Never (The Ever Series Book 2) (17 page)

But traffic is light today, and within less than a half hour, we exit the I-5 onto Crown Valley Parkway. This is only the second time that I’ve taken this particular exit, but I recognize the surrounding area well. My mom graduated from Cal State Fullerton and got her Master’s in social work from UC Irvine while I was a little kid, so we took trips from L.A. County to Orange County a lot when I was young. This is also where I drove to meet my dad for our last awkward goodbye.

Jessica, who has managed to spend the entire drive on her cell phone, seems like one of those people who can’t tolerate a second of silence. I’m grateful, though, since her distraction has allowed me to watch the scenery without having to come up with small talk, which is something I’ve always sucked at anyway. Suddenly it occurs to me that we’re only a couple of miles from the coast—not more than a few miles or so from the beach where I almost drowned as a kid. I shiver at the memory of the burning sensation in my chest as I inhaled the icy water.

After driving along the perimeter of a sprawling golf course, Jessica turns off of Crown Valley onto a residential street and takes another immediate right, before turning again, this time onto a cul-de-sac. We pull up in front a large, very Southern California-style house complete with a white, stucco exterior and a red-tile roof. My mouth drops open, and I stop and gawk at the sight of my beaten up old Mustang sitting at the curb, like a ghost from my past.

“Oh my God!” I gasp.

Jessica, who’s still on the phone, gives me an exasperated look as I throw open the door. Ignoring her, I jump out and marvel at the sight of my old car. It’s shinier than I remember, but it still has the white spot on the bumper where I hit a curb when I was first learning to drive. The car is
not
a classic by any means. My dad used to say that if he bought the same model a decade or two earlier, it would have been. Instead, it’s just terribly dated. I couldn’t care less, though. As long as I can get the thing into gear, that’s all that matters.

“Tom said you would be happy, but I didn’t know you’d be
this
happy,” Jessica says dismissively. “That car is like a million years old.”

I look over at her, surprised to see that she’s off the phone. She leans into the backseat of the SUV to extract Benjamin, who starts wailing.

“Wrennie, hon?”

Hon
? Please.

“I’ve got to feed him. Can you bring in the bags?”

She’s already headed toward the house, and I smirk when I realize she meant
her
bags. I go around to the back of the SUV, which isn’t very sporty or utilitarian, and start unloading my stuff—and the shopping bags. I can’t help noticing that all the labels are
very
expensive. Taking as much as I can in one trip, I teeter up the stone steps to the front door and stumble into the foyer. I stop and look around.

To the right, there’s a living room with an arrangement of furniture that looks like it came straight out of one of those chic catalogs—everything meant to look weathered and ancient. Leaving the first load along the wall, I go back outside and grab the rest of the bags before returning inside and following the sound of Jessica’s throaty laughter. Passing through a formal dining room, I finally reach a large kitchen dominated by black appliances and artfully distressed cabinets. Baby Benjamin is in a high chair being spoon-fed by a short, round woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe bun. She looks up at me with serious brown eyes. When I smile, she nods in return.

Through a pair of French doors, I see a large swimming pool framed by palm trees. As Jessica ends her latest phone call and gestures down the hallway, I follow along and peer into a room containing exercise equipment. After a few more closed doors, Jessica stops, and I look past her. The room is obviously meant to be a guest bedroom, with a twin bed in the corner, but there’s no bedding and next to no room for a guest with all of the shopping bags strewn around.

“Sorry, Wrennie! I haven’t had a second to clear everything out, but this is your room.”

I turn and smile, trying not to let my unease show through.

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

Let’s hope not for long
.

My smile falters, and I flinch as I accidentally pick up her last thought. As I walk back into the hallway to grab my stuff, I make a mental note to avoid reading anyone else’s thoughts from now until eternity. It’s just not worth it.

Returning to “my” new room, I look around at the bubble-gum pink and white striped walls. If I had expected my life in Southern California to resemble the last ten minutes of some TV show, complete with catchy emo-music, I would be sorely disappointed right now. Stacking my bags in the corner, I grab my jacket. I may be back in Southern California, but we’re on the coast, which means a marine layer. I walk through the kitchen without a word to Jessica, who’s on the phone again, and go out the front door.

