Under the Cypress Moon (50 page)

Chapter 23

Several days passed by with no word from either Mark or Shylah to the other.  Mark stopped calling Shylah entirely, stopped texting her, and even refrained from saying anything on the matter to T.L. when the two encountered one another.  T.L. made his general inquiries and his speeches to his friend, attempting to mend the chasmic rift between him and Shylah. 

By week's end, both Mark and Shylah were nervous wrecks.  Neither could sleep well, eat much of anything, or do anything but sob.  In Mark's case, however, the sobbing always led to drinking, which led to more sobbing, which led to more drinking.  He knew that he was breaking a promise to Shylah, but it didn't seem to matter considering that Shylah would not speak to him.  Mark barely spoke to Sara, never muttering more than a few words in passing or seeing each other in the kitchen or in the backyard. 

Mark was so despondent that he didn't much care about anything anymore.  He occasionally showed his face at the plant, but so much construction and machinery fitting was still going on that there was hardly anything that he could do.  Don saw clearly Mark's distress and ordered him to take more time away.  Mark took it upon himself to use the time to travel, on his own.  If Shylah would not accompany him, so be it.  He would drive around and bounce from town to town until he ended up somewhere that he liked.  He thought about Savannah. He thought of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  He thought of Tampa, Miami, even California.  Anywhere with a beach and lots of alcohol seemed like the perfect place.

On Saturday, now six days without word from Shylah, Mark loaded his truck with belongings and handed a copy of the house key to Sara, informing him of his trip and asking her to keep the place safe until his return.  Little did he know that Sara had dreamed of such a thing.  She had plans that she knew Mark would never approve of, but now, her initial inheritance payment had been made, and she had a quarter of a million dollars burning a hole in her pocket.

Mark took off as quickly as he could throw his things into the back of the truck, not caring where he went, paying no attention to what direction he headed.  He sped aimlessly down the drive and out onto the gravel road connecting it to the county highway, barreling faster and faster down each successive road until he made it to the interstate.  He had no idea for a very long time if he was headed east, west, north, or south, and didn't care.  He lit cigarette after cigarette and blared music until he thought he was almost going deaf.  With the wind blowing through his mid-length hair, the windows rolled down, and nowhere in particular to be, he drove like never before. 

Mark never saw the sign that said he was entering Florida, recognizing nothing at all until he stopped at a rest area eighty miles past the state line.  When it dawned on him just where he was, he thought that he might continue until he reached Tampa, approximately two hundred miles south of his current location.  Surely, he thought he could find a vacant hotel with much ease. 

It was then that Mark realized how empty his life seemed, how nothing made any sense without Shylah, and especially that he could not happily or easily continue on his journey without her by his side.  Everything, without Shylah, was meaningless. 
  He wished that he could have convinced her to go with him, to say goodbye to all seriousness and lose herself in her love for Mark and the moment of victory shared in letting go of their home life and welcoming the cleansing renewal brought by giving into a complete lack of plans or expectations.

Mark climbed back into his truck, slumping back in the seat, trying to hide the fact that he was bawling his eyes out like a baby.  He couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing him, even if they were only strangers.  He immediately thought of heading home and trying one last time to convince Shylah that they should be together, but he knew that it would be to no avail and that if he were ever to have any semblance of peace or happiness again, he needed this time away from all of his cares and worries.

Mark continued heading south on I-75 for what seemed an eternity, passing endless palm trees and very few noticeable off ramps.  As the lanes dwindled from four to three and back over and over, Mark thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him.  He hadn't driven so far south into Florida for a very long time.  Traffic moved so quickly, most vehicles traveling easily at eighty miles per hour or more.  Mark felt a sense of freedom as he revved his truck to eight-five and often, ninety or even ninety-five, veering between small gaps in the parade, merging from one lane to another and another until he had shot so far past person after person after person that he couldn't help but lose himself in laughter. 

