Kiawah

Kiawah

Published by Jade Alyse at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Jade Alyse

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To my own music maker and to those who, too, have white picket dreams…

Our lives grew apart, it's been just over a year

For reasons I can't really tell you about here

Love wasn't nearly enough in the end

Please, will you tell him again?

That I hurt myself more than I ever hurt him

I wasn't as distant and cold as I seemed

I was lost all the way into my bones

I don't think he knows

When the dust had settled he moved on as well

He found a new girl that he loved, I could tell

And my mind started wandering jealously

Please, will you ask him from me?

If really he thought that I was the one

Or were we just sharing some time on the run

Did he love me with peace and with hope?

I don't really know...

Prologue

May 21, 2008

THERE WAS A PIERCING RAP against Loren Soto's front door that shot her out of her dream. She sat up erect, and she ushered a bevy of ebony coils out of her face. She attempted to focus her eyes into the nothingness as her sheets clung to her thighs. She took a deep breath, inhaling the thick June air from a partially opened window by her bed. And she closed her eyes, absorbing the sound once more before she shot to action.

I'm coming! she yelled toward her bedroom door, as the annoyingly rhythmic sound continued in the next room. The force behind the knock scared her to say the least, and she couldn't think of one person who would disturb her at such a late hour. She was so distracted by the frightening noise that she neglected to turn on the lamp in the living room, and she proceeded to stumble over an ivory loveseat.

She blurted out several curse words before regaining her stance and continuing her journey.

Confusion clouded her entire state of being then. She couldn't remember when and how she fell asleep, couldn't remember what day it was, and had even failed at an attempt to check her cellular phone on her nightstand for the time.

She exuded several inhales and exhales as she pressed her hands against the front door of her apartment and her heart began a violent cadence, proving to possess enough force to knock her over.

She didn't like what she saw before her eyes and she certainly didn't understand what it meant.

She only idly stared before her at a figure that blurred her state of mind even further.

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe...

What-what do you want?

Let me in!

She allowed the sound of his voice to run through her, knocking her down without the fuss of physical contact or further verbal manipulation.

Her mouth grew dry as she internally sauntered toward a quaint state of dizziness.

No!

Lo! Let me in, Lo!

His voice was just as deep as she remembered, just as authoritative, just as sure of itself when it voiced her name. She writhed beneath the sound of it as it passed through his lips.

She swore she wouldn't feel like that again. She swore it would be easier as it day passed.

Her fingers dawdled over the knob.

Baby, he whimpered. Baby, it's me...

He was drunk – she knew it. She could see the ruddiness in his eyes and over his face. He banged against the door once more.

I know you're there, he mumbled. I can feel you there, Lo...

Of course he could. He would always be able to feel her, sense her, be her...that was one of the more uncomplicated things between them.

She pressed her forehead against the wood surface and shook it from side to side, closing her eyes tightly.

Just go away, Nicky...

I don't need your fucking permission, he responded forcefully. I still have a key, remember...?

Damn it.

She slowly turned the lock and rotated the knob, bracing herself.

She would play it cool. That was the way things had to be. She was above this – she was above him.

He stood before her coolly, leaning against the doorjamb in a clinging black polo shirt and jeans. The smell of his cologne prevailed against the warming stench of alcohol on his hot breath.

She stared at him with an aloof countenance and pursed lips. But inside she was tumbling off a cliff, stalling midair, all in slow motion. Suddenly the ability to scream absconded her. Suddenly she was numb to any other emotion beside the way her heart beat.

She parted her lips to stealthily release an elongated sigh.

Lo... he breathed, grinning.

Her eyes fluttered with delight. His caramel skin still held the same smoothness, the same glow, the same dewy texture. His shoulders were still as broad and masterful as the first night she met him.

Beach bonfire. June. Two flighty, curious 14-year-olds.

I wish I knew what it felt like, she murmured.

What?

To grow tired of you...

He lunged out at her, grabbing at her hips and thighs, hiking her up, so that she clamped around him and claimed him. She grabbed his face with her hands, and kissed it over and over.

A tear sailed down her cheek.