Without car keys to my old Mustang, I walk back to Crown Valley. One thing I remember from this part of Southern California is the perfect lawns—in the middle of a desert. It actually reminds me of Jessica: pretty, superficial, and unnaturally well-coiffed. Then again, maybe my perspective is souring my view of what is probably a very enviable place to live. If things hadn’t gone so wrong in Portland, I would have wanted to stay there. It felt more like home—at least until my mom admitted to wishing I had stayed with my dad. Well, she hadn’t actually
admitted
it. It’s more like I forced it out of her right after I read her thoughts—and found out about her new boyfriend and the fact that she didn’t want me there, all in one shot. My eyes tear up. The memory is crystal clear in my head. I never, ever want to hear another thought out of someone’s head again.

Knowing what other people are thinking only leads to pain.

It’s cloudy and surprisingly muggy. I strip off my jacket and wrap it around my waist. Not wanting to return to the house anytime soon, I walk along the golf course for several minutes. When I reach another main thoroughfare, I turn left and walk another ten minutes before I see a coffee shop and several fast food restaurants in the strip mall up ahead. A snack sounds good, mostly because I want to make sure I’m not psycho and grumpy before returning to my dad’s house to deal with his harpy of a wife. Or is she a siren? I frown. Whatever. Who cares where she falls in my freshman year English teacher’s catalog of Greek mythology’s villainesses?

Jessica can think anything she wants of me. It was my mom’s opinion that I cared about. Looking up as the clouds begin to burn off, I walk through the parking lot toward the coffee shop. At the sight of a group of kids my age leaving, I slow down. The thought of any social interaction, no matter how small, makes me feel physically ill. I wait until they disperse before continuing toward the door. When I’m almost there, I reach into my back pocket and realize that I left my wallet in my backpack.

“Great going, Wren,” I mutter to myself as I sink down on the curb.

A yogurt or a granola bar had sounded really good. I’ll live, but I’m not happy that I have to go back to the house and prowl around a virtual stranger’s refrigerator. Besides, I hate to think of what Jessica lives on. Diet soda and celery, maybe?

“Down on your luck?”

Scowling, I look around for the owner of the ironic voice, and my mouth drops open. It’s … the guy from the airport. I’m sure of it. The unicorn. Then his question catches up with me, and I glare.

“Excuse me?”

Despite his appearance—the purposely unkempt copper hair, piercing blue eyes, beautiful features, and shiny, perfect teeth—something about his demeanor makes me edgy, almost angry.

“I was offering to buy you a beverage,” he says.

I get up and look him up and down. He really is good looking. Dangerously so. He is, without a doubt,
trouble
. I can practically smell it on him. Then I find myself leaning toward him automatically. He actually smells really good. It’s not cologne, but something else. I look up at his face, and he looks
amused
.

Snap out of it, Wren
! I tell myself sternly.

“No, thanks.”

“Are you certain? You will owe me nothing more than the pleasure of your company,” he says dramatically, like he’s auditioning for Shakespeare.

I feel a spike of fear as I remember this is the second time I’ve seen him today.

“Are you following me?” I demand, surprising myself.

My cheeks flush. Wow. That sounded crazy, even to me. But the stranger just smiles again, which makes me feel even more stupid.

“From the airport?” he asks innocently.

“Yeah, from the airport.”

“You were on my connection in Portland. I was visiting old friends in that dreary corner of the world.”

I frown at him, taking offense at his calling Portland
that dreary corner of the world
. But I bite my tongue before I can launch into an ill-tempered tirade. What do I care what he thinks of Portland, anyway? I don’t know this guy.

“And you?” he prompts.

I shrug.

“I just moved here.”

“You don’t sound very happy about that fact,” he smiles as he gestures toward the door. “I’m going to go inside and buy myself a coffee, and I’ll buy you whatever you want. No obligation.”

Studying him more closely, I feel another jolt of anxiety.

“How old are you?”

“How old do I look?” he asks with strange intensity.

“Older than me.”

“And how old would that be?”

“I’m almost seventeen.”

I frown again. I feel young just saying that out loud.

“A junior in high school, then?”

I nod wearily.

“Well, then I am older than you. I’m a senior.”

“In high school?” I retort.

He smiles and nods noncommittally as I follow him inside. For all I know, he could be some weirdo who enjoys taking advantage of naïve girls. If he is, though, he sure picked the wrong girl, seeing as I’m bitter, hardened, and more than a little suspicious. Maybe someday I’ll be able to let my guard down, but today isn’t that day—and definitely not with some stranger, no matter how perfect looking he is. When we get to the counter, I take a yogurt from the case. Setting it in front of the register, I turn and laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

“You’re buying me a yogurt, and I don’t even know your name.”

He orders a coffee from the woman at the register, who smiles, blushes, and seems generally mesmerized by him. I guess I should be drooling over him, too, but I can’t marshal the necessary enthusiasm. As soon as I sit down at the closest table, he extends his hand.

