Page 20 of Was I Ever Here

I like to think that when I sink under the waves I’m actually chasing that subconscious need to recalibrate. A deep instinctual urge for a mother’s embrace. Just long enough so I can feel alive. Or feel something at least.

But these moments are fleeting. The groundedness I chase evaporates as soon as the water dries off my skin.

But hey, I take what I can get and try not to think about it that much. Try not to focus on where this feeling comes from. Or thisun-feeling more like. This…disengagement. I am a collection of moments. Moments, I wish I could forget.

So here I am, floating on my back doing silly little breathing exercises I once saw on YouTube, thinking it might help fix the monumental gaping hole I have lodged in my chest. But fuck, at least I’m here. At least I’m alive, when the thought of death is at times more soothing than fearsome. Do I really have a death wish? Or am I just mentally exhausted?

I don’t allow myself the chance to mull it over.

I dunk my head under the water one last time and sidestroke back to shore. The sun is warmer now. The awakened city rumbling in the distance.

Quickly drying and lathering an extra layer of sunscreen for good measure, I sprawl on the towel and let my arms fall wide beside me, my chest slightly heaving from the exertion of swimming to shore. My skin is cool to the touch, and I love the way it feels under the pads of my fingertips.

I close my eyes and allow myself just a few more moments of peace, pushing all thoughts and feelings as far away as I possibly can. This is my moment and no one else’s. I need it. Staying like this for another half-hour, I slip in and out of sleep, my yellow bikini drying under the morning sun.

The sound of my phone buzzing in my bag forces me out of my reverie. I roll to my side and dig it out, my heart sinking when I see who’s calling.

My mother.

There’s no way I’m answering that landmine. I’ve been avoiding her calls for over a year now. I’m not even sure she knows I’m in Noxport. And I prefer it that way. River was the only thing keeping me tied to her—and my father for that matter. But he would have to have been less of a ghost for that to even count.

To say that my mother never understood me is an understatement. She called me too sensitive, too melancholic, too emotional—just too much and not enough. Answering her call would be like having to admit I’m depressed. That something istrulywrong with me. A crack I can never seem to fix.

I’d rather avoid it, sweep it under the rug and file it away for future me to deal with. To be forgotten until the next time I’m forced to face my demons. Instead, I let them rattle in their cages and push myself up from my beach towel. Throwing my shorts and hoodie on, I trudge home. Back to a room full of dark swirling thoughts and heavy with Byzantine’s name.

The skies are dark and gray tonight, the rain feels like it’s coming at me sideways as I walk with my shoulders up to my ears, my eyes squinting through the misery. I had the bright idea to walk to work and now I’m drenched, the cold wind burrowing into my bones.

Just great.

This is not how I wanted to start my shift. Cold and miserable. Well, at least it’s an accurate depiction of how I feel inside too.

It’s been a few weeks since the incident. The night that shall not be named. Everyone at work seems to tiptoe around the subject and I’m exhausted trying to pretend I’m not thinking about it all the time.

Then there’s the touchy subject of Byzantine himself.

I bristle at the thought. I haven’t seen him since he accosted me in the alley. I mean, why would we see each other? I ignore the eager part of me who’s waiting for him to reappear. But the sane part of me—the rational and fearful part of me—wishes I would never set eyes on him again.

He’s trouble.

He’s more than trouble, he’s death incarnate for fuck sakes. My bizarre attraction to his searching eyes and perfect lips will not and can not change the fact that he literallykilled Gary.

My anxiety spikes when I open the back door of Sammies, a mishmash of uncomfortable emotions fighting for the spotlight. It leaves me with shaky hands and my teeth nervously biting my bottom lip.

I need a fucking drink.

I have about half an hour before my shift starts so I slink towards the staff room, crossing the bustling kitchen as my sneakers squelch across the floor. I give a grumpy wave to the cooks before pushing through the swiveling door. Luckily I’m a pack rat and practically live here, so I head to my locker to scrounge out something dry to wear for tonight.

I take off my wet t-shirt and drop it on the bench beside me before rummaging through the locker on my humble quest for dry clothes.

I don’t bother covering up. Finding someone in a state of undress is pretty common around here. We’re a tight-knit staff and besides, I’ve lost count of who’s slept with who. Myself included.

So when I hear the staff door open, I’m unbothered, and don’t even glance up. My back is turned to the door while I’m still on the search for a decent pair of pants when the back of my neck tingles. My limbs lock, my hand hovering mid-air. My body knows who I’ll find if I turn around and look.

Impossible.

My head’s obviously playing tricks on me. I’m losing my fucking mind. There’s no other explanation. I swivel in place and face the door before I convince myself otherwise. I lock eyes with a stunned Byzantine. My breath hitches and I gulp back down my heart into my chest while Byzantine continues to pulverize me with his heated stare.

“What are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, his hand gesturing toward my half naked state.

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