Chapter 15

Kennedy

 

My heart hammers erratically in my chest.

I should leave.

I never should have come.

Violet is probably feeling like I’ve abandoned her. She drove all this way, and I ran in the opposite direction.

Grace is likely going to have a nightmare because our schedule has taken such a wide detour—something that often triggers her negative thoughts to devour every positive one.

Outside the sky is getting darker by the second, and the rain is coming down so hard and fast, it’s difficult to see anything aside from the bright lightning flashes overhead.

I drop my head back and take a deep breath. In addition to Vi and my family, I’m sure Jackson’s annoyed. He came to check on me, and I left him, too.

Another glance out the window, and I make the resolution that as soon as the rain eases, I’ll leave. If I go now, they’ll only be more upset with me because of the potential risks. I take a deep breath and look around, taking in the space. It’s smaller than I had expected, not covering more than half of the garage. The shiplap walls have been painted white, and the floor is covered in wide-planked oak boards. Opposite of the door we came in is a queen bed with a whitewashed headboard and two small tables on either side of it. A dresser sits against another wall with a TV above it. Four wood-framed windows all have curtain rods but no treatments, giving the space an unfinished and bare appearance. Somehow, I find it welcoming in contrast to the chaos in my own current bedroom.

The water turns off, and Joey’s sentiment about hoping for a cold shower has me wishing he’d stayed in there longer. I’m not ready to try and navigate what’s between us.

Within moments, he opens the bathroom door, releasing the faint aroma of cologne and soap to compete against the scents from the Chinese food. He’s wearing a plain white V-neck T-shirt and a pair of navy-blue shorts that hit him at his knees.

Joey drops a handful of laundry into the hamper, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders roll. He grabs the bag of food sitting next to the TV. “Sorry there aren’t many options for sitting,” he says, taking a seat on the bed.

“Oh, it’s no problem.” I shake my head, looking around to see if a table would even fit. “This space is actually really beautiful.”

Joey looks up from where he’s emptying the small takeout containers across the bed, his brown eyes bright with the humor his lips allude to. “Did you look through my drawers and nightstands while I was in the shower?”

“No!” I cry. “I would never!”

He chuckles. “You should’ve. I totally would’ve looked through your bedroom if you would’ve have left me in it.”

“You would not.”

Joey’s lips form a line and he nods. “Yup.”

“Good to know. You can consider yourself permanently banned.”

“I didn’t know I’d been invited.” His eyebrows dance high with insinuation.

“It’s hard for me to believe you have so many sisters when you act like such a jerk sometimes.”

His eyes stretch. “What did I do?” He laughs because he knows. He totally knows.

Still, I tell him, “You twist words.”

His wide smile distracts me as he laughs. “I learned that from my sisters. They also sharpened my skills of sarcasm, rolling my eyes, and paying far too much attention to other people’s emotions. Don’t tell my brother, but he might have been my saving grace because I finally had someone to beat up and compete against.”

I’m laughing before I can stop it, and Joey’s shoulders fall as he joins along. “So are you telling me you’re all talk?”

His lips curl into a grin. “Maybe. But do you really want to find out?” His brown eyes are startlingly intense and serious as he stares at me, showing his question isn’t rhetorical.

I keep his gaze, uncertain of how to reply. My logical thoughts are debating if he’s referring to snooping through my room—and all of my emotional thoughts are hoping he’s not.

“When are you planning to move back to Boston?”

His sudden question has me blinking away thoughts in an attempt to catch up. “Boston?”

Joey nods. “You said you wanted to go back. Is that still the plan?”

“Yeah . . . I mean, I think so.”

“You think so?” His responses are coming too fast.

“I don’t know . . .” I sit on the edge of his bed and drop my chin into my palm. “Being back here makes me feel like I’ve totally failed at this adulting thing. I mean, I’m living back at home with my parents and sister. My room is the same as it was when I moved out over a decade ago, and so is my bathroom and the rest of the house. It’s like I’ve entered a time warp.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re now considering moving back.”

“I just . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m not.”

“You’ve missed Haven Point, haven’t you?” His eyes narrow with thought.

“Yes, but it’s also really weird being back. I don’t feel like I fit here anymore. So many things have changed—so many people have changed. It’s like they resent me being back. Like me leaving was the same as me turning my back on them, even though they all were so excited for me when I did.”

“Time changes everything. I’m sure you’ve changed a lot, too.”

“It doesn’t feel like I’ve changed at all. Being back has really shown me that.”

“Why didn’t you choose to stay in Boston, then? Why not stay with your friend or something?”

“You asked me this before,” I remind him.

“Are you really here for you? Or are you here for Grace?”

I sigh heavily. “I thought I was here for me. I mean, I definitely needed help. My financial situation was getting grim. But Grace being here was a welcomed excuse.”

“And now?”

“Now leaving seems like it would be almost cruel.”

“You can’t change the course of your life for someone else. If living in Boston is what’s going to make you happy, you need to do that. Otherwise, you’ll resent her and this entire town.”

I swiftly shake my head. “You’re forgetting that when I was a kid, I never wanted to leave.”