“I’m Alex.”

Embarrassed by his formality, I reach out tentatively and take his hand. A jolt of electricity courses through me.

“Wren,” I say, pulling back and rubbing my hand.

The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. More like unsettling. My heart is still beating a little too fast, and I look away, refusing to read anything into the buzzing in my veins. I’m not about to believe that a little static electricity is destiny of some kind. Picking up my spoon, I take a few bites of my yogurt. When I look back at him, I’m very careful not to draw anything from behind his eyes.

“You have a beautiful name,” he says.

“Thanks. … No offense, Alex. But why are you being so nice to me?”

“Must there be a motive for everything?” he asks curiously.

I study him, noticing for the first time how formal his articulation is.

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I saw you in the airport and thought you were very beautiful. I decided it was fate and that I should follow you, as we could be soulmates.”

I’m too stunned to laugh or breathe for several seconds. It really scares me that he just said essentially what I was thinking—about destiny or fate—from a few seconds earlier. Then it occurs to me he’s either crazy or cruel … or a little of both. Not a good combination. Slowly, I put the plastic spoon into the yogurt container.

“Wow. Is this what you do with your good looks? Hunt around for vulnerable-looking girls to toy with? Watch their faces as you profess undying love?”

“You find me attractive?” he asks with the same intense curiosity.

Who wouldn’t
?
I think to myself. Then my face goes red, and I feel even angrier.

“Actually, I think you have major issues.”

“Perhaps I was too forward. You have misjudged me, I assure you.”

Without digging through his thoughts, I can’t say for sure, but I’m not willing to try. I look down.

“I doubt it. Thanks for the yogurt.”

Getting up, I turn and walk out, disturbed that someone would go out of his way to mess with a complete stranger for kicks. Who’s that cruel? Or he’s just crazy. The third possibility, that I misjudged him, doesn’t seem as likely.

It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t afford to risk more pain when the person closest to me in the world wished I would just disappear from her life.

I
wasn’t looking for an improvement when I decided to move back to Southern California. My choice was purely for survival. During the walk back to my dad’s house, I accept that all I have to do now is survive. Not be happy. Just survive and try to act normal. Things might look better someday. I might trust my heart to someone. But for now, it’s better that I don’t let anyone in, and that includes strangers with questionable motives.

For better or worse, I am starting over—again—and I’m doing it alone.

This makes me think of my little brother. Despite what I think of Jessica, I truly hope that Benjamin never has to question his parents’ love. Because from experience, I know it forces you to question whether anyone else can love you. By the time I get back to my dad’s house, there’s an enormous black sedan parked at the curb. My dad must have bought it after the divorce—and his promotion, which, funny, happened around the same time. Like the stranger that I am, I walk to the door and knock since I don’t have a key. Several seconds pass before the door swings open.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, dear.”

I smile crookedly. I guess
dear
is better than Wrennie. My father has always had a penchant for out-dated nicknames. He reaches out and hugs me awkwardly. This is not new. Thomas Sullivan has never been a hugger. And now that I’m standing in front of him, I actually can’t see how he and my mom were ever married. It just doesn’t make sense. With dark hair, sharp features, and olive green eyes that match mine, my dad is handsome. He’s also slick and charming, while mom had—until a week ago—always been so warm and loving. … My stomach clenches, and I stop, pushing aside any thoughts of her.

“Thanks for getting my car back,” I smile.

He nods.

“Jessica says she ran into traffic picking you up from the airport?”

Yeah, that or she was getting her nails done
, I don’t say.

“It wasn’t too long,” I lie.

“Wrennie!” Jessica chirps in a scolding tone. “Where have you been? When your father got home, I had no idea where you had run off to! You have to tell me the next time you’re going to leave like that.”

“I do?” I ask with more surprise than sarcasm.

My father loosens his tie—and that’s when I realize that he was at the office on a Saturday. Again, no surprise there. When he walks over and picks up Benjamin, the look of pure adoration on my dad’s face makes me squirm. Clearly both he and my mom wanted some type of do-over after me. Jessica’s cell phone rings again, and I take the opportunity to walk over and pat Benjamin on the head before going to “my” room.

When I get there, I try to figure out how I’m going to make some space in the middle of Jessica’s obvious shopping addiction. Suddenly, I remember standing in my new room in Portland after my first day of school. I cried that day, more from general angst than anything else, and right now crying seems logical, but I’m too numb. Plus, I figure it’s better to stay busy instead of wallowing in self-righteous pity, so I start unpacking and try to avoid thinking about the fact that I’m starting a new school on Monday morning.

