Discovering Delilah (Harborside Nights, Book 2) (26 page)

I don’t know how I was brave enough to sleep here last night, but I figure that’s a sign that I’m doing something
right. When Wyatt and I left here at the beginning of the summer, I practically ran out. I sensed my parents in every room, and every memory snowed me under. And now, in the light of day, I see more clearly why the house felt so different last night. There are cardboard boxes stacked against every wall. Our personal effects that were scattered about and made our house a home have been boxed and
labeled by Aunt Lara. I noticed the boxes last night, of course, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was too upset to put the pieces together.

I walk around the room with my fingers trailing over the boxes and read the labels.
Candles, knickknacks, vases, books, photos.

Photos
. My heart beats a little faster. I stare at the box and start to believe maybe ghosts do exist and they come in the
form of photos. I’m not sure I can handle looking into my parents’ eyes.

I look around the living room, noticing the faded rectangles on the walls where our family photos once hung. Spaces that would be painted over, the nail holes filled in. Spaces where our smiling faces used to make silent statements about the people who lived in this house. Photographs that reflected a happy family living
in a warm and loving home: Me and Wyatt with our faces pressed together when we were seven. My father holding me on his shoulders and Wyatt in his arms when we were three. My mother gazing up at my father on their honeymoon with Niagara Falls raging behind them.

I sink down to my knees and run my trembling fingers over the tape that’s sealed those statements in tight and pluck at the edge
until it comes loose. I press my hand flat against the sticky ridge, pausing as I debate my vulnerability again. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, knowing I
need
to see them. If I want to have a future I need to be able to face my past. I have a good past. A loving past. I have a childhood filled with good holiday memories and family vacations. I have a past littered with moments of laughter
and positive affirmations from my parents. It was a happy past, one probably many people would long for, but within that happy past sat a scared girl.

I must have been around thirteen or fourteen when I realized I was drawn to girls. And it wasn’t until I was about fifteen that I began to worry and take my desires seriously. If only I’d had the courage to talk to my parents, to look them in
the eyes and face their disappointment when there would still have been a tomorrow to deal with it.

My hands are shaky as I pull the tape up and open my eyes. When the tape reaches the end of the box, the flaps spring up, then nearly close again, sobering me to what I’m about to see.

I scoot away from the box on my knees. I’m not ready. Not yet, because there are pictures in that box of
me when I was a teenager, when I was scared and hiding who I was. I don’t want to see that girl. That’s the past I wish I could deny. I wish never happened.

I push to my feet and walk to the stairs, put one foot on the lowest riser and look over my shoulder at the box. I wish Wyatt were here. He’d take my hand and lead me upstairs, or outside, and he’d tell me everything was okay.

He’d
make the pain go away.

Until it returns.

It always returns.

I stare at the box, and anger simmers in my stomach. I don’t want Wyatt to help me or to fix this. It’s so easy to fall back, so easy to let him lead. I walk over to the box and sink to my knees again, thinking of Ashley. She doesn’t need a girlfriend who
needs
someone else to help her through a hard time. She needs an adult,
a partner. I want to be that person.

The flaps open easily, and relief washes through me when the first thing I see are crumpled-up pieces of newspaper. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding and realize my veil of courage isn’t as strong as I’d thought. I press my hand over my racing heart and take a number of deep breaths while deciding whether I’m
sure
I need to do this. I hear Wyatt’s
voice telling me I don’t have to. I see Ashley’s warm brown eyes, feel her hand on mine. I don’t need to hear her voice, her eyes tell me that she’s with me no matter what I decide.

I decide to follow my heart.

Ash has faith in me.

She loves me.

The newspaper comes out easily, and I set it on the floor.  Beneath the crumpled papers are the actual photos, individually packaged in
Bubble Wrap. Leave it to Aunt Lara to do a perfect packing job. I remove the first wrapped photo and know from the size and shape that it’s the one of me and my father. My stomach lurches, and I set it aside. My courage is still finding its feet after its mini vacation.

The next photo is longer, wider.

Me and Wyatt
.

