Beneath the Scars (36 page)

But hope just died.

“Anything else?” Karen asked.

“My journals he gave me,” I whispered, making a decision. “They’re on the table.” He had brought them over, hoping I would open one and start writing, but they were still empty.

He gave them to me and I wanted them. A tangible reminder, that at one point, I had meant something to him. The first gift he ever gave another person. I had meant enough to him that he made such an immense gesture.

I needed my journals.

“Okay, I’ll get them. You go back to the house and sit down before you fall down. Please.”

I nodded, watching them as they climbed the stairs, Dixie following them. I didn’t try and stop her. I turned, and with slow, measured steps, walked to Karen’s house, alone.

Reminding myself, the whole way, to keep breathing.

When night fell, it felt endless. Darkness descended in slow motion, like ink dripping from a bottle, one drop at a time, until the sky was filled with blackness. The only light I could see were the stars that shone like small diamonds, set into the ebony velvet of the heavens. I inhaled, the scent of the ocean all around me in the night. I huddled farther into the blanket I was wrapped in, as I sat on the deck staring into the sky. I had given up trying to sleep. I knew it wasn’t going to happen. The past weeks played and replayed in my head on an endless loop. Every word, every touch, the tiniest of details of my time with Zachary screamed at me. I couldn’t shut them off.

I knew Karen was worried. Every morning she shook her head as she watched the circles under my eyes grow darker. Her sighs of frustration grew louder with every meal I picked at, and each word I uttered in Zachary’s defense. She refused to leave, saying she was too worried about me, and I refused to go back to Boston with her. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. We were at an impasse.

Another long shiver ran through me and I knew I had to go back inside the house. The days were warming up, but the nights were still cold and I had been outside for a while, gazing at the darkened horizon, wondering if by chance, Zachary was doing the same thing wherever he was. With one last look, and a shaky sigh, I got up slowly and stepped back inside.

I curled into the corner of the sofa, Dixie beside me, her warm body heavy with sleep. I stroked her fur, wishing I could sleep, as well, but that peacefulness wouldn’t come to me. Instead, when I shut my eyes, images bombarded me, and rest proved to be elusive. I didn’t know how to move forward—to get past all these feelings and memories.

My gaze fell on my journals. I had picked them up numerous times over the past couple days, after Karen had carried them in and set them down. My fingers had traced the supple leather over and again, remembering the expression on Zachary’s face as he gave them to me. He said he wanted me to fill the blank pages with my words; how when they came back to me, the books would be there, waiting.

Before I realized what was happening, I had removed one journal from the box and opened up the thick pages.

I had the words.

Our words. They needed to come out of my head and live on these pages.

The pages of us.

I picked up one of the special pens he had chosen and began to write.

Time slipped away, and it was the clearing of Karen’s throat that broke my concentration. Startled, I looked at her, realizing the room was filled with the morning sun. I looked down at the journal in front of me surprised to see I had filled about a third of the book.

“You’re writing,” Karen’s voice was surprised but pleased.

“I am.”

“A new story?”

I shut the book, putting the cap back on the pen, tracing my finger over the spine. “My story.”

She sat beside me. “Your story?”

“I can’t stop thinking, Karen. The words play continuously in my head. I have to get them out.”

“So you’re writing about you and Zachary?”

“Yes. I thought—”

“Tell me,” she encouraged, sounding concerned.

“I thought if I wrote them out—let all my feelings and thoughts flow into these books—these journals he gave me—maybe I could find some peace. Figure out a way of moving forward.”

“Makes sense.”

I looked over her shoulder. “Can we go into town later?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Sure. Why?”

“I want to take
Tempest
to Ashley and Jonathon. I want to see if they know someone who can fix it.”

“Why?”

“It means something to me. It has from the second I saw it. I need to have it repaired.”

“Megan—”

I held up my hand. “Don’t say it. I want it repaired for me.”

“Okay, then, we’ll go into town later. Coffee and toast first, though.”

Leaning forward, I squeezed her hands. “Sounds good.”

