.”
I started to ask more when we arrived at Waterfront Park. Preston parked the truck and went around to grab the poles so I could get out without ducking beneath them. He held both poles in one hand and grabbed a small tackle box in the other, and then started for the Vendue Wharf pier, the most popular spot within the park. It was the very place I’d been dying to go since arriving in Charleston. I peeked over at Preston as we walked, curious if I had ever mentioned the pier to him. His lips were turned up at the corners, like he knew exactly what I was thinking, but he didn’t say a word.
We walked across the pier, soaking in the clean, salty scent of the ocean and the continuous sounds of the seagulls and waves. Preston stopped us just short of the end and passed me a pole. “Here you go.”
I stared at him, confused. “What?”
“I don’t pull over for hitchhikers. If you’re hanging with me, Small Town, you’re fishing.”
I took the pole. “Do you have any idea what you just said?”
He grinned. “Doesn’t matter. It worked.”
I fought the urge to argue and instead watched as he cast his lure across the edge of the pier. I followed his lead, recounting everything he’d taught me before. I let the water take out my line and then slowly began to wind it back in. For a moment, we fished in silence, Preston’s face trained on something I couldn’t see or hear.
“So . . . are you still seeing your therapist?”
The question caught me off guard, and I hesitated, wishing I could say that I no longer saw Rose, but I knew the lie would come out shallow. I drew a long breath and released. “I saw her yesterday. Once a week, though she’s making me up my sessions.”
“Why?”
I sighed. “I had to recite this poem I wrote a while ago in class today. I stupidly decided to read it to Rose during the session, and, well, you know the rest.” Strangely enough, it felt good to get the confession off my chest.
Preston laughed. “Must have been a hell of a poem.” And just like that, he’d made the conversation easy again. I loved that about him. How even the most uncomfortable moment became relaxed.
“I guess so.” I cast again, waiting to see if he would ask more, but he didn’t.
“You know, I’ve barely caught a fish since our last trip. I was starting to wonder if you were a good luck charm or something.”
“What, is Meg not into fishing?”
He turned to me. “Who? Oh . . . I have no idea. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
I grinned. “Meaning you stopped returning her calls and now Kara hates you?”
He cringed. “Something like that.” He flicked his wrist a few times as he wound in his lure, his concentration so focused on what he was doing that I wondered how he was managing a conversation.
“Why do you do that?”
“To make the lure look real.”
I sighed heavily. “Not that. Why do you ditch these girls after like a week?”
Preston stopped winding his reel and nodded to my shirt. “Why do you only wear long-sleeve shirts?”
Shit.
He smirked. “That’s what I thought. We all have reasons for why we do things, even if those reasons seem crazy to others.” He paused. “And I don’t ditch them after a week.”
“Okay, ten days.”
“Hey, now. Watch yourself.” My smile widened, and then he spoke again without looking at me, “It’s hard to trust someone when you’ve been burned before, ya know? I prefer to stay in control, ahead of it. Less damage that way.”
I cleared my throat. It was the second time Preston had revealed something to me. He deserved for me to give something back. I swallowed hard. “My best friend died in May.”
Preston stopped winding again and turned to me. “I’m sorry.” I expected him to ask more, how she died, why, but instead he took a small step toward me and focused back on the water, the step a way of showing he cared without saying a word. Few understood that surviving the death of someone you loved didn’t require words. It required support, often at arm’s length, a whisper to let you know they’re there instead of a hug. Preston understood. He understood a lot of things.
Suddenly, the wind whipped around us, throwing my hair across my face and sending a chill through me. I glanced up at the darkening sky, gray-black clouds fighting to dominate the white. It reminded me of how quickly sadness could take over one’s mood, one’s soul. “Should we go? It looks like—” And then before I could finish the sentence, the sad sky opened up and cried hard, cold tears down on us. Within seconds, we were soaked.