Authors: Jenn Cooksey
Landslide (19 page)
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;’
Skimming and scrolling, skimming and scrolling…
‘For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;’
Uncomfortably shifting a little in my seat, my conscience pricks me for the parallels being drawn in Poe’s words that are being whispered to me by my ever-waking subconscious mind. I drain the Sam Adams and start on the third and last beer at my disposal, letting my eyes travel down the page as I tip my head back and let the bitterness of hops and barley mask the sting of guilt in my throat.
Blah blah blah… Erica… Oh. Her grandpa’s funeral. No thanks. Been there, done that. Skipping ahead… Finally, my nam—Wait. What the fu—Read that again, please.
‘And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.’
Pushing myself back in my seat as far as I can get, I feel my face twist into a grimace of anguish and sheer horror as I stare at the computer like it’s a viper; one move and I’m as dead as the man who wrote the virulent, poisonous words on the screen. I read it three times before everything in me comes to a lurching, all-encompassing, utterly nauseated and hate-filled halt, my stomach and lungs choking on pure, corrosive bile that makes even a measly whisper of breath a Herculean task. Then, I let the rage free and explode with such epic hostility and scathing violence that even the demons down under the sea would fear me.
15
—Erica—
“Okay, I know you’ll probably argue with me about this, but the radiator came in and I wanted to contribute so I paid fo—” The screen door bounces and bangs shut behind me, cutting my words off with shocking finality. “Cole? What the hell happened in here? Where are you?”
There’s no answer or sound, but there
is
a god-awful mess; one that a crime show would describe as being evidence of a struggle.
“Cole?” I call out for him again, not understanding why among other signs of a fight taking place, there’s broken glass on the floor and what looks like a hole the size of someone’s fist in the wall. I’m not sure why I expect him to answer, though. After all, the camper is only so big and if anyone were even half-way decent at long-jumping, they’d be able to cover the distance from one end to the other without a running start.
Then there’s the blood…
It’s only a few drops on the counter and floor, although it’s entirely enough to seriously freak me out and send me rocketing back out of the camper in search of Cole and/or answers. Preferably Cole. Definitely. Answers can suck it right now. I need to find him and see with my own frightened eyes that he’s okay, and my arms are trembling with their urgent requirement of hugging him to me immediately. Like, yesterday.
First in my line of sight is Alex, walking away from Amanda’s Jeep with as much liquor as his six-foot frame can carry. Legs quaking and unsteady, heart palpitating, and jaw quivering—all joining my upper body’s appendages in their panicked imperative to ensure Cole’s wellbeing—I fly at him. I’m almost clotheslined by Dean’s arm in his sideways grabbing of me to prevent me from chasing Alex over the pebbled terrain, through the tree-line, and down to the cove. The cove where I can now hear indistinct shouting. All the words might not be terribly discernible; however, the acute suffering and hurt they’re said with is abundantly clear. Now that I’m listening though, I’m also able to catch fragments and phrases; things like:
“I can’t fucking do it anymore!”
“He did this…he did this and left it for me to deal with?!”
“We were friends! I loved him!”
“I
trusted
him! I trusted him with
everything
, and he left me with this burden, this…this
betrayal
?!”
“He fucked me in every way possible and I hate him for it! You hear me,
you fucking son of a bitch
?! I won’t clean up after you! And I can’t keep living like this—I won’t!”
And every one of those severely injured, embittered ravings are being carried to me by the cool evening breeze through the branches and leaves of the trees from Cole’s mouth.
I don’t process the words I’m hearing, just the idea…the idea that something is hurting one of the very last people I have in this world, and it’s becoming terrifying to me now. I’m twisting and turning in my fight to get free, but I’m no match for Dean. I’m like Cody and Dean is Brian; with only one hand he’s able to detain me from running headlong into the flaming pit that Cole
must
be standing in while he’s being tortured and burning alive.