I love you, he hummed against her lips. Then he repeated it...over and over and over. And she began to believe it as truth. It sunk into her brain like worms, promising no cure or exoneration.

She'd succumbed to only feeling. To loving him. To being him.

He splayed her body over the ivory loveseat and covered her body in his hands. They tumbled to the floor like clumsy wrestlers, and he pinned down her wrists. She gazed up at him in the moon-speckled darkness and remained silent, examining the smooth lines and curves of his face.

He was a beautiful man – and she was his fool.

The following morning she awoke in her bed and the sunlight stained her cheeks. She placed her hand on the cool space beside her and found it bodiless. She ambled slowly down a small corridor toward her living room, calling his name. It had become a general practice for her. If at any time she woke up and he wasn't there, she knew instantly that he was sitting in the living room, flicking through channels on her television, complaining about her basic cable package, and how she should have sprung for more sports and movie networks.

She rolled her eyes at the thought of it, expecting to see him there.

He wasn't.

She looked about the room curiously, calling his name again.

She then noticed a note stuck to the refrigerator door that wasn't there before. Her brows furrowed, Loren shuffled toward it and yanked it down.

Lo,

I'm sorry. I can't.

She crumbled the note in a tightened fist and closed her eyes stringently. And with her free hand, she moved toward a collection of jars on the counter, swung against them, and watched them clamor to the floor as she released a piercing scream.

PART ONE

One

LIFE CAN BE SO UGLY SOMETIMES. And confusing. And fucking inconvenient.

God is it inconvenient.

It's a tumbling mess of shards, glued together shoddily only to be torn apart again. And it only gets worse with time, with age, experience.

I can't believe you came to this wedding, Joseph Barry said, pulling her aside.

Loren Soto couldn't believe it either. She relentlessly asked herself why, but couldn't come to a conclusion that she felt comfortable with. And yet she still had the audacity to stand on that sprawling wooden terrace, with her pride somewhere buried in the ground, and watch Nicholas Grey marry Sadie Vansant.

The whole illusion of things plus the amount of red wine she'd consumed in the open bar was just enough to push her beyond the realm of dizziness deemed socially acceptable.

She gazed into Joey’s eyes, and read them much better than she ever did her own. She was still the fool she'd always been and there was no masking it anymore. She could pretend that she was fine with the whole scenario, but her innate stupidity would still continue to prevail.

She darkly enjoyed her constant tumble into putrefying nothingness.

Leave me alone, Joey, she murmured attempting to pull away from him. Her words grew slurred, and her skin tingled. She liked the feeling; the pain reminded her that she was alive.

How can I? he said.

He cared too much; but it had always been that way. Not too long ago they were two sixth graders, she, being tortured daily for her thick mane of dry and untamed curls and Groucho Marx eyebrows, and he, for being just a little too feminine. They'd collaborated over a shared disgust and repulsion for normalcy.

He was her best friend because she couldn't imagine anyone (male or female) understanding her as well as he did.

But, admittedly, she knew he wouldn't understand this particular action as much as he tried. He would never be able to understand her pull toward Nicholas Grey, even when things were so starkly settled before her eyes.

She inhaled and exhaled deeply, taking in the thick, balmy June air as it brushed passed her face.

Nicholas Gray kissed Sadie Vansant on the lips once. And then he looked at her; he, with those big, black eyes of his. They were pools of some irrefutable poison that she'd fallen victim to a time or two before. And tilted his head a little, and the ardency of his gaze slowly pulled her asunder. Her own eyes flitted and fluttered witlessly beneath it.

She realized that it was her who cared too much.

I'll be back, she said.

Where are you going? he asked her.

For a walk, she replied plainly.

She'd never really gotten into the habit of explaining her actions or her feelings very well. They just sort of came out, one after the other, and she never really second-guessed herself.

She never really prevented herself either.

She took a few steps away from Joey, but not far enough out of earshot that she didn't catch him release a heavy huff of air after her, as if his frustrations with her would soon get the better of him.

She couldn't honestly say that she cared.

She momentarily paused her sauntering to flag down an attendant and grab another glass of red wine.

She really couldn't help herself...

