Page 2 of Salvaged Heart
“Step.” Laurel shot back, popping the P like it was its own syllable. “He is my stepbrother. I do not share a single piece of DNA with that man. He wanted to be a part of our family as much as I wanted him in it. Not. At. All.” The last three words were punctuated by her throwing items into her purse. “The only reason he is coming back now is because he stands to make over three million dollars off Aunt Millie’s house. Why she included him, I will never understand. I can only hope whatever his stipulation was, it prevents him from blowing it all immediately and takes him as far away from me as possible.”
I focused on the winding road I was navigating down the peninsula, doing my best to hide the shock on my face. I knew Anders was a sensitive subject for Laurel, but clearly, I was missing something. A million questions caught in the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down before I could do something stupid, like ask one of them.
“Beck, please do me a favor and don’t believe a single word that comes out of his mouth. Anders is a silver-tongued snake. He will have you thinking you're best of friends and then screw you over when you least expect it.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” I tried to give her a reassuring look as we turned off Arbor Ct. into the driveway. “I will go the entire summer pretending I can’t see him. All you have to do is say the word.”
She giggled and pecked my cheek. “Let’s at least start the summer by attempting to be civil. I’ll let you know when my patience has worn thin.”
“I give you an hour tops.” I placed the car in park next to a beaten-up motorcycle, which I presumed belonged to Anders,not missing the sour look that overcame Laurel’s face at the sight of it.
“You are entirely too optimistic. The only way I make it an hour is if he has already drowned himself in the lake.” But instead of malice, a playful tone laced her words.
“Harsh, babe.” I shot her a wry grin before stepping out into the shadow of the lakeside manor we would call home for the next two months.
2
ANDERS
1012 Arbor Ct, just like all the other properties surrounding the lake, screamed wealth. Not of the new money variety either. No, this level of luxury was the byproduct of old, dirty wealth passed down from eldest son to eldest son and earned off the back of someone else’s labor.
According to Zillow, the home was completed in a farmhouse style. I found this both amusing and incredibly infuriating, as none of the home’s previous four occupants had spent a minute of their stuffy, prissy lives in the vicinity of a farm. Not that I could talk–but at least I knew I was out of touch.
I hated everything about this place. The large windows with their not-so-rustic shutters. The wrap-around porch that looked like it was torn from the front cover of a Southern Living magazine. The long, sweeping driveway lined with giant oaks that would cost a fortune to maintain. The upper balcony, the wood paneling, the–well, you get the idea. But the thing I hated the most was the view from where I was currently standing on the boat dock, looking out over all the privilege surrounding the lake as far as the eye could see.
I never fit in here. Never would.
It was good that this would be the last summer I had to spend here. I’d rather burn it to the ground than renovate it. I didn’t want anything to do with this place and half of the memories that came with it, but Aunt Millie always had a soft spot for me. She used to say, “You may not have been born family, but you’re stuck with us now.” She’d meant it to be endearing. To me, it just sounded like a curse.
The crunch of tires hitting the broken cobblestones of the driveway pulled me from my thoughts. “Here we go.” This I said to no one in particular and threw back the rest of my beer. I'd hoped I would have time for another one–or ten–before my dearest sister showed her face with her whipped jock of a boyfriend. But, if I had learned anything over the last nine years, hope was not something I could place a lot of stock in.
“Anders?” The thick Tennessee lilt made my name sound more like an accusation than a question.
I crushed the empty can and threw it into the lake before popping the top on another and taking a long, long sip. Rotating slowly, I scanned my sister from head to toe.
“Well, I see someone bent the truth about being sober. This might be a new record for the quickest you have ever disappointed me.”
“Sister,” I tried to match her tone, but I had never done hostile resentment quite as well as Laurel Mitchell. “First of all, to be disappointed, you would have needed to have faith in me to begin with. We both know you did not. Second, I said clean, not sober — which I am trying my darn hardest to be even though the mere presence of you makes me want to get so blitzed my face slides off.” I met her eyes dead-on, waiting for the retort that surprisingly didn’t come.
Little did she know or care that I was trying harder to be sober than I ever had before, but I refused to let her or anyone see I was struggling. For years now, my family has brushedmy drug use off as “party boy” behavior. Anders doesn’t have a problem. This was just Anders’ way of rebelling—a phase. One day, Anders would grow up, and that would be it. He would walk away from the drugs, the drink, and the prescription pills. Because in their eyes, this was something I could turn off. When in reality, those statements couldn’t be further from the truth. That was not a switch I had access to.
I would be an addict for the rest of my days. I knew that like I knew the sky was blue and the earth was round. The only control I had over the matter was whether I fought every day to claw myself out of the darkness towards the light sobriety offered. But that control was brittle, and the battle I was fighting was a losing one.
There were days when I could hardly control taking my next breath, let alone decide not to use. I’d been sober for short spells before, but never more than a couple of days. The voices in my head inevitably got too loud again -
“And third…”
I blinked rapidly, coming back to the moment at hand. “And third… It is lovely to see you, darling sister. It has truly been too long.” I flashed her my best Cheshire cat smile and pulled a pack of smokes from my pocket, slipping one between my lips. “It’s just boring old tobacco.” I lit it slowly. “Don’t get excited.”
This caused her eyes to narrow even further, and for several seconds, I felt like she was trying to set fire to me with a look alone. Then, with a noncommittal shrug, she broke eye contact and flicked her gaze to the mountain of a man hovering in her shadow. “This is my boyfriend, Beckham. He will be helping us this summer. I told you on the phone.”
“Beckham? What? You don’t have a first name?”
I kept my eyes locked on my sister, letting thick smoke billow from my mouth directly into her face with each word. It was one thing to have to deal with her all summer, but also to sufferwhatever pathetic shell of a man she had roped into helping her with the project was something I would not do. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t exist. I was here to get what I came for by helping my sister renovate this old dump, and then I would be out of her life for good.
“Actually, that is my first name.” His hand shot out in my periphery, causing me to startle slightly. I had been straddling the threshold of withdrawal for two weeks now, staying just high enough that getting out of bed was achievable but not high enough that I spent every moment a jittery, anxious, normally nauseous mess. Jumpy was quickly becoming a personality trait that, luckily, seemed to go unnoticed. “Beckham David, nice to meet you.”
The laugh burst from my throat so quickly that it came out as a cross between a snort and a choke.