Ashley was horrified went she saw the damage to the painting, but knew a professional restorer who could repair it. It would never be whole again—the same way Zachary would never be whole. It could be repaired and to the unknowing eye, look fine, but it would never be the same—undamaged. The symmetry was almost ironic, and not lost on any of us. She told me she had a quick email from Zachary stating he would be out of touch for the foreseeable future and not to expect any new work. She shook her head as she told me he must’ve also canceled his email account since her reply bounced back. “He isn’t answering his cell phone, either,” she informed me. “His voice mail says messages would be checked infrequently. Mrs. Cooper might have other information since she looks after his house.”

The news saddened me further, but I wasn’t surprised. I hated that he was closing the door on the few people who truly cared for him, and wasn’t listening to anyone who was trying to reach out. I also knew if Mrs. Cooper had more information, she would respect Zachary’s privacy and not give it to me.

I was surprised to see how empty the back gallery was, and she explained they had removed Zachary’s paintings with all the reporters around. “Zachary would hate the thought of people buying them to resell, or use as part of the stories that will come out. We’ll hang them back up when it all dies down.” She squeezed my hand. “It will die down, Megan. Especially with him gone.”

I nodded, masking my anger. He shouldn’t have had to go anywhere. Cliff’s Edge, this small, laid-back town was his home, but because of me, because of Jared, he had left.

A small voice in my head whispered he shouldn’t have run. He should have given me a chance and believed in me, in us, more. Ignoring the pain those thoughts caused, I thanked Ashley and hurried across the street where Karen was picking up a few things. I kept my head down, hoping no reporters had returned and recognized me. I didn’t want to experience that again.

Karen was ready, so we headed back to her place, with plans to watch a movie and an early night. “I am tired,” I admitted, when she commented on my appearance, gazing at me from her chair.

“Will you sleep tonight?”

My eyes drifted to my journal. “Yeah, I think I might.”

She tilted her head. “You sound clearer this afternoon—better. You still look like shit, but you sound more like you.”

“I think I found my path.”

“Writing your story?”

“Yes. I made a decision I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure.”

“You mentioned with the big job Chris is now on, and how busy the salon is, you were afraid this place would sit empty most of the next few months.”

She nodded.

“Would you consider letting me stay on here for a while? I’ll pay rent, of course.”

“What about your place in Boston?”

“I’ll sublet it.”

“Are you…waiting for him?”

“No.” I closed my eyes as I admitted the truth. “He isn’t coming back.”

I shifted in my chair as I tried to explain. “Aside from you, there isn’t anything in Boston for me now, and I like it here. I don’t have a job to go back to; I spoke with Ashley earlier and she’s willing to hire me for some hours during the next while. I can write, work, and find my feet.” I shook my head. “The way I planned to do when I got here, before…Zachary.”

“Are you writing that story for you or to publish?”

“No, it’s for me. Only me. Maybe, though, once it’s out of my head, I can find more words and write again.”

“Any plot bunnies up there?”

“Maybe.” I smiled at her.

“I have to go back to Boston.”

“I know.”

She pursed her lips, studying me. “Will you be okay here alone, Megan? Will you fall apart when I leave?”

“No, I’m done falling apart. I need to move on.”

“Can you?”

I shrugged. “I have no choice, do I? No one can do it for me, so I have to.”

“You’ll have to share the place on occasion when we can make it down.”

“I know. I’m good with that.”

“You know, one of the girls at the salon was looking for a place. She broke up with her boyfriend and literally left everything behind. She’d probably take most of your stuff, if you wanted. The rest you can bring here or store at our place. I can ask her, if you want me to?”

“That would be great.”

She stood up. “Okay. I’m going to call Chris and tell him I’m coming home tomorrow.” She hesitated. “If you need me you’ll call, right? Or if you can’t stand being here alone, you’ll come stay with us?”

Warmth flooded my chest at her words. “You’re such a good friend.”

“Takes one to know one.”

She left the room and I smiled sadly. I would miss her, but it was time. She needed to get back to her life and I needed to find mine. I wasn’t sure if this move was permanent for me, but for now, it was where I wanted to be. I was under no illusion that Zachary would reappear at any time, seeking me out, yet I was loath to leave this place.

Maybe once I finished our story. Maybe once I exorcized the pain and made peace with what happened I’d be able to move forward and find my direction.

It must have happened for a reason. I refused to believe what Zachary and I went through, what we shared, how he started to open up and accept he was worthy of being loved, was for nothing.

I only had to figure out how to find the reason, accept it, and move on with my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE