Page 2 of Crushed By Love

Finishing my duties that evening, I head downstairs to unpack my suitcase into my new dresser. The room is basic, but I don’t mind. I’m used to basic. I didn’t bring much because I don’t have much. It doesn’t take long to get everything put away, tucking my clothing into neat little squares, one on top of the other. I quickly shower and change into jean shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s seen better days, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I made it here, that I followed through on something positive, albeit terrifying, and I’m immensely proud of myself.

You. Can. Do This. I tell myself between long slow breaths, then slip my phone and house key into my pocket and head back upstairs.

The Kings have a private chef who will leave meals labeled for me. I tiptoe into the kitchen after she’s finished for the evening to retrieve my personal chicken and pasta salad, imagining myself as quiet as a passing shadow. What did Mrs. King say? Try not to be seen, never be heard, and stay out of the way.

The meal is delicious, and I savor each bite as I hover over the counter. It’s truly phenomenal, and not just because it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since this morning. I barely had enough money to get myself from western Massachusetts all the way out to this island, taking a redeye bus across the state last night to catch the ferry this morning. A gas station donut was good enough to get me through the journey. My stomach isn’t ready to be done when I finish the last of the container, but I’m not sure I’m allowed to go rummaging through the pantry or fridge. I clean up and head outside to the detached garage instead.

If you could even call it a garage.

The building is larger than half the houses back home in Pittsfield. Then again, this house is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen in person. The average person wouldn’t imagine a massive estate when told to picture a beach house. Sure, they might picture something nice, but the Kings’ place is next level. The sprawling mansion is a modern vision of whitewashed concrete, dark woods, clean lines, and expansive windows. It sits high on a bluff overlooking a secluded beach––complete with three stories, a walkout basement, twelve bedrooms, sixteen bathrooms, two kitchens, three family rooms, a game room, a theater room, two dining rooms, a gym, an office, a wine cellar, and who knows what else I’m forgetting from my tour.

Oh, that’s right, a guest house.

The garage stands separate from the main house and has ample space for the four luxury vehicles parked inside. I’ve never driven a car and wouldn’t know the first thing about any of these. I steer clear as I make my way to the back where Mrs. King told me I could pick out a bicycle to use for the summer. And thank God for that because my phone is just a dinky flip phone and definitely not anything that can do more than talk or text. I can’t afford to call a standard cab company every time I want to leave the house, and this place is too far to walk to town with my limited free time. So, biking it is.

Bikes and me—we’ve never had the best relationship, mostly because they symbolize the kind of childhood I missed out on. It was only a couple of years ago that I even touched a bike. My last foster parents insisted I learn when they found out. They took the time to teach me, and if they hadn’t moved across the country for a work transfer a few months later, I would’ve happily stayed with them until graduation. Sure, they cried about it, said they wished they could get the paperwork together in time to adopt me so I could come along, but ultimately, they left me behind.

It’s not like I was surprised, or even angry. I wasn’t—I’d numbed myself long before they could hurt me. What did anger me was my case worker placing me in a group home to finish out my last two years of high school. Those places are the worst, and the one I landed in was so overcrowded and depressing that it nearly sucked the life out of me. I’d have done just about anything to get out of there, including taking this job. But at least I got to move away right after graduation and bid farewell to the system.

The pastel bikes are lined up in a tidy row, reminding me of shiny Easter eggs. I select a pretty blue cruiser with a white basket attached to the handlebars. It’s adorable in a way that makes me hesitate. What happens if I mess it up? I could crash it or scratch it or pop a tire, and I don’t know if I’d have enough money to replace it. How expensive is a nice bike like this?

But I need transportation, so I wheel it out to the driveway and hold my breath, suddenly nervous to climb on. Is it possible to forget how to ride a bike? I guess I’m about to find out.

The rubber handlebars bite into my palms as I push off the stone driveway. The inertia is quick, but my muscle memory is quicker. I squeal, delighted I didn’t forget how to do this, and pedal out to the main road with spirits lifted.

This isn’t so bad.

The grassy fields surrounding the Kings’ estate are a vibrant spring green, swaying with the ocean breeze. The sunset paints the sky neon, streaks of fuschia and blood orange reflecting off the endless sea. It’s the kind of stunning I thought only existed in the movies and it wraps me up in fresh scents of salt and sea. No movie could compare.

I ride two miles down the hill and another out to the boardwalk, glad I paid attention to the area when I arrived this morning. I don’t have any spending money yet, so I’m not going into any of the shops or restaurants, but I’m eager to explore what will be my new home for the next three months. I’ve never truly been at home anywhere. Maybe this time will be different.

Once I reach my destination, I park the bike and lock it, walk down to the beach, and plop down in the sand to watch the waves roll in. The ocean is much bigger than I imagined. I knew it was big from videos and pictures, but seeing it in person really puts it into perspective. It makes me feel small but not in an insignificant way—in a calming way. The bright sunset fades into night, but I don’t want to leave. I breathe in the salty air, dig my hands into the warm sand, and close my eyes, letting the sound of crashing waves wash over me.

This is the most free I’ve felt in ages, and I sit like that until the light fades away and I can count the stars. Or attempt to anyway. I’ve never seen so many stars before. Back home light pollution blocks most of them out. I almost wish I could stay out here all night and see what they look like hours from now, but I’m sure I can sneak out in the middle of the night sometime at the beach house and stargaze from there.

It’s going to be a perfect summer. This is my fresh start into adulthood and I don’t even care that I have to work long hours. I’m used to working full-time in the summers and juggling after-school jobs. With this one I’ll have some money in the bank when I go to college in August. I’ve worked in an ice cream parlor and a movie theater, so it’s not like housekeeping is my first stint into employment. I’ll keep that giant house sparkling and make the most of my free time when I’m not catching up on sleep.

Catching up on sleep is exactly what I should be doing right now.

My eyelids flutter, the exhaustion of the long day setting in. The air is growing chilly, and I still have to bike a couple of miles back to the house. I trudge back up the beach, pausing to study a group of young people several yards over. A glowing bonfire crackles, illuminating about twenty people. It’s hard to tell from here, but I think they’re older than me, probably in their twenties. They look like they’ve done this a thousand times before, meeting here in the summers to huddle together and drink and laugh and talk.

And kiss.

A couple that could be the poster child for PDA demands my attention. They’re kissing with no concern for their surroundings, lying intertwined in the sand only a few feet away from their group. The woman’s leg hooks around the man’s torso, shorts riding up to barely cover her ass. The man grips her with his large hands. She rolls her hips and I’m struck with the thought that they might have sex on this public beach. Their forms flicker in and out of view with the firelight, little flashes of something I shouldn’t be watching.

But I can’t stop.

The sight of them, of his hands on her like that, of her body arching against his, stirs something within me. What would it be like to be touched by a man? To be wanted like that? How would it feel to have his hands on my body?

I wouldn’t know. Maybe I should, but besides a few kisses, I’ve never let myself get close to anyone.

The woman breaks away with a giggle, rolling back to comb her hand through her tangle of blonde hair. The firelight reveals the man’s face. I inhale quickly and step back, heart thundering. He didn’t see me before and he doesn’t now, but I can’t unsee him just like I can’t reverse gravity.

He’s the gorgeous man from the pool.

Two

I’m certain it’s him. Even though I haven’t studied the intricacies of his face, that spark of recognition splinters through me. It’s an internal knowing, an admission that he does something to me. He makes me want more than I’ve wanted before, to be someone I’ve never been, to test the laws of gravity.

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