As the lanes merged once again from four to three, Mark saw what looked like an easy to obtain gap in the middle lane that might allow him to once again jolt ahead of others, but it required merging quickly from the far left lane.  The only obstacle was a fast-traveling semi.  As soon as the semi careened a little more ahead, Mark decided to go for it, not seeing beyond the back of the semi's trailer.  As he veered into the middle lane at just under ninety, he saw that another truck was attempting to do the same thing from the far right lane, the two of them nearly colliding. Mark quickly jaunted back into the left lane and motioned for the other driver to take the spot that they had both wanted.

In an attempt to once more forget everything, Mark cranked up the volume on his stereo.  At that moment, Jake Owen's "Anywhere with You" came blaring back, bringing Mark's thoughts all back to Shylah, to her beautiful face, to everything now lost.  It was exactly what Mark wanted, to have convinced Shylah to steal away with him, with no planning, to end up wherever the road would take them, with no cares but each other and having a good time, emboldening everything that they already felt.

Before he knew it, however, Mark saw the sign for a detour that would take him west toward the Tampa area, saving many miles over continuing on I-75.  In very little time, he saw the looming lights of the city, not knowing what city it was exactly, unfamiliar as he was with the Tampa area. 

It was still daylight, the sky well enough lit for Mark to easily navigate until he wound up at a beach resort in Largo, completely unaware of exactly where he was but only knowing that he was in the general area that he wanted to be and that the hotel had beach access.  Luckily enough, there were vacant rooms available.  Mark happily, rather, greedily, slapped his credit card onto the front desk of the hotel lobby and demanded a room with an ocean view. 

The view from the room, Mark thought, was absolutely breathtaking.  He still wished that Shylah were there to enjoy it with him, but he figured that going solo for the time being would have to do.  Quickly emptying a few small bottles of liquor from the mini fridge made Mark feel somewhat like a new man.  He thought nothing at all of how expensive the liquor might be.  All that mattered was having something to numb the pain as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

With no further thought about anything at all, Mark hurried from his room and out onto the beach, stripping himself of his shirt as he went, tossing it aside.  The semi-cool ocean breeze felt amazing on his bare skin.  His rippling muscles drew the attention of more than a few bikini-clad beachgoers.  Mark knew that numerous sets of eyes were fixated on his body, but it meant nothing to him.  He had no inclinations toward cheating on Shylah.  Even if they were, technically, on some kind of a break, there could be no taking advantage of the moment in such a way.  Mark soon plopped down onto the warm sand and dug his feet in.  With his hair blowing behind him and his well-tanned body still uncovered for all to see, woman after woman began to murmur about the new guy.

It seemed funny to some that the guy they knew nothing about was on the beach in jeans and cowboy boots, though Mark removed the boots as soon as he sat down.  It was only a few minutes before a gorgeous, very fit woman with long, lustrous, brown hair and a bikini colored just as brown as her hair took a seat only two feet away from Mark.

"Hey, Cowboy," the woman greeted Mark promptly.

"Hey there, yourself," Mark muttered, nodding to the woman but not really caring much about having company.

"I'm Melina.  What's your name, Handsome?"

"Mark.  Mark Crady."  Mark never turned his face toward the woman.  Having no idea what she looked like, he continued staring toward the ocean waves slapping against the shore and the impending sunset.

"I love your accent.  Where are you from?"

"Georgia, Ma'am."

"Ma'am, huh?  Damn is your voice sexy.  I thought you'd just be some tourist like me, not a real Southern boy.  I think Southern guys have some of the sexiest voices ever!  You sound like you could start singin' me a country song."  The woman moved slightly closer and pretended to fall over onto Mark's shoulder.  "Oops.  I'm so clumsy!"

Mark couldn't help but laugh at the compliments and at the woman's eager attempts.  As he belted out a deep and hearty laugh, it only served to endear him more to the woman sitting next to him.  She couldn't help but desire him in ways that he thought only Shylah had lately.

"Even your laugh is hot," Melina chortled.  "You're sexy and have a sexy drawl and a sexy laugh.  Where you been all my life?"

"Georgia, Ma'am."

