The Beginning of Always (4 page)

I was proud of him. He was only twenty-five and already a doctor with his MD and in his first year of a prestigious residency. Nicolas was kind and giving, but he spent too much time alone, which concerned me. He’d never really had a solid girlfriend, and most of his friends were in and out of his life, their exits never of too much consequence. Nicolas was likeable and got along with everyone, but I never really saw anyone that truly understood him. At the very least, I had Tracy. As pathetic as one friend was, at least I was up one compared to him.

I worried about him, more than an older sister should. He was handsome, and many relationship possibilities had sprung up in the past, but something always held him back. I knew the general framework as to what, but the why eluded me, and that was what concerned me so much. So it was good I would be back in the city—I could keep an eye on him while I pieced together my own sad, scattered life.

We were two broken kids, but we could take care of each other, just like always.

I went into his bedroom and dragged his comforter out. As I threw it over his slumbering body, I wondered how many nights Nicolas had fallen asleep on this very couch, without anyone to cover him or to prop his head up on a pillow. The thought made me sad. My eyes teared up slightly as I gently lifted his head up to place some couch cushions underneath him. He stirred and muttered slightly, but didn’t wake up.

After making sure Nicolas was comfortable, I went to the kitchen to turn off the light. Despite my best efforts, my gaze shifted towards the bar, and I spotted the back of a picture frame that lay where Nicolas had left it, the price sticker still attached at the corner. I hesitated, then walked over. My fingertips grazed the edge of the wooden frame and gingerly, I lifted it up. After another moment’s hesitation, I flipped it over.

There I was, Queen Blueberrywhatever, cradling my precious basket trophy. There he was, engulfing me with a muscular arm draped over my slumped, embarrassed shoulders, pulling my body close to him, his other hand positioned by my chin, cupping it so my face was turned toward him. On his face was the biggest smile I ever remembered him having. His eyes twinkled with mirth, while I had a look of disdain and fury.

I still remembered that day …

“What were the casualties of the people who forced you into that? You look like a Swedish milkmaid fornicated with a picnic table.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Oh my God, this is a nightmare. Take me away before more people see me.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go … just say the word. But first, a picture. Nicolas!”

“What? No, no, no, get out of my way! I’m running!”

“Grab her, Nic! Take the photo!”

“Jump her, Alistair!”

Rage mingled with grief, and I dropped the frame like it had burst into flames. It clattered onto the granite with a vocal protest.

An ex-boyfriend was an ex-boyfriend. Lingering sadness and longing were part of the process. I hadn’t been in a real relationship since college, after two disastrous rebound attempts.

That was the reason why my hormones were all scrambled, I deduced internally.

Now that I was in a secure zip code with no plans on leaving, I would find myself a boyfriend.

I would get married. I would leave the past behind, and if it killed me, I would forget those awful memories.

I would move on.

Alistair was a memory, and with enough time, memories fade.

Emotions would fade.

Love would be forgotten.

Chapter 2

“A
listair! Lunchtime!”

I ignored her and stalked down the driveway. It was dusty and my sneakers kicked up more of the stuff. Was there anything else but dust in this stupid town?

A male voice yelled and I started running.

Since I got to St. Haven, it seemed I did nothing but run, mostly away from people and places.

The sounds from the house faded into the background as I sprinted down the driveway, then disappeared altogether when I turned right along the main highway. It didn’t deserve to be called a highway since it was just a wider dirt road, a tractor pathway.

I ran faster. My chest hurt as it heaved up and down, desperate for air, but I ran and ran, forcing my body to propel forward. It felt good to run. It felt good to hurt somewhere, felt good that the pain in my chest was in my lungs and not my heart. From lack of air, instead of lack of anything else.

I wouldn’t think about Mom.

I hated Mom.

That familiar heat began growing at the tip of my nose and flared up. That heat was always the first sign that I was going to cry, and I didn’t want to cry anymore. Crying was for babies and I hated crying. I quickly rubbed a dust-covered sleeve across my upper lip and shook my head, sending sweat droplets flying all around me.

It was hot and I was getting tired, the road never ending. I could run and run and run and never get anywhere.

There was nowhere to go.

Finally, I slowed to a jog, then stopped altogether. My breath came out hard and fast, and I sucked greedy breath after greedy breath. I liked the feeling of my heart beating fast. I could imagine that any minute now, it would fly out of my chest and disappear. It wasn’t useful to me. It just hurt all the time. It’d be better if it just disappeared.

I was doubled over with my hands on my knees, sweat dripping down my forehead and stinging my eyes, when I heard that sweet sound, a quiet sound right in front of me.

“Hi.”

I snapped my head up. A little girl was at the sad patch of grass next to the side of the road, crouching just below a large blue mailbox.

The little girl had long, wavy light brown hair and bright blue eyes with impossibly long lashes fringed around them. Her Cupid’s-bow lips smiled at me, and with her simple cotton dress and tiny shiny Mary Jane shoes, she was like one of those porcelain dolls that Sandra displayed in the cabinets lining the dining room wall.

The reminder pissed me off. It forced me to think of Sandra back at the house, and all her smiles and hugs and hurt looks.

I had the insane urge to hit this little girl. I’d never hit girls before, but now in this moment, I wanted to hit her.

“Hello,” the girl repeated again pleasantly, standing up. She twirled a flower stem between her fingers. I glared at her as my breathing slowed. I had gotten pretty good at glaring. I glared at the people at the police station. I glared at that man, Bill, and his wife, Sandra. I even glared at my classroom teacher. She wasn’t Mrs. Graves.

The girl kept standing there happily, almost expectantly, so I rubbed the sweat off my forehead with my dirty shirtsleeve, turned, and walked away before I really did hit her.

