(Charliegh: unedited)

There was something about the cemetery that struck her as both beautiful and tragic. The energy seemed different there, as if stepping through the rusting iron gates had brought her to another dimension. It was a careful place, brimming with marble sculptures and decaying flowers, the curving tails of epitaphs darting like hummingbirds throughout the air.

The ground was cracked, and froze glistening silver in the winter. The paths were worn down, bricks jagged and broken. The tombstones were missing pieces, and words were worn off their solid fronts, from far too many mournful hands. Everything was deteriorating, set on a slow, deliberate course of destruction.  

But there was something about this place that captivated her. The dead never spoke, nor would they judge her. It was the only place where, at four in the morning, she felt justified to sneak into and sprawl across the yellow grass before Randall’s remains. It was a safe place – wind snatching tortured sentences from her lips, ground curving about her bruised spine as she sat and pulled her knees to her chin.

Now more than ever, she needed somewhere safe.

Here, she could look at the death before her and marvel at the life still within her veins. She didn’t have to sit entrenched in the apartment, surrounded by sympathy flowers and countless empty mugs of cinnamon tea. She could scream hysterically up at the sky, and because the cemetery was located far, far away from the center of town, she could remain screaming as long as she liked.

Charliegh. She dug her toes into the earth and imagined Randall whispering her name, right before he had said goodbye. The worst part about death – the silent part, one that came in the aftermath of grief – was the guilt. The knowledge that if she had tried to love him, maybe he would be alive.

But then again, would that really have saved him? If he had been fixated upon suicide, she had been nothing more than a distraction, a girl who wrote too many sonnets and not enough memories. She knew that Earnest would have come after him regardless.

Love was enough to surpass boundaries, but it wasn’t a bandage. Randall – and now, consequently, her – had been filled with gaping internal wounds. They were deep, festering wounds, and a pair of bright red hearts would not have healed them. Love, Charliegh reflected, was not a medication.

And when two broken people tried to fit the jagged pieces of their emptiness together, they wound up ruining themselves completely.

I’m sorry. She extended one hand and touched the epitaph gently. All the usual, reassuring phrases were written upon his tombstone – Beloved Son; Lover; Friend. But nothing personal, nothing thoughtful. She wasn’t sure what he would have wanted – even after months in his company, his shocking decision had thrown so much into question.

She tucked her chin into her folded arms, propped up against her knees. “Randall,” She mumbled against the holes in her jeans, “I keep making the same mistakes.”

She had fallen into intimacy with one of the quiet ones. And, a season after his passing, she had fallen into another. She had a penchant for understated things and understated people. But, as she was beginning to realize, it was more of an underestimation that an understatement.

Nolan had been one of those people that, upon one glance, his story seemed to stream from his fingertips like the colored smoke from the tip of his cigarette. He had red eyes and unlaced shoes and a walk that was a mixture between a saunter and a stumble.

People were complex. They were not paper figurines. And, as she had discovered, they had the ability to disguise terrifying secrets. His secret had been his bloodlust – his insatiable search for revenge, and reconciliation.  

“You know what?” She stared hard at the weeds, brushing against the crumbling stone. They reminded her of him – stubborn. Unwanted, but still pushing his aimless way into her life. She had spent weeks dodging his phone calls, accepting his pitiful smiles. And now, the thought made her sick to her stomach.

Her fault. Her mistakes.

“I spent the night in the hospital. I think I deserved it.”

After the police had arrived, they had hustled Price out of the lake first. His face was white and he was surrounded by a floating pool of crimson. After he had been carried to the cruiser, they called an ambulance. Before the sirens came, they had finally noticed her, arms wrapped around her body.

She should have walked right out of that water and all the way home. The police were preoccupied. The only witness would have been a boy with a hole through his brain. But she couldn’t move. Her feet were glued to the sand. She was ankle-deep in regret, and what was even heavier was the knowledge that everyone in her life that had meant something were gone.

The heavier policeman, with narrow, disgruntling eyes, had started swearing. He trundled through the dirty water and slung his jacket over her shoulders. He carried her to the shore, like some kind of tragic princess in a terrifying fairy tale. 

Fifteen minutes, two nurses, one doctor, and a multitude of tests later, she was propped up in a hard bed in a white room. “I’m glad you succeeded.” Charliegh rubbed her heels across the chilly ground. “I couldn’t stand it – the emptiness.”

