Anywhere But Here
Authors: Stephanie Hoffman McManus
Anywhere But Here
Stephanie Hoffman McManus
Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Hoffman McManus
Cover image used under license from bigstock.com
All rights reserved by the author, including the right to reproduce,
distribute, or transmit in any form, by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
For all the broken hearts out there.
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise”
– Victor Hugo
Shae
April 29
Present . . .
Conway, South Carolina. It’s a small town on the coast, part of the Myrtle Beach metro area, also known to some people–and by people I mean me–as Hell. Population, twenty thousand. Birthplace of my father and where I spent my formative years. Home of the Conway High Tigers. Once upon a Friday night you could find me at the stadium cheering, “Go Tigers!” For ten years I called Conway home, and then seven years ago I left, swearing I would never go back. I put Conway in my rearview and didn’t stop until there were several hundred miles between me and all the memories I wanted to leave behind Suffice to say, it was the last place on earth I wanted to be, which was unfortunate since I’d pulled into town this morning.
When I made my escape after high school, I didn’t look back or think about the people I was leaving behind. Until now, with my heart full of lead and that bitter taste of regret on my tongue, because she was gone. My life in Conway began and ended in heartbreak, so it was only fitting that I was returning under the same circumstances.
In her phone calls, she hadn’t even mentioned being sick. They just stopped coming and I assumed she was busy with the store. Then I got the call I never wanted.
She was the sweetest woman in the world, and the only one I’d been able to count on for what seemed like forever. At least since I was eight and my whole world crumbled.
Memories of that other life sometimes teased me. The one before, where I had a mother and a father who loved me. That life was full of smiles and laughter and love, but it was so long ago. Sometimes I had a hard time believing those memories were real. When my dad died, the smiles and laughter were replaced by silence and tears. I’d like to believe that somewhere inside her my mother still loved me, but after we lost Daddy, she had a hard time showing it. She became distant, shutting herself off from the world, and me.
It was Didi who convinced Mom to move us from Charlotte to Conway to be closer to her and Papa. They were Daddy’s parents and they were all we had. Mom had a sister somewhere in California and she had a big family. They’d come to Dad’s funeral, but they were more strangers than family. After the funeral they went back to the west coast and I was left to navigate my new life, lost, broken and unable to understand why my once affectionate mother was now cold as ice.
Didi and Papa were my only warmth in those days. Then Papa passed when I was twelve and it was just me and Didi. I spent nearly every day after school in her little trinket shop downtown to avoid going home. Back then I thought it was a wonderland full of treasure. In high school I’d progressed from just doing my homework and reading at the table in the back, to actually helping out behind the counter and making a few bucks. The place had changed a lot in the last seven years.
Standing in the middle of that same shop, looking around at the clutter, contemplating what the hell I was going to do with it all, the wonder and excitement was long gone, along with any childhood notions I’d had about life being a magical adventure.
Didi’s Trinkets was a little bit of everything shop: antiques, souvenirs, books, collectables. It was quaint, cute and a little on the quirky side. Or at least that’s how I remembered it. The shop I was exploring now was a mess. The shelves were overcrowded and disorganized. A heavy layer of dust coated everything, more than ten days’ worth–the time she’d been gone.
In our more recent talks, she’d mentioned that business had slowed a little, but by the state of her books, which I took a glance at, business had slowed a great deal. It appeared as if she’d let the shop go, which seemed out of character for her. She loved this place, and after Papa passed, she threw herself into the business, making Didi’s Trinkets a must stop and almost iconic spot in the community. Guilt nipped at me. I’d left her behind along with everything else in this place. Clearly she’d been struggling and hadn’t felt she could ask for my help. I hated this town, but Didi was my rock and I should have been here for her.
This place was my safe haven back then, but now it was just a dusty old shop, lacking everything that had once made it warm and bright. Without Didi it felt empty, despite the cluttered shelves and surfaces throughout. And it was all mine now. My first order of business when I arrived in town this morning was to pay a visit to her lawyer as requested. It seemed Didi left the shop, her house and everything she owned to me, which meant I had the task of deciding what to do with it all.