She started a slow and steady pace through the throngs of people, who both recognized her instantly and didn't know what to say to her, or knew of her and had maybe heard a rumor of what she looked like. Neither one of those scenarios gave her enough drive to pause and worry about it.

But she bumped into someone anyway, and he tarried long enough to ogle at her as though she had a big blue eye sitting on the bridge of her nose for everyone to see. She stared back at the man, whose sporadic scruff of black hair around his jawline and upper lip kept him from looking like a kid fresh out of high school. She glared back warily, as his general ethnicity was hard to place, and the reason for his proximity was even more so. She wanted to assume that he was a boy with nothing more than a wandering eye that just so happened to land on her much longer than she felt readily comfortable with.

Yes? she replied sharply, placing the edge of the wine glass on her lips.

He narrowed his eyes at her. They were long, almond black slits with dark, thick eyelashes. Some long gone Native American ancestor that he probably had no idea about could have easily given them to him.

And she couldn't believe that she'd stood there long enough to study them...

Nothing, he shrugged. I'm sorry...

She rolled her eyes in his face, huffed loudly and continued on her path.

She entered to house to find it quiet and abandoned. What the Vansants may have lacked in other areas of their lives, they made up for in impeccable taste.

A massive home of brick and stone, sitting on the edge of a manmade lake, was the highlight of Summerville and Charleston beyond it. Lofty, vaulted ceilings, brightly painted walls, and Brazilian cherry hardwood, made for a look that appeared as though it came straight out of Southern Living.

She would assume, for her own personal sanity, that if he hadn’t gotten Sadie pregnant, they wouldn’t be in this predicament, and she wouldn’t have hated his goddamn guts so much.

They would have still been together. It was much easier than totally owning up to the idea that maybe they'd never been quite right together, and the nearly fifteen years of love and complication between them was all a well-dressed, and orgasmic-scented invention.

There was a plan that they were always supposed to follow; a streamlined and well-illuminated course that stood out before them. And it always seemed to make sense, even when things between them were at their breaking point.

Loren released a heavy breath and slammed her glass down on the smooth, marble countertop, and closed her eyes tightly.

It was a dream, she was convinced.

It was a menacing cloak of finality, and the truth was somewhere buried underneath it all.

She would open her eyes again and everything would be as it should.

She would love Nicky, and he would love her.

And all of those years of helplessly sauntering toward him like a moth to a flame wouldn't be in vain.

She didn't know if she could stand another well-wisher congratulate the happy couple on their bullshit nuptials.

I can't believe you came...

She recognized the voice instantly, but couldn't think of any reason why she wanted to turn around and acknowledge it.

She only pursed her lips, reached for her glass again, and tousled her hair a little.

What do you want? she asked quietly.

You can't even turn around and look at me?

I don't see the need, Reese...

Daniela Reese Delgado. She felt ashamed for considering her to be something like a best friend the past seven years. She met the Mexican graduate student through Cole one summer. She and Cole had shared at least three classes together, enjoyed March Madness, and ventured to almost every football game at the University of South Carolina. An immediate, thoughtless and sinfully carefree friendship between Loren and Reese quickly followed. She felt stupid, really; letting someone like her into her life, when all she did was take Cole’s side when things went awry.

Bastards – the both of them! It only perpetuated her reasoning behind turning to herself, closing inward, drying up like a raisin in the sun.

It's not that Nicholas did anything wrong, Reese told her once. You just don't understand the depth of the situation...

She understood every nook and cranny, elevation and gravity of their relationship and the situation. She understood Nicholas' predicament; she understood Nicholas. She didn't need rhyme or reason or a sign or excessive analysis to understand that she'd lost him to a person that she never expected to. And she understood that her best friend was in on the entire secretive scheme, that had been blinded to Loren for months.

It's really better if we deal with this now, Loren, Reese encouraged. She could sense her moving closer.

Loren only huffed and rolled her eyes. Get through what, exactly, Reese?

At this point in time she turned around and glared at her. She had the sort of hooded gaze that was more intimidating and alarming than it was soothing. She'd tried to adjust the countenance in the past but got a dark pleasure out of watching people flinch beneath it.