“Hey! Wait!” the small voice rang out behind me, but I ignored her. Little feet trotted and the girl came back into view.

“Are you the new boy? The one everyone is talking about?” She panted slightly trying to keep up.

“Leave me alone. I don’t talk to little girls,” I answered coldly, picking up the pace to walk faster. My heart was still pounding in my chest.

The girl skipped in step with me, not the slightest bit bothered by my change in pace. “I’m not little! I’m already five years old!” She stuck her entire right palm right in my face to show me five fingers. “I start school soon. What grade are you in?”

I didn’t answer her, but she didn’t take that as a hint to leave me alone. Instead, she decided it allowed space for more information.

“My name is Florence. Florence Vita Reynolds.” She grinned and pointed at herself. “My mom named me after her favorite place.”

“That’s a stupid name,” I snapped back at her. My name wasn’t much better, in a town where everyone was called John, Dick, and Jerry, with personalities just as generic.

She suddenly stilled and I continued to put distance between us.

“You can call me Florence,” she called shyly from behind.

I slowed and then stopped. I hesitated, but still turned around. “If that’s your name, what else would I call you? Of course I’d call you Florence.”

The girl called Florence was clueless. “Sometimes people call me Flo,” she added with a wider smile.

She was totally at ease, completely comfortable, and actually seemed almost as if she enjoyed talking to me. Florence waited patiently for me to answer, a small smile on her lips.

I said the only thing I could think of.

“Why are you talking to me?”

She shrugged and came closer. Then, this girl stuck out her hand and showed me the flower she’d been twirling.

“Everyone says you’re new. I’ve lived in St. Haven since forever, so I know it really well. But maybe you don’t? Want to see these flowers? They’re really pretty. I’ll show you where they grow!”

I stared at the flower. She was pinching the stem between her thumb and index finger.

“They grow off the apple trees. Sometimes in the summer, glowworms come out with the trees. They’re like fairies.”

I found my voice. “Fairies don’t exist.”

“Yeaaah, I said they were like fairies. Not real fairies, of course!” She rolled her eyes with a tiny laugh.

The laugh irritated me, so I snapped back, “You shouldn’t be talking to strangers. Didn’t your mom teach you anything?”

At the sound of my voice, the brightness in her expression finally dulled a bit. That bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Florence’s smile shrank and she glanced off to the side. “My mom told me to leave her alone, so I left …” Her voice trailed off and her whole body seemed to grow smaller. Her back hunched over and she drew her arms towards the center of her body, shriveling up like a plucked flower left out in the sun.

But then, like pulling a puppet on a string, she bounced back up with a wider smile. “And then you showed up, and now we can be friends! You’re Mr. Blair’s son, right? I know Mr. Blair and Mrs. Blair! They’re super nice, and if you’re their kid, then you must be super-duper nice too.”

“I’m not their kid,” I said shortly.

She cocked her head to the side, eyes wide. “Then why are you living with them?”

“It’s complicated. You wouldn’t get it.”

Florence considered this for a moment, rubbing her dying flower across her lips. She blinked twice, then grinned, conclusion made. “But you’ll be here for a while? You’ll be my friend?”

I made a groaning noise and then began walking away again. I didn’t need this. But like a puppy dog, the girl followed and kept chattering away.

“You sound funny. Your words sound weird. Kind of like my daddy’s friend who came to visit once. His words were long and Daddy said he was from a place called ‘the South.’”

“I’m from New Orleans,” I snapped.

“But Mr. Blair isn’t from New Orleans. Neither is Mrs. Blair. They’re from St. Haven.”

I threw up my hands. “I told you already, I’m not their kid!”

“Yeah, but you’re from New Orleans.” She nodded as if in understanding. I bet she wouldn’t be able to find Louisiana on a map even if it was labeled with big red letters and arrows.

“We speak differently down there,” I added with a sidelong glance her way.

She nodded again, solemnly, as if she got everything I was saying. I began walking faster, hoping to shake her.

But for the next ten minutes down the road, she continued to follow and chatter along. She spoke about her new baby brother, about her father’s job as a doctor, about her favorite patch of trees where fairies lived, her favorite food of chicken fingers, the color of her bedroom walls.

Finally I had enough and stopped abruptly along the path; Florence had been walking closely behind me and crashed into my back.

“Ouch!” she cried while rubbing the tip of her nose. I spun around on the ball of my heel and started walking back the way we came.

“Where are you going?” Florence’s short legs tripped over themselves to fall back in pace with me.

“I’m going to go back to the house now.”

Florence glanced behind us. “But your home is the other way.”

“That’s not my house! And you need to get back, so I’m walking you to your house before I go back to … that place.” I gave her with an annoyed expression. “You’re not walking all the way back to where I’m going and then waiting for your parents to come pick you up.”

“Oh,” Florence said. Her brow furrowed. “No, I’d just walk back home myself.”

“Little girls shouldn’t be walking along random highways by themselves. Don’t be stupid.” Not to mention she had been playing by herself on one. Didn’t her parents teach her anything? She was just asking to be roadkill. Well, if any cars ever came down this stretch. Maybe tractorkill.

But she didn’t seem too concerned. My last sentence satisfied her and she kept on her verbal trail of nonsense talk until we returned to her driveway and the blue mailbox.

“Okay!” the girl said brightly and skipped up to the mailbox. “This is it!” She slapped the side of the mailbox and it protested with a loud metallic echo. After twirling around the post, she smiled and said, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

I scowled. “No.”

She laughed. “You’re funny! Bye!”

But just as Florence turned around to skip up that dusty driveway to her home, I shocked myself by calling out to her.