After finding a package of unopened sheets in the closet, I make the bed. Later, after an awkward “family” dinner with my dad and Jessica, I return to the guest bedroom and lie in bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I open my eyes, it’s light out, and I’m disoriented enough to wonder if I’m back in Portland. I look around at the white and bubblegum-pink striped walls with a sinking feeling. For several seconds, I listen for signs of life around me, but the house is silent. I’m relieved that I don’t have to face anyone first thing in the morning. Getting out of bed, I grab a pair of jeans and a shirt before walking into the guest bathroom. I haven’t had my own bathroom since Topanga, but somehow it doesn’t make me feel any better to have one now.

Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My skin looks gray under the harsh light, and my eyes are dull. I force a smile to my lips, but it looks wrong, so I stop. I brush my teeth and take a quick shower. After I get dressed, I go back into the bedroom and pick up the “spare” laptop my dad gave me last night. Flipping it open, I press the power button. When the computer boots up, I open the Web browser to bring up directions to the coast. It’s pretty much a straight shot on Crown Valley Parkway to Coast Highway, which cuts down on the chances of me getting lost. I grab the set of car keys my dad gave me for the Mustang and make sure to take my wallet. In the kitchen, I find a note on the counter.

Wrennie,

Let’s do lunch.

Dad

I fold the piece of paper and put it in my pocket before searching around the cupboards for some breakfast. After I’ve gulped down a bowl of cereal and the only milk available—nonfat—I wash my dishes and return to the spare bedroom for a sweatshirt in case it’s cool on the beach. When I open the front door, I feel a shock of adrenaline at the sight of my Mustang. I smile. It really was a nice gesture. And I guess the guy my dad sold it to got sick of the sticky clutch.

Unlocking and opening the car door, I’m hit by a waft of sour orange juice, an enduring odor that’s never quite come out. The familiarity of sitting down in the driver’s seat causes a simultaneous jolt of elation and nerves. Depressing the clutch, I place my foot on the brake and turn the key in the ignition. The resulting sound of the car revving to life is so loud that I jump and my foot pops up from the clutch, which immediately stalls the engine. With a sigh, I push the clutch all the way to the floor again and rest my foot on the brake. I turn the key in the ignition again.

Keeping all the force of my left foot on the clutch, I reach over and shift left and up into first. The clutch is like glue, but first gear doesn’t grind, which is a good sign. On the other hand, I’ll reserve judgment until I see what happens when I have to go in reverse. Concentrating like I’m about to disarm a bomb, I slowly begin lifting my foot off the clutch as I press the gas with my right foot. The car lurches forward.

Not long ago, I was really good at this, I remind myself. Hitting the clutch again to keep the car from stalling, I step on the brake and start over. Slowly my left foot becomes reacquainted with the clutch, and when I’m confident that I’m not going to stall again, I drive to the end of the cul-de-sac and take a right toward Crown Valley Parkway. I turn again, and it only takes a few minutes before I reach the highway.

Traffic is light. I pass a gated community and then the hospital where my parents took me after my near drowning, mostly for scrapes and bruises. Within a few more minutes, I’ve passed my destination—on purpose as I continue to the sign for Aliso Beach and turn right into the parking lot. I’m actually amazed by how well I remember it from my trips as a kid. Pulling into a parking space, I scowl when I forget to depress the clutch, and the engine stalls again. I pull up on the E-brake and get out.

It’s not quite beach season yet, and the parking lot is empty. Everything looks darker than it should thanks to the clouds overhead, and it’s cooler than yesterday. I’m glad I brought my sweater. In a few hours, though, I probably won’t need it. I walk through the parking lot and cross a wide expanse of grass before reaching the concrete path along Aliso Creek, which is chocolate-colored and slow-moving right now. I follow the path, stopping just before the tunnel beneath Coast Highway. Dark and dank, the passageway sends a rush of fear through me. I inhale and hold my breath against the smell of slime and beach ripeness as I step into the darkness. My heart beating rapidly, I walk quickly until I’ve reached the other side.

I pass the playground where I played as a kid and glance toward the main parking lot for signs of life. A couple of cars, that’s it. I continue along the sidewalk and see a few people out on the old fishing pier. I keep going until I reach the end of the lot where I slip off my shoes before stepping into the sand.