Reese didn't respond. She only rolled her lips in. Loren carefully watched as every inch of confidence Reese once had drained from her eyes.

I'm fine, Loren responded confidently, articulating each word sharply. I've been fine for a long time...and I'll be fine. There's no sense in pretending like you care very much for me. Your intentions are masked by something that I'm nice enough to refrain from saying out loud...

Then Loren stalked out of the house, carrying her glass of wine with her.

She'd spent many summers outside on those grounds, running around aimlessly with Sadie and her older sister, Alana, along the edges of the manmade lake, coursing through a series of trimmed honeysuckle bushes and lofty willows, and into the rose garden, a genuine maze of sorts, getting lost in their own vibrant imaginations until the sun went down.

It was this particular place that Loren removed her wedged shoes and tossed her half-empty glass of wine aside in the grass somewhere. And as she slowly ambled toward the rose garden, she couldn't discern whether she was actually swaying from side to side or if the breeze was carrying her. Whatever the scenario, the silky draft prompted her to close her eyes and absorb it. And she laughed at herself. She laughed and she laughed and she laughed at the audacity of it all.

She couldn't believe it. She probably never would be able to.

And she swore that she heard her and Sadie's childish laughter. They are eight years old all over again, and the Hershey-skinned princess is chastising her for her knobby knees and bushy hair.

Then Loren dropped to her knees in the plush grass. The fragrance of the roses was something that she'd never be able to forget.

Neither was her friendship with Sadie.

Her stomach ached and tightened from the laughter, and the tears started to flow. They hiccupped in her chest, proving the force of an impending eruption.

She stifled it before it had a real chance and gathered to her feet.

She knew what she was doing and she didn't like it, even though she had no control over it.

She was hiding. She was running. And she never really had the stomach for it before.

She was standing in a rose garden, drowning in her feelings, while happiness was unfolding just a few paces away from her.

She was being undoubtedly foolish again.

At any moment in time, she was certain that Joey would come running after her, abundantly shaking his head at her, invading her ear space with the monotonous redundancy that was I told you so.

She knew it quite well – she shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have seen him, standing next to her oldest friend, in his tuxedo, looking down at her, claiming her with his eyes.

She should have remained blissfully ignorant to everything going on between them.

Life, at that isolated moment in time, would have been much better.

Loren heard a rustling of the bushes near her and it startled her to remission. Her eyes widened to the chilling sensation that it gave her, and she steadily attempted to move away from it.

She was only a few seconds away from, however, lurching into a full-length sprint back toward the house.

Joey…? she asked quietly, slowly. Joey, if that’s you, I’m fine…just walk your little black ass back to the house and leave me alone…I’m fine…

Saying that she was fine produced a well-lit illusion in her head that she actually was and that she could handle it. Suddenly everything about where she was standing and the aesthetics of it all made the chimera all the more euphoric.

Fine, she smiled. I’ll go back to the house and I’ll dance with you…if you’ll show yourself…you’re starting to creep me out…

But when he revealed himself, dawdling in the fragmented, sapphire shadows of the rose bush beside which he stood, he was not Joey and did not resemble him remotely.

Her first instinct was to scream, and then to run, but neither of those happened. Instead, she stood perfectly still, allowing her stark black coils to blow into her face, proving a menace to a clear view of the man standing before her.

It’s amazing, he said calmly, a grin lighting up his glowing brown face.

She only stared at him in disbelief.

I can go months and months without hearing from you or seeing you, he continued, shoving his hand into the pocket of his tuxedo. But I’ll always know you better than I ever knew myself…as unpredictable and spontaneous as you think you are, you’ll never change…

She subdued the burgeoning emotion, swallowing it down thickly.

And he started to move toward her.

She knew what it meant. She knew what could happen. But she couldn’t move.

Her lips began to quiver in his nearness. Her insides tingled. She grew dizzy.

Loren Soto’s plight was fast approaching – but she had no way of knowing how to stop it.

A surge of the years and the memories and the feelings and the longevity between them boar through her.

Nicholas Grey only moved closer to her. She could smell him, feel his warmth.

And then she heard someone faintly call his name.