It reminded her of home. Of the weeks after Randall died, and Nolan raped her. Devoid of reality. She had been suspended by her beating heart, darkness overtaking her daydreams.

When she tipped her head back, the sky had broken open. The wind was cold against her throat. The colds had strung themselves along a cotton-candy sky. It looked like bruises – patches of deep blue and purple. Fading yellow, rimmed by greenish light.

Her knees popped in protest as she stood. Her fingers edged around Randall’s condolences one more time. Her hair tangled in the collar of her jacket as she turned, the breeze lifting the brittle strands.

The tombstone was behind her. As far as she could see, a thin path stretched through the cemetery. It was her exit. Her cue; she would be leaving her past behind, yet again. Before too long, memories would infiltrate her life again.

But if she placed one foot in front of another, she could escape her secrets and her grievances. It was a momentary action, but a permanent train of thought. She would not be coming back.

There was no need to. An eye for an eye, Charliegh realized. A life for a life. A tragedy for a tragedy. Both swam through her mind as she made her way out of the land of the dead. And when she re-entered the land of the living, she resolved to put the thought of them – secrets included – to rest as well.

***

The apartment was unusually silent.

Charliegh stepped through the door into a room bathed with purple light. There was no screaming. No metal music, or other noises. Nothing – not even Asher’s clunky tread – pierced the still air. The coffee table was tissue-free, and the empty makeup containers had been thrown away. A pile of dirty laundry was sitting neatly in a basket by the sofa. The television was turned off, both remotes placed upon the top.

She eased her messenger bag off her shoulder and dropped it on the floor. The dog-eared edges of her medical release forms poked over the top. She crammed them back inside, zipping the top of her bag. It was a terrible day to rehash a terrible story, and she intended to keep the hospital visit as demure as possible.

“I don’t understand!”

Halfway to the kitchen she heard a choked sob. Someone was home – someone broken-hearted. Faith. But the aftermath of her breakup looked relatively subtle. Confused, Charliegh rounded the corner to find Janis sitting on the countertop.

The stack of silver bracelets on each arm jingled quietly, even as she was standing still. A ceramic mug was cradled in one hand, and a four-pack of tissues was sitting beside her thigh.

"Charliegh!” Janis, interrupting Faith’s fragmented wailing, slid off the counter. She wrapped her arms tightly around Charliegh, the sharp charms of her necklaces pressing painfully against her shoulder. “Where have you been? I came over to make Saturday pancakes, and we –” She stepped back and jerked her thumb at Faith, “– couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Panic made her throat close. Charliegh swallowed and forced a smile. “Walking,” she said, “I went to visit Randall.”

Janis’s face softened. She knew the bare bones of the story; how the relationship had ended before it began. That alone was enough to trigger her sympathy. “Well, at least you came back. I saved some tea for you.”

“Any pancakes?”

She shook her head. “Breakups, it seems, are the death of an appetite.” Her lips tightened as she glanced at Faith. She was slumped over the kitchen table, forehead propped up on her arms. She was in her night shorts, and her hair was in a knotted bun on top of her head.

“What happened?”

Faith rolled her head to the side, tear-filled eyes appearing. She looked absolutely miserable, and for the first time, Charliegh regretted her harsh words about her relationship. “He’s gone,” She hiccupped. “For good.”

Charliegh made her way across the kitchen and grabbed the pot from the stove. She carried it over to the sink, filling it with water, and then settled it back on the burner. Every time Faith broke up, it was ‘for good’. Tea was a necessary comfort.

“Don’t bother.” Faith said. “Janis has been filling me with herbs all morning.”

Bracelets clanking together harshly, Janis threw her hands in the air. “You won’t eat. What am I supposed to do, push you a glass of water and some Tylenol?” She sat on the lip of the countertop and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I know he meant a lot to you –”

“The whole world,” Faith interrupted brokenly, “can cease to exist without him.”

Charliegh grabbed a cup from the cabinet and poured the boiling water. Ripping open a box of jasmine tea bags, she pulled one out. “How is it a ‘for good’?”

“I came home and found him with that dumb blonde friend of yours. She works for the newspaper. So I can’t even say anything, you know?”