I walk to the very end of the beach, which is bordered by a rocky outcropping and high bluffs. Looking up toward the highest point of the hillside, I see several enormous mansions, all with an unparalleled view of the coastline. I remember one of them in particular. It’s Mediterranean-style like my dad’s house, only ten times bigger. When I was a kid, I asked my dad if it was a hotel, and he laughed and said it was where very rich people lived. I find it ironic that he now lives as close to Laguna Beach as he could possibly afford.

Climbing over the rocks to a more secluded stretch of beach, I debate. I want to get to West Street Beach, which is across another set of rocks, but the tide is coming in, and judging from the patterns in the sand, the spot where I’m standing is going to be covered in water at high tide, meaning I’d have to swim back. Considering this is only about a mile from where I nearly drowned as a kid, I’m not about to try it. With a sigh, I drop my shoes in the sand and plunk down. Toward the horizon, the water is smooth and silver, like molten steel. Closer in, the waves are choppy, but nowhere near as chaotic as Oregon’s coastline. It actually seems like a different planet than Oregon.

Thinking of the day I spent at Cannon Beach with my friends, I look down. The memory feels ancient and withered to me now. Actually, almost everything that happened to me in Portland feels disjointed and mottled, while specific memories—like the fight with my mom—are crystal clear. I figure that’s what sadness does. It discolors your memories until eventually you don’t miss the things you’ve lost.

I wanted to call Ashley yesterday when I landed in Orange County, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the fact that I left, like a coward, without telling anyone. My decision was so sudden. But what could I have told my friends? That I read my mom’s thoughts, and they weren’t good? Or that I had a fight with her and just decided to leave? The first option sounds plain crazy, and the second doesn’t sound rational, either. I mean, everyone gets into fights with their parents right? How would I have explained how bad it was, or how some things can’t be undone?

I’ve set myself adrift with very little to come back to even if I tried. It feels like part of me has faded away, and I’m left with the shell of my life. What really bothers me, though, is that I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting—and that if I just remember it, somehow everything will be okay again.

I hate this feeling. I resent it for giving me hope based on absolutely nothing. It’s like the dreams I used to have. The ones after my car accident, or even worse, the ones after my parents had started fighting all the time. In the dreams, everything would seem all right. Then, when I woke up, the happiness would feel so real for a few seconds before it all came crashing down, leaving me feeling worse than before.

Looking back at how I felt just before we got to Portland—how dark everything had seemed—I really had no reason to expect that my perspective on life would get better, but it did. For the first time in a long time, I had a group of friends and I was
happy
. Now, like the months before we moved to Portland, I can’t see a path through the darkness. There must be one, but I’m blind to it. I lie back in the sand and listen to the water. The sound of the waves crashing and rolling back out to sea is soothing, and eventually I close my eyes. A slight breeze ripples over me, and then the lightest touch of fingers brushing my cheek causes my eyes snap open. I sit up, my heart hammering in my chest.

I look around at the empty beach and shiver. It was my imagination.

Standing up, I dust off my jeans and start back toward the parking lot, disappointed that I couldn’t make it to West Street. Just before I reach the parking lot, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from my dad. I frown. It feels weird—him having anything to do with my daily life. I text him back that I’ll be home soon.

Home
. The word just doesn’t sound right anymore.

I’m almost to the playground when my nose crinkles at the smell of cigarette smoke. Stepping onto the path back to the tunnel, I glance over and see two guys perched on the swings. They’re both wearing ball caps pulled low over their faces. The skinnier one leans over to grab something, and I see a bunch of empty beer cans strewn between them. Pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt, I start walking faster, aware of an eerily familiar sense of panic. I’ve almost reached the darkness when I hear someone call out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

I look back and see the bigger of the two guys lurching to his feet and waving at me. My pulse spikes. I don’t care if it’s broad daylight. I’m not going to get caught alone with them. I launch into a dead sprint, feeling like there’s a pack of wolves at my heels. Reaching the other side of the tunnel, I cut across the grass and shove my hand into my pocket for the car keys. Gripping them, I run faster. Only when I reach the concrete do I turn to see whether I’m being followed.

My heart leaps when I see someone moving fast toward me. Not slowing, I sprint the rest of the way to my car. It takes me two tries, but I finally get my hand steady enough to jam the key into the lock and get the car door open. As soon as I’m in, I slam the door and lock it before turning the key in the ignition. I growl in frustration when I forget about the clutch.

Slamming my foot down on the pedal, I turn the key again. This time the engine revs, and I release the E-brake before grinding the gear toward reverse and pressing the gas all the way to the floor. The engine roars like a wounded lion before sputtering and going dead. I look down at the gearshift and realize that the car didn’t go all the way into reverse.