I peel off a single piece of clear tape holding the Bubble Wrap in
place, and strip away the wrapping, revealing our young, smiling faces. Even as a boy Wyatt wore his hair long, and in the picture it hangs tousled over his eyes, brushing his shoulders. A single tear slides down my cheek. We didn’t know then what life had in store for us. I stare into my youthful eyes and try to remember my thoughts—any thoughts—from back then, but I come up blank. I don’t remember
when the picture was taken, although I remember it being ever-present on our wall. As I stare at our wide, carefree smiles, sadness washes through me. I’m sad for these two children who will lose their parents too early. I’m sad for the parents who hope to see them grow old and never will. As I gaze into my brother’s mischievous green eyes, guilt presses in on me. Wyatt’s never left me to deal
with stuff on my own. He always puts me before himself, and in this moment I realize that even if I don’t want him to be here for me now, I know he does, and I’ve taken the choice away from him. He loves me too much, but who am I to decide that? And who am I to hurt him for loving me?

I reach for my phone and send him a quick text.

Sorry I have been out of touch. I’m here and I’m okay.
I love you. Please understand that I need to do this by myself.

No sooner do I set the phone down than it vibrates with his response.

Okay, but I should give you hell for making me worry. Promise me that if you need me, you’ll call. If it’s too hard, I’ll come get you. Okay?

More tears fall down my cheeks.

Promise. ILY.

I don’t put the phone down this time, and I smile when
it vibrates seconds later with his response.
ILY2.

Setting my phone down, I know I can handle this. Courage has climbed back on board. I know it will be hard. Who am I kidding? It’s going to suck. But as I wrap the picture of us and set it aside, I feel confident.

I take out a few more of the wrapped photos, identifying each one by size and shape, until I come to the last, a very small
package. I look at the walls and can’t see any telltale signs of what this sized photo might be.

The tape comes right off, and I unwrap the frame a little quicker this time. It’s a photograph of our family and Cassidy in Harborside. I recognize the pier and the boardwalk in the background. Wyatt and Cassidy are sitting side by side on the beach, and I’m sitting on a blanket between my parents.
My father is looking at me, and my mom is looking at him. I wonder who took this picture, and I wonder what my father’s thinking. If he were here, he’d remember. He remembered everything he ever said as if it were etched in his mind. It strikes me that I can’t remember the sound of his voice, and I’m momentarily paralyzed.

I close my eyes and try to pull his voice from the depths of my memory,
but like an afternoon wind, it slips through my head.
Come on, Dad
. I close my eyes tighter and clench my teeth, remembering what he said to us every night at dinner when we were kids.
How are my little leaders?

“Come on, Dad!” I say through gritted teeth.

It’s no use. His voice doesn’t come.

I wipe my tears and set the photo aside. My mother’s laugh sails into my mind. It’s high-pitched,
and breathy at the end. I look around the empty room, and of course I’m alone. I fight the urge to bolt. I know my subconscious is trying to weaken me, and I’m determined
not
to run back to Harborside.

I head for the stairs and decide to box up my room instead. Maybe something up there will stir the memory of my father’s voice.

My room feels cold and stale. It doesn’t smell like my room
anymore. It doesn’t smell like anything but emptiness. I open the windows to air it out. Aunt Lara left boxes on the floor beside my bed, labeled, with a roll of tape beside them.
Books, pictures, school stuff, shoes, clothes, notebooks, sketch pads…

Sketch pads
.

I open my desk drawer and take out a pad and a pencil, then sit on my bed. Even though I’ve just seen a picture of my father,
his image doesn’t come easily. I wonder if one day I won’t be able to remember his face at all. That thought makes me try harder to recall his image. I used to be able to sketch my parents from memory. I did it a hundred times over the years.

My pencil begins to move along the rigid paper as if it has a memory of its own. Shading comes easily as I sketch his rounded cheekbones and angular
nose. I shade his wide, full mouth and strong, square jaw, which Wyatt inherited. His features aren’t present in my mind, but a while later, with a slight breeze whispering across my skin, the image of my father’s face comes into focus.