"Georgia, Ma'am.  Georgia, Ma'am," Melina repeated in her best impersonation of Mark's accent.  "You don't have to keep callin' me Ma'am, ya know.  You can just call me Melina."

"I was raised to be respectful is all.  It wouldn't feel right to show ya disrespect, Ma'am."

"It's not disrespectful, and I find that pretty hot you're so nice and sweet.  I bet you taste as good as a strawberry daiquiri, smooth and sweet.  I could eat you up."  Melina placed her hand on Mark's shoulder, and though it felt a bit strange, Mark did not bother to remove it.

"I don't know my fiancée would like you tryin' to eat me up," Mark responded with a semi-serious grin.

"Fiancée, huh," the woman quickly repeated.  "Then why are you here, and she's not?"

"Long story, Ma'am, I mean, Melina.  Long story, way longer than you'd wanna hear.  Trust me."

"I got time.  See my friends over there?"  Melina pointed a finger to a spot a hundred feet up the beach.  "They're not goin' anywhere for a long time, and we're probably just gonna hit up a beach club later.  I got all the time in the world.  The sun's not even goin' down yet.  Tell me."

Mark relayed, the best that he could, the gist of everything that had happened over the past nearly month and a half since had his first date with Shylah.  Melina listened endlessly, seldom interrupting, taking it all in.  By the time that Mark finished, the sun was dipping down past the horizon, and he had a new friend, a friend that felt so deeply sorry for him that she saw him as far more than just a great-looking man but saw him as a beautiful and tortured soul.

Finally, Melina could take no more without chiming in with her thoughts on everything that she heard.  "I'm sorry, Mark, but if this girl loves you like she says she does, she'll find a way to get over what's goin' on.  She'll fight to get you back just like you fought to get her back.  If she doesn't, she's an idiot, and some other girl is gonna snatch you up so fast this Shy... Shylah?"

"Yeah, Shylah," Mark answered, staring straightforward again toward the ocean.

"This Shylah's head is gonna spin when she sees all the women that are gonna be beating down your door.  I'm sure she's a great person, like you say she is, but she doesn't realize what she has.  If I was her, I'd never let anything get in the way.  I'd hold onto you and never let you go, never let you feel alone, never let you have to do what you're doin' now, spendin' time on a beach hundreds of miles away with somebody you just met when you should be sittin' here with her."  Melina put her arm around Mark's shoulder.  She wanted him to want her the way that he clearly wanted Shylah, but she knew that she would have to settle for so much less and that Mark was too good of a guy to let him suffer alone.

Mark fought tirelessly to control his emotions, to let the sighs now escaping from his lips suffice for venting his anguish and dismay.  He hated to cry by himself, let alone in front of someone, especially someone new.  He swallowed down the successive lumps that built within him, one after another, and comforted himself with a heavy dosage of nicotine.  He wished that he could start drinking soon and began to wonder if his new found friend would mind him tagging along to the beach club she mentioned, but he was too afraid to ask, thinking that he might be some kind of burden and even the laughingstock of the night.

After the sun set completely, Melina invited Mark to join her and her friends.  Mark couldn't believe the strange luck of it all, being asked to do exactly what he hoped to ask to do.  Mark had a difficult time finding his shirt among the sand dunes.  It had blown more than twenty yards further away from where he had thrown it, but eventually, it was noticeable, peeking out from a light dusting of beach blown covering.  Seeing that it was quite dirty, not to mention that it had been worn all day and sweated in, Mark quickly threw it back to its resting place and left it to remain there forever.  He decided upon going back to his room and changing entirely.  He was followed by Melina, which felt strange, but he could not object.

Mark felt uncomfortable having another woman with him in his hotel room.  It felt totally wrong, but then, he thought of how Shylah had quickly discarded him twice and how when it happened the first time, she almost immediately flocked to another man.  He hoped that this situation would be different, as they had since become engaged and learned that they were to have a baby together, but he knew that he simply could not know and had to leave it all to chance, fate, kismet, or whatever else anyone could call it.