“Wait.” She slammed her cup down on the table and faced Faith, fingers braced against the wood. “What was she doing here?”  

Faith scrubbed her eyes with the edge of her shirt. She slumped further in her seat, as if the mere mention of cheating was weighing upon her shoulders. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Charliegh took a deep breath. She sat, trying to keep her hands from shaking. Did Florence know about Nolan’s death? More importantly, was she willing to exploit her part in it? “We’re not friends. I didn’t even think she knew where I lived.”

“Well, apparently, she does.” Faith mumbled. “And – not so apparently – she likes my boyfriend.” It took her a few seconds to realize what she had said. When she did, she plopped her head back onto her arms and sucked in a shuddering sob. “Ex-boyfriend.”

Charliegh took a long, burning gulp of her tea. The water probed the crevices of the scabs the cigarette had left, and she winced. It was painful, but fueled the anger in her chest, warming inside her esophagus. “I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither.”   

Janis cleared her throat. “But, you’ve broken up a few times. Right? So it won’t be long before you get back together.”

Faith shook her head vehemently. Her former breakups with Asher had been something minute or inconsequential. An argument, or a squabble over changing plans. But cheating – that was taboo. She had long harbored a theory that cheating meant things were over.

Almost like death – once broken, the relationship was irreparable.

“Force of habit,” Charliegh explained. “I guess this one is permanent?”

It seemed too good to be true. No more nighttime noises. She would not be driven out of her home – and just in time, because now, she had nowhere else to go. Hopefully, Faith would come around again. Dating Asher had changed her. It was a teenage phase that had developed into a full-fledged problem, and maybe maturity would come with separation.

Janis cast a sympathetic smile in Faith’s direction. “Time will tell.” Her gaze slid to Charliegh. “What about you?”

The tea was suddenly too hot on her throat, burning the roof of her mouth and cheeks as she tried to mask her nervous reaction. “I’m sorry?”

“You won’t be, if you make up with Sylas.” Janis said cheerfully. “I miss seeing you. When I sent you to see him, I thought things were fixed.” The corners of her mouth tugged down. She pursed her lips. “He came home at midnight. His shoes smelled like vomit and he was in a terrible mood. The worst.”

Memories of that night – the pain, the public humiliation – blurred before her eyes. Charliegh gripped the edge of the table, trying to remain steady in her chair. It was a few moments before she stabilized, before her throat opened and she could speak without bursting into tears.

“Didn’t work,” she whispered.

“If it was just a disagreement –”

“It wasn’t.” Charliegh cut into her hopeful words, trying to mask the emotions from her face. She stared into the crevices of the table, imaging how the floor had felt beneath her. It had been horrific before, but now she couldn’t picture Nolan without seeing him right before he died.

The desperation lining his features. The defeat. The realization that his mother, and his revenge, and his future, were never coming back to him. His mocking smile as he had seen her watching. He shoved the barrel of the pistol into his mouth. And, eyes still fixed upon her, he had fired.

Everything after that was an explosion of blood and brain matter and screaming. She had hunkered down and wrapped her arms around her head, filling her mouth with the taste of salt and lake water, so much so that when she straightened she could hardly tell the difference.

She wanted to pretend that she was drowning, like Price, and she had flailed her arms and legs and filled the underwater with a reverberating echo of her agony.

Nolan had stolen the joy from her life. But she still wasn’t sure what he had deserved the fate he doled out to himself. Death was the one thing that he felt he could still control. Afterwards, staring up at her hospital ceiling, she wondered why everyone thought passing away meant leaving it all behind.

Because no matter how hard Nolan had tried, he would never leave her behind. She would carry the memory of yesterday with her forever, an eternal scar. Death was not a conclusion; it was an explosion, leaving jagged edges and broken people and loose ends behind.

When a cold hand slid over her shoulder, a scream ripped from her throat and dive-bombed into the space of confusion. It was Janis. She hunkered down to a kneeling position and cupped Charliegh’s chin. “What happened?”  

“Nothing.” She couldn’t see the kitchen, or the lines of Janis’s nervous frown. Everything was empty. And suddenly, sickeningly, it was full again. She was suffocated by the smell of jasmine and concern, of vapid grief and wet pancake batter. “I’m fine.”