“What’s going on?! Is that Cole?! Is he fighting with someone? Let me go! Please! I have to get down there, Dean! He needs me!”
“No. No, he doesn’t. You seeing him like this is the very
last
thing he needs right now. In fact, if you go down there, you’ll only be in the way and you’ll probably make it worse.”
Dean’s words have an effect on me similar to having a bucket of water imported directly from the Antarctic thrown in my face. My frenzy lessens and his hold on me eases. “But,
what
is going on? Will you tell me? I’m worried, Dean. And I’m…really freaking confused.”
“He’s just workin’ through some things. Brian and Wyatt have been down there with him, and Alex is bringing all of ‘em some, uh, comfort food. Let the big boys handle it, little sis, they know what they’re doin’ and they got it under control.”
“Come on,” Amanda places a maternal arm around my shoulder and begins steering me towards her RV, “You can come have dinner with me and Cody and watch
Frozen
with us afterwards.”
Blindly following along is difficult for my feet, but they’re able to go in the opposite direction of where my head keeps turning, as if I were to look hard enough, I’d be able to see behind me into the dusky shadows of the trees and bushes, down the rocky incline, and to the soft sand of the shore where I can picture Cole pacing back and forth, hollering to the sky and everyone and anyone who might be there to shoulder his suffering. Except me. Because I’m not qualified. Somehow, someway, I’d make his misery worse.
Dinner with the girls and Cody followed by Disney’s
Frozen
doesn’t keep my mind from constantly trying to be with Cole. And Cody’s encore of the movie and singing at the top of his lungs every word he’d managed to memorize only seeing it once doesn’t help me to not feel like I’m the thing that’s been bothering Cole so much. Not that I believe he doesn’t care about me, because he’s done nothing except show me how much he does every single day and night; however, that’s just it. I’m starting to think I’m hindering him from being able to live his life. He’s doing nothing but taking care of me…helping me heal, as if Holden burdened him with the responsibility when he died; and Cole is trying his best to do it, but he’s doing it at his own expense. My constant presence is cramping his style; it’s holding him back. Essentially, I’m being selfish. Unintentional as it’s been and unrecognized until now, allowing him to put me ahead of what’s best for him is pretty much exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been taking everything and not giving of myself to my best friend, and the realization is almost sickening.
Hours later when the first unnerving pop of gunfire reverberates through the air, I jump. Amanda solemnly explains what it is about, who it is for, and that another one will be heard shortly. The second follows on the heels of her appreciated warning; however, she’s the one who anxiously looks to the door of the RV when a third shot echoes it. It’s now my turn to relieve her fear…
With my head bowed and my dewy eyes still closed from my realization and subsequent decision, I whisper, “That one was for
our
fallen loved one.”
16
—Cole—
Being somewhat drunk has its advantages and disadvantages.
One of the former is being a justifiable excuse to blatantly ignore the unmistakable sound of the screen opening and the subtle vibration of the floorboards as Erica enters the camper and makes her way to her bed in the back. One of the latter is that in my inebriated state, Wyatt decided I should be tucked into her bed so that I wouldn’t fall out of my own and crack my head open.
I only half-heartedly argued with his suggestion. I’m not nearly as wasted or disoriented as he seemed to think, although the potential for rolling around during what is sure to be anything but a restful night’s sleep is high up on the probability scale, and even though I’m not shit-faced in the least, I can admit that my reflexes and reaction time aren’t gonna be topnotch. So taking that into consideration, I appeased him and erred on the side of caution by curling up in Erica’s bed instead of mine.
I can feel her presence beside me, or rather, her proximity to her bed as she must be staring down at me while I pretend to be asleep or passed out. I don’t move a muscle except to keep my breathing at the relaxed pace it’s been at. Then I hear her sniffle. The sound an arrow flying straight through my ears and into my lungs where it pierces me with guilt. I know she was worried earlier; Dean told me when he joined our pity party down on the shore with his gun and a clip of nine-millimeter bullets. By that time, though, I was about a third-way through a bottle of whiskey and not in the best condition to see Erica, let alone talk to her, as my then intoxicated and unfiltered mouth would’ve no doubt enlightened her to certain subjects that she’s better off being kept in the dark on.