It was too much for a day, or even a week. Hell, it was probably too much for a month. The last thing I wanted to do was stick around here where memories were waiting behind every corner to sneak up on me, but I had little choice. If nothing else, I owed it to Didi to make sure her stuff was taken care of.
Two weeks. I could give this place two weeks, hopefully avoiding any and all familiar faces, and then get back to my real life in New York. After that, I could close the door on Conway for good.
A couple local real estate agents had thought to slip their business cards under the door sometime prior to my arrival. I chose one at random, hoping to get the ball rolling on both properties. Judy Parker was happy to get my call and we set an appointment to meet at the shop tomorrow afternoon.
When I hung up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the phone call had somehow been a betrayal. Didi loved this place, but I didn’t know the first thing about running a business and I wasn’t about to stick around to figure it out. If she were here, she would understand why I couldn’t stay. She’d always understood. Still, the pictures of the two of us that hung behind the counter did nothing to assuage the guilt and regret weighing on me.
I knew what I needed. The idea had come to me the moment I’d noticed the business across the street. It hadn’t been there seven years ago, but the big, bold letters on the building sign called to me now, beckoning me with the offer of momentary relief from these aching, wrenching feelings inside my chest and stomach.
Not bothering to lock up, I crossed the street and pushed inside Bulletproof Ink. The low hum of needles buzzing greeted me and then a girl with blue, pixie cut hair sat up in her seat behind the counter, chomping bubblegum and fixing a perky smile on her face. “What can we do for you today?”
“I’d like to make an appointment for a small tattoo.”
Her eyes briefly took in the visible ink on my arms. “Have you had work done here before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well take a look through those,” she pointed at a couple portfolios laid out at the end of the counter, “and choose an artist. Then we’ll see about setting up an appointment.” She snapped a fruity pink bubble. It smelled like watermelon.
I moved down to the end of the counter, taking a cursory glance around the shop. There were two artists, one male and the other female, hunched over human canvases. The floor was white and black checkerboard, shiny enough to eat food off of–a good sign. The walls were split colored, the base along the floor black, and the remaining two thirds up to the ceiling a dark grey, except for the back wall. It was painted solid black with the mural of a naked angel spread across it. My eyes were drawn to the beautiful, albeit somewhat graphic, painting. Her face was turned down and to the side, partially hidden by her long hair. Gorgeous feathery wings curled protectively around her shoulders, the tips of one wrapped around to just barely shield the spot between her legs. Her chest was left entirely exposed through the locks of hair that fell over her shoulders.
“Who painted that?” I asked the blue-haired girl.
She looked up and followed my gaze. “The owner, Crash.” She pointed at the album that was his.
I reached for it and started flipping through the pictures. He was incredibly talented. I didn’t even need to look through the other two albums. “I’ve made my decision,” I announced
“You want to go with Crash?”
I nodded and watched her scan the appointment book in front of her before she lifted her eyes. “Depending on how soon you want it done, he had an appointment for tonight cancel. Otherwise his soonest available is next Sunday.”
“I’ll take the appointment tonight,” I told her eagerly.
She happily scribbled my name down. “Usually we ask for a deposit to hold your appointment, but since it’s same day, I won’t. I’ll just check your ID and have you fill out the paperwork now. We close at eight, your appointment is for six. You’ll go over artwork with Crash then. If he’s not able to finish the work tonight, he’ll schedule you another session.” She handed me the paperwork.
“Mine shouldn’t take long.” I was just having something added to a piece on my back. I retrieved my wallet and handed her my license while I started reading through the paperwork. Yes I was over eighteen. No I wasn’t pregnant and yada, yada, yada. I knew the drill. I signed it and handed it back to her.
“Great, we’ll see you back here at six.”
It was just after one now. I had a few hours to kill and my stomach informed me it was lunch time. I’d avoided running into anyone I knew thus far, I decided I could risk a stop at the café down the street. With twenty thousand people, what were the odds I would run into him? The one who sent me running seven years ago and the one person who could bring my world down again.