“Charliegh.” Janis began. “If something is wrong…”

“I’m fine.” It couldn’t be fixed. It couldn’t be helped, and it most certainly could not be shared. Charliegh pushed her seat back and unfolded herself. “Thank you for the tea.”

“I didn’t make you tea. Where are you going?”

“A walk. I’m going walking.”

“But Sylas –”

“I’m not talking to Sylas!” Charliegh shouted. “Stop talking to me about Sylas! He’s gone, and I’m glad he’s gone.” She zipped up her sweatshirt. Faith and Janis were staring at her like she was insane, and maybe she was, but she didn’t care. She had two dead boys inside of her head.

The apartment was a purple blur as she rushed toward the door, stopping only to grab her messenger bag. She tugged the strap over her head and patted the inside. The medical forms crunched together in response.

It hurt to breath as she pulled open the door. The air tasted like salt, and she realized she was crying. But a beat later, as she stepped outside and collided with a warm figure, she discovered that it tasted like cinnamon.

Two huge hands enveloped her forearms. For a moment, it felt like Nolan. Her skin crawled. “Don’t touch me!” She said. “You’re supposed to be dead! Leave me alone!”

Panicked, she punched him in the chest. The adrenaline flowing through her blood made her feel weak and dizzy. Her head rolled on her shoulders, eyes connecting with the faded outline of a familiar face.

“C.” The hands cupped her face. His thumbs were rubbing the tears from her skin, and his voice was stricken. “What happened to you?”

When Janis had asked, it had felt like poison being poured onto her fresh, red scars. It had scraped her humility and burned her self-respect. But this was Sylas. And for the briefest second, she trusted him again. He wasn’t another boy who had left her. He was her best friend, and his arms felt like reassurance as they braced against her back.

“You came back.” She laid her head on his chest. His heart was galloping but his voice was gentle. He ducked his head, the even sound of his breathing obstructing her panic.

“I came to apologize.” He ran his hand over her hair. “Charliegh…”

I came to apologize. His words hit her, full force, and her hurt welled up. It was like having a paper cut, a constant, niggling sting. When the blood came, it made little crimson droplets, staining everything in vicinity. As he touched her, carefully, as if she were something worth value, she felt stained.

She was violated. And that was why he had left her.

She pulled out of his tentative embrace. One look into his pitying green eyes, and she wanted to punch him in the chest again. “Get away from me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I missed you.”

“Well, that’s sweet.” Charliegh glared at him. “When were you planning on telling me? Before or after I ruined my life?”

“C. I wasn’t implying that you were ruining your life. Besides,” he said quietly, “your life isn’t ruined.”

She felt like the air had been vacuumed from her lungs. She sank down on the steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. It was impossible to meet his gaze. His sympathy was a dead weight, one that dragged him down to sit beside her.

“You know about Nolan?” She whispered.  

“I was there.”

“What?” She jerked in surprised. The knowledge was a sharp stab to her side, piercing through her defenses. If he had known, why hadn’t he saved her? Why hadn’t he intervened? She went cold at the thought that he had been lingering in the edges of the forest, watching as Nolan ripped her apart.

“I mean, I came after the gunshot.” Sylas hunched his shoulders. He was nervous. And he smelled too strongly of cinnamon, as if he had been trying to reconcile by reminding her of all the inconsequential things she liked about him. “I didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

She stared at the toes of her shoes. “I still don’t.”

“You know,” he said, “I could sit here and apologize all day. But I had a better idea. Before you punched me.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

He touched her knee gently. As she unwound herself, trying to swallow her misery, he held out his hand. Her head swam as they stood, realizing that he was trying to repair the damage. Unlike before, she wasn’t crawling back to ask for forgiveness. He had taken the initiative. He was trying to fix things.

And as they stood on the steps of her apartment, fingers intertwined, a sliver of hope emerged. It burned more brightly than her scars or her memories, a feeling of comfort that she couldn’t manage to shake.

“The beach. Where things started.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. The beach it is, I guess.”

Sylas grinned. His grip on her hand tightened. He looked inordinately happy as he pulled her to his truck, and Charliegh began to think that going back to the beginning was a brilliant idea.

Because the start was also the finish, and maybe moving in a roundabout way would help them find reconciliation.

***

Dedicated to the above author because her book, "The Misfortunes of Lolita", is beautiful & introspective & reminds me of Eleanor and Park. Definitely a cute romance read.