Someone was looking for him. Someone loved him. Someone else cared for him.

He halted his movement, and she stood in awe of his proximity.

They only looked at each other.

And Sadie called her husband’s name again. Cole! Cole, where are you?

Just go, Loren murmured. Please, Nicky, just go…

He turned away from her and started toward his wife. But he stopped, and he released a heavy sigh.

You’re my best friend, Lo, he said slowly, methodically.

He chuckled emptily at the audacity of his own words, and continued on his path.

And Loren Soto got into her car and headed back toward her apartment in North Charleston. With all of her windows rolled down, she turned up the volume on her CD player, and shuddered at the sound that came out. It was their song. It was them.

It was Kiawah.

Two

June 7, 1995

SHE MET HIM FOR THE FIRST TIME at a bonfire amongst a group of fourteen-year-old high school freshmen, who chose to escape the goings-on of an adult mixer at the Vansant house down the shore of Kiawah Island. He stood beside Jennifer Atwood from her Anatomy class, and was by all accounts considerably taller than most of the boys his age. From quiet Summerville, his skin reminded her of a gentle blending of Brazilian cherry and warm maple wood. His dark eyes flickered like the flame.

He appeared quiet and unaffected, and his hand was carelessly shoved into his slouching jean pocket. And for reasons unknown to her, she’d secured a home in the bed of his eyes, as a casual smile of returned sentiment slowly crept across his easy face. They exchanged names coyly, and his eyes never left her face. She instantly became intimidated by his glare, and shocked by the bubbling sensation of nervousness, rumbling in her stomach.

July 4, 1995

They were a group of friends who met on Kiawah Island for the Fourth of July fireworks show that all their parents dragged them to. It was at the Vansant house, a multimillion-dollar Queen Anne-style edifice of stained glass, turn-of-the-century grape cluster motifs, and gingerbread trim, used solely for the purpose of entertaining as many summer guests as possible. There were eight of them, all with the mutual understanding that they wanted to be somewhere else, far away from the mindless chatter of adults, but close enough to the fireworks to believe that life was more than showy parties and opulent coastal affairs. It was then that he caught her sitting in a bed of grassy sand in front of a row of broken fences with a sketching notebook in her hands.

He knelt beside her. He smelled like the breeze.

What are you doing?

She sighed then. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing this side of her, even in her teenaged haze, she realized that he was the type of person who took the time to understand, who was genuinely interested, who focused well. He was much unlike the other boys at her school. His cool reserve was startling.

Drawing the horizon, she said plainly. Her brown eyes met his. He plopped down on his bottom. Their naked thighs grazed each other’s. She sucked in her breath.

You’re good, he said. She smiled timidly.

He was different than the rest of her friends; he was quieter, more aware, far more serious.

And he’d only just turned fifteen.

But she liked that about him, liked the fact that while the rest of them were more concerned about having fun, he could sit back and appreciate a sunset as much as she could. He’d started calling her Lo, and the moniker caught on so well, that her other friends followed suit. Suddenly she felt like a different person; someone who was more in tune with him, someone who garnered affection from a person who kept nearly one hundred percent of his thoughts and feelings to himself.

It was then that they almost kissed, as a set of three fireworks blasted the dark sky. He’d leaned in slowly; she could feel his breath cool the heated sweat on her brow. His proximity ignited a pit in her young soul that hadn’t been tapped into before.

They were completely alone, and she internally promised to never forget that moment. And then the youngest Vansant girl showed up, wedging herself in between, barraging them with a dozen questions about why they’d snuck away, why they’d been gone so long.

They didn’t answer – it was their little secret. And he never tried to kiss her again.

June 12, 1999

Her parents dragged her to a Moonlight Mixer. She was seventeen, curious and flighty, and unwilling to subject herself to the monotonous babble she expected would be involved in such an event. They would drink wine on the veranda, shag till their feet were sore, and talk about how great their lives were because they were wealthy and powerful, because they were Charleston’s elite.

She snuck away to the shore, feeling the desire to escape climb her limbs, and Joseph Barry followed her. They’d been inseparable since the age of five, and though they both acknowledged the fact that a separation named College would be coming soon, they knew that it wouldn’t change a thing about them.

