Page 38 of Beneath the Surface

“My art teacher, Mrs. Mayberry,” he continues. “She told me how gifted I was. How proud they would be. She wanted to feature the drawing in an upcoming community art show. I went home and wassofucking excited. Everyone in my family had a path, you know? And I just knew it in my bones that this was mine.”

“At eleven years old?” I ask.

“When you know, you know.” He shrugs. “But my dad disagreed.” His jaw clenches. “Tore up the canvas right in front of me. Called it a waste of time.”

I scoff, an ache unfurling in the center of my chest for Alex being told his dreams didn’t matter. “He sounds like a dick.”

“He most definitely was,” Alex chuckles. “Anyway, I was upset and started to cry. Which my fatheralsodidn’t like.” He moves my hand down to his, our fingers locking together. “Suffice to say, the family I came from didn’t appreciate emotion. And they also didn’t appreciate me going against the grain. Against what wasexpected. They were the masters driving the carriage, and they gripped the reins tightly. So I hid where no one would see—” He nods toward his arm. “And I controlled what I could.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “And that control was addicting.”

Tears spring behind my eyes at his story. At imagining someone just a few years older than my baby boy, crouching in a corner and putting a blade to their skin.

Alex’s free hand moves up, gripping my chin and turning it until our eyes catch. Until I’mhookedin his gaze.

“My point is, little bird, I understand hiding your past beneath the surface—under pretty colors and inked up skin.”

He leans in, his mouth grazing against my neck. My stomach flips. “You can tell me all your secrets, Lily,” he whispers into my skin. “I promise I’ll keep them safe.”

My heart stutters in my chest, fighting against the urge to believe him. It’s easy for someone to say words, easy to think they want to know what I’ve been through. But evenIdon’t want to know. EvenIache to forget. My life is the type of movie you only watch once, and then warn others not to waste their time.

So I won’t tell Alex all my secrets.

But I’ll keep his safe all the same.

18

Lily

Some scars are too deep to show.

The slightest tug makes them rip, fester, and ooze all over again, and I’ve worked too damn hard over the years trying to staunch the bleeding and numb the ache. Still, Alex gave me something of himself, and my stomach jumbles around, wanting to give him somethingmoreback.

“I’m a drug addict.” My words sound harsh in the still air, and my eyes bounce from him to the cinnamon gum on the kitchen counter—my insides sizzling with need, my body physically begging for something I’ll no longer allow it to have.

I don’t think it ever goes away. The craving. Gets easier over time, sure, but it’s always there in the background, like a lion hunting prey, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce.

And italwayspounces.

Sometimes it’s the smell of a pan on the stove, so similar to the stench of burning foil. The kind I used to freebase, sucking cocaine and baking soda vapors through a metal straw, or a dirty dollar bill.

Other times, it’s a simple thought that does it. Secretly, I worry that one day, my love for Chase, and my willpower won’t be enough.

Alex’s fingers caress the scattered marks along my arm, hidden from the eye but easy to feel when you press a little deeper. Heroin was something I fell into after I ran away from home, when the misery of losing my family was salt pouring into my infected wounds, making the pain too much to bear.

“I never thought I’d bethatgirl, you know?” I continue.

He shakes his head. “Whatgirl?”

Irritation prods at my nerves and my tone comes across harsh. “A fucking junkie. What do you think?”

Disgust crawls up my throat, wrapping around my esophagus like a noose. “You talked about your family being controlling and caring about image, well—” A bitter laugh escapes my lips, my chest cracking from the memories. “My birth mom was the opposite of that.”

“She had a drug problem?” he asks.

I nod. “I—my memories of her are faded. But I remember what it did to my brother. Whatshedid to him. What...” My voice fades, but the unsaid words linger in the air.

What I did to him.

The thought of my brother is a tidal wave of grief rising up like a storm surge, pulling me under until I drown.

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