That was hours ago though; now, I’m not entirely sure why I’m ignoring her. All I know is that I am. I hear her shuffle away, presumably to sleep elsewhere, and another pang fights its way in and infiltrates my maybe not so sober awareness. When the mattress bends and she unexpectedly slips into bed next to me, I shift under the sheet and mumble indistinctly, not having anything to say, really, but at the same time, wanting to acknowledge her if only just.
She lays still for a moment and I come to the conclusion that I’m giving her the cold shoulder because I don’t want to talk. Or more apt, I don’t want to be questioned. I don’t want to tell her anything about what sent me into a tailspin, and I know if she were to realize I’m awake, she’s bound to ask. And out of vindictiveness, I’d be sorely tempted to answer. But I won’t do it. If it kills me, I still won’t. I refuse to do that to her so in this life or the next, my mouth is staying shut in regard to what instigated Brian and Wyatt to come rushing into the camper and me to demand being given one of their sidearms.
Heat from her body next to mine tries stealing away the chill from me. The ice water running through my veins however surges onward; still furiously pumping biting cold blood, just as it has been once I finally acknowledged and then understood what I was being told from beyond the grave. A repulsed shiver has me moving infinitesimally closer, and as if she can sense the flurries of my wintry emotions, Erica rolls to face me. We’re not even touching, but, she emanates hearth and home and that warmth fills the barren wasteland between us, reaching further and seeping into the impregnable fortress of my frozen heart.
“Are you awake?”
“Mm-mm,” I murmur the lie, and crack my eyes open to look into hers, a hairsbreadth from mine. They flutter closed again briefly when her hand reaches up to gently smooth a piece of hair from my eyes before tucking it behind my ear. Her fingers then lightly trace the curve of my jaw and the knick I got from a piece of broken glass ricocheting off the wall after I launched the empty Sam Adams bottle at one of the cupboards.
“Liar. You answered right away and I saw you open your eyes. Can you pretend to be awake for a minute, though? I wanna tell you something.”
This time when I open my eyes, I find hers glistening in the moonlight as they bore into me, and she has my undivided attention.
“I um, made a uh…I made a decision tonight.” Her words come out in a whispered rush, both unsure and certain all at once. I don’t care at all for how melancholy they sound.
“Yeah? I got drunk.” Her lingering fingertips on my jawline prompt me to add, “I pulled an Erica too.”
“
Humph
. Shut up.” She valiantly tries to find a smile for me, although rather than dispelling the pensiveness rolling off her in waves like I meant to, I think all I did by poking fun at her that way was remind her of a night we’ve both fought hard to forget for our own reasons.
It never even occurred to me that I also totally set myself up to have her question
why
I got drunk and went all silverback with a bottle, which she surprisingly doesn’t ask about, but… A sound I’m regrettably familiar with has me reaching to place a thumb on her cheek.
“Are you crying?” I don’t know why I ask. The wetness I slowly brush from her face is answer enough.
“Mmhm. A little.”
Everyone will experience a degree of sadness in their life at some point; it’s a fact that no one can avoid forever. Regardless of that truth, I can’t abide seeing it in her, especially knowing that being plagued by this kind of recurring sorrow goes against everything that she is…everything she deserves.
And if I could, I would move mountains to lift her back up to where she belongs…
Another tear bleeds its way underneath my thumb. “Don’t cry, sugar.”
There’s no thought involved; it’s instinct to move my head the bare inch it needs to so that I can brush my lips across hers, putting them to work once more at picking up scattered debris and pebbles…because that’s all the weight I know they can heft. It’s the easy way out again, but the more mountainous boulders are buried six feet under lilies and hard-packed earth. They’re just too much for me to shoulder out of the way.