And the affection in his eyes stills my heart.

~Ashley~

“YOU SURE YOU want to do this? I mean, most people just block their exes’ numbers and move on.” Brandon’s reclining in the passenger seat of my car. His feet are propped up on the dash.

“I know they do, but I need to tell her face-to-face. She left me insecure and untrusting, and I hate her for that.”

“Whoa. Am I going to see a bitch fight?” Brandon
rights his seat and runs his hand through his hair.

“No, you weirdo.” I park the car at Sandy’s apartment complex. I know she still lives here because in one of her texts she said that when she broke up with her boyfriend, she kept the apartment. Not that I asked. “You coming up or staying here?”

“I’m coming up, because you may not want a bitch fight, but bitches be crazy, so…”

“God,
Brandon. That’s offensive.”

He cocks a brow and climbs from the car. “I’m protecting you.”

“Whatever. You’re probably hoping we end up tearing each other’s clothes off.” We walk across the parking lot and into the building.

“If you weren’t dating Delilah, I’d totally be into that, but I don’t want you to hurt her.”

Like most of Brandon’s friends, I’m usually exposed to his crass
side, but every now and then he comes out with something like that and surprises me.

“Thank you, Brandon.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Don’t get all sappy on me.”

When we reach her apartment, I draw in a deep breath. Brandon steps aside and waves his hand, as if he’s Vanna White showing me a prize. I roll my eyes, then knock on the door. It’s almost as loud as my heart hammering against
my chest.

A skinny brunette answers the door wearing a pair of tight shorts and a tank top. She eyes us cautiously. “Yes?”

I didn’t think this through very well. I wonder if she’s Sandy’s girlfriend and Sandy’s texts to me meant she was willing to cheat on her, too. My stomach gets queasy.

“Um…Is Sandy here?”

“Sure. Hold on.” She partially closes the door. “San? There’s people
here for you.”

Sandy opens the door, and it takes a second for my face to register. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a shirt that says
Nike
across her chest and a pair of jeans. Her blue eyes open wide and a genuine smile stretches across her lips.

“Ashley.” She opens her arms, and I take a step back, holding out my hand to keep her a good distance
away.

I’m surprised by my visceral reaction to seeing her. She’s the same pretty girl with the same perfect smile and amazing body, but I see past that to the devious girl who hurt me, and I realize that I don’t give a shit if that other girl is her girlfriend or not. If she is, I feel sorry for her.

Her brows knit together and her eyes shift rapidly between me and Brandon. She crosses
her arms over her chest and leans her hip against the doorframe.

Goodbye smile.

“So…?”

“I got your texts.”
Shit, shit, shit
. I don’t have a plan. Oh my God, this sucks. Brandon steps forward. He must feel my discomfort, which means she does, too.

Yup. Her lips curve up in a gratified smile.

Fuck. This
.

I draw my shoulders back and look her in the eye. “Don’t call me. Don’t
text me. We’re done.”

“Yeah, I got that picture when you didn’t return my hundred texts.”

“Right.”
Way to go, dipshit
. What was I thinking when I came here? I want to wipe that smirk off her face. I want her to know that she hurt me and I think she sucks, but I’m not a mean person by nature, so actually telling someone she sucks is not really something I’m very good at.

Damn it. Why
can’t I be a bitch?

“But if you get it, why do you keep texting?”

She smirked. “Maybe you’ll get one when you’re down and you’ll respond. You texted back a month ago.” She shrugs, and it pisses me off even more.

I draw in a deep breath and think of Delilah and how hurt she was that I’d kept the messages from her. It hits me like a brick in the face.
This is all on me
.
It’s my fault
Delilah is hurt
. I can’t blame Sandy for that. But I can blame her for what she did to me. I’m breathing hard now, angry with myself for stumbling over words, and when they finally come, they fly fast and hard.

“You hurt me, and it was unfair. You can’t treat people like they don’t matter, or lie to them so they’ll play along with your little games.”

Brandon steps closer to me, but I’m
past needing support. I’m in tell-her-off mode whether I’m good at it or not.