Need company? he asked her coolly. Of course she did; Joey was one of the very few people who could be a part of her space without her feeling completely smothered. She laced her fingers with his, knowing that he’d never be attracted to her in a million years; not since he rebelliously came out to his parents in the ninth grade, changing the way they looked at him completely.

They walked slowly, methodically, hearing the rush of the waves to the left of them, feeling the roll of the black current run across their feet. Joey kicked at the water, and the salty liquid splashed onto her sundress. She squealed as the breeze created a cool sensation along her skin.

You’re quiet, he said. She only shrugged her shoulders. There wasn’t a need for words. Charleston’s coast had always had that power over her, and in a few weeks, she would leave it all behind for the next four years. And she didn’t know what she’d do. It had been the core of inspiration for all the paintings she’d created, sitting Indian-style in a meadow right beside her childhood home. She’d watch the current move beneath a wild gust of wind, watch the blue sky melt into a pink sunset, smell the salt, and mimic it all in a sketching notebook that she insisted on carrying everywhere. For years her home had served as a paradox to her soul – the sense of stability and comfort that she longed for but never really could achieve.

They saw the wild crackle of a bonfire ahead of them, saw grey shadows moving about it, and heard minute chatter as they drew closer. She recognized a few faces from school, and decided that it was best that she spoke to them, undoing any awkwardness that may ensue. And he was there, standing casually in the darkness, the flames highlighting his face. She smiled. They were now friends who saw each other every weekend, who knew the island like the backs of their hands. They now spent hours on the phone, talking about anything and everything, including the people they were dating. And by summer’s start, they had mutually concluded that no person in their realm of discovery could nearly match how perfect they were for one another – they were young twin souls. And they never forgot that moment on the sand three years prior. He was still tall, still reserved, but had developed a type of pretense that she found strangely endearing. He removed his hands from his slouchy jean pockets and she dropped Joey’s. And he wrapped them around her swiftly. He still smelled like the breeze.

And they saw each other every day from that moment on, breathing each other in, knowing that they now cared for each other much more than they did the day before, or the day before that. She now called him Nicky – nobody else was allowed to. He enjoyed simple things, but expressed that he had one clear dream – to become an architect and build the house of his dreams. His steady demeanor, his uncomplicated essence intimidated her, as she realized that she was the type of person who couldn’t sit still for more than five seconds, whose skin was the only thing keeping her from being everywhere at once. She realized, even with her young heart, that he had enough power to steady her, center her, reel her in. She had fallen more in love than she was willing to admit, more in love than she ever thought she’d be at seventeen, but not in love enough to stay in Charleston and go to school with him.

I’ll wait for you, he said. And that is what she held onto.

June 15, 2003

She’s afraid to see him again. She keeps reliving the four-hour long conversation they’d had the Christmas before, when she explained that she couldn’t come home. He thought she didn’t want to. He’s tired of her flightiness, he’s tired of her always putting her schoolwork first, he’s tired of the three years worth of phone tag between them. The summers aren’t enough to satiate their relationship…or what’s left of it.

You always do this, Lo, he tells her. You always say you will and then you don’t…

I will be busy, she explains. My family understands that, why can’t you?

She’s certain that he figures she’s seeing someone else and doesn’t want to tell him. But they end things right then and there – he thinks that if all communication is shut down now, all future feelings will be spared. The uneasy sense of conclusion still leaves them drowning in heartbreak.

She calls him that hot summer morning to tell him that she’s home finally. She’s missed every holiday since Thanksgiving. She’s twenty-one now, and every facet of her soul still mimics a bird.

She hopes that he still understands her. She doesn’t know what to expect when she ventures across the Cooper River Bridge to Kiawah. She doesn’t know what feelings remain.

She sees him for the first time in months – his feet are buried in the moistened sand, his skin is warm, darker, and his eyes are weary. She wants to move closer, but she can’t help but ignore the intimidating emotions lurking inside of her. She relives all scents, sounds and sights of his proximity, and it carries her back to the night of fireworks, both internal and physical. She’s fallen