“Would you open your bakery if you stayed?”

My weight rests on the balls of my feet because I’m barely seated on the bed, my shoulders tight. I shrug and then slowly nod as the idea blossoms in my mind.

Joey stares at me silently, then smiles. “I bet you’re a good baker.”

“What makes you say that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “A hunch. Plus, I’ve heard a few rumors about your brownies.”

Pride fills me—a decade has passed since I’ve baked brownies for anyone in Haven Point.

Joey suddenly moves his attention to the takeout cartons and begins opening them.

The wind howls, and the rain goes from falling on the roof to splattering against the windows.

“It’s really coming down out there,” I say.

Joey nods, opening the last box. “Is Grace struggling with being back?”

“Are you indirectly asking me about what you heard, again?”

He grabs a plastic fork and a pair of chopsticks and holds them out to me, his gaze once again heavy on me. “I wasn’t trying to spy on you guys. I didn’t even know you were there. I was going for a jog, and heard a scream. I was trying to help.”

“You saw it all?”

Joey nods. “I was going to head back because you seemed to have the situation under control, and I didn’t want to interrupt things or chance making them worse, but then she didn’t come above water, and you looked terrified.”

“So you jumped in?”

His head tilts as he shrugs. My heart spins.

“Has she done that before?”

“You have to be more specific. A lot happened that day.”

“Is she suicidal?”

Once more, I reach another crossroad. The highway of guilt is heavily dotted with lies and regrets, and the highway of honesty looks nearly lethal because of the slick spills of responsibility coating so much of it.

“I don’t know what you know about bipolar disorder. For some reason, the general public is under the false assumption that everyone diagnosed with it is a danger to themselves and society. The diagnosis has such an ugly stigma surrounding it.” I rub my lips together, processing memories of the school board wanting to talk to my parents about the safety risks Grace could potentially pose. “People with bipolar disorder aren’t monsters. Grace never hurt anyone or wanted to hurt herself, it’s just her moods fluctuate greatly—and really fast sometimes.” I fiddle with the back of an earring, struggling to keep years of secrets securely put away in the confines of my memories. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the rain or the dim lighting, or maybe it’s just Joey, but for the first time in my life, I want to share every single story with him. “Grace struggled with certain things, but for the most part her moods were controlled, until she got in a relationship with a man who told her that the medications she took to help moderate her moods impacted who she was. He thought her differences should be celebrated and allowed, not masked. And in some ways, I agreed with him. She had told me that she couldn’t fully feel an emotion while taking her medications. Like something would happen, and she knew she should be happy or sad or scared, but she wouldn’t fully experience it.” I search Joey’s face for understanding. “Can you imagine knowing you should be happy but not feeling the emotions that come with it? It didn’t seem fair. But my parents were really against her going off them, and so Grace shut everyone out and did it anyway.

“When she was young and experiencing a high period, she wanted to do things like bake a cake or race me across the pond or pick up every single pine needle in the yard, things that weren’t risky or dangerous for anyone. But I never saw any of her highs when she stopped taking her meds as an adult. I was in college, and she was living in Wisconsin, but once in a while she’d call me and start talking a million miles an hour. She once tried to explain her highs to me, telling me it was like watching four shows all at the same time, and I believe it. Her mind would go a million miles an hour and in so many directions, it was impossible to keep up with her. She’d be talking about what she wanted to accomplish and what she was worried about and how things at her work were doing, and then veer over to my schooling, then Mom and Dad and Haven Point, and then she’d start telling me about things she heard in the news and her yoga class.”

Joey smiles kindly, and I realize I’m smiling, too.

“When she was on a high, everything seemed possible to Grace. Nothing was out of reach or too difficult. Apparently, one night while on a high, she decided she wanted to paint her bedroom. So at one in the morning, she started driving around, looking for a place that was open and carried painting supplies.” I rake my nails across my forehead, thinking of her alone in that parking lot, like I have tens of thousands of times. “She found a hardware store and was waiting for it to open, and some guy who happened to be driving by noticed her. He invited her to go have a drink with him at his house, and she went. She went willingly, and he raped her.” I grit my teeth and shake my head. “He got away with it because Grace has a mental disorder and wasn’t taking her medications. Because she had chosen to trust him and go with him. He said she was into it—into him. She says she begged him to stop.” I release a shallow breath. “I don’t know why she went with him or what happened that night, but I do know that Grace isn’t crazy. She understands what’s happening during both her highs and her lows.

“But she doesn’t trust herself anymore. She doesn’t believe her emotions or what she’s feeling or seeing. She blames herself for being raped, and it’s made her paranoid. She won’t sleep with all the lights off, and she wears tennis shoes to bed because she believes if she had worn them that night, she would’ve been able to get away.”

Joey places an opened container of food that he’s yet to touch on the nightstand beside him. He stands and then kneels in front of me.

I keep going. “She tried to kill herself a month after it happened. She sat in her car in the same parking lot and overdosed on heroin. My sister, who had never touched drugs, tried to end her life with heroin.” Tears burn my eyes as I take a deep breath, and Joey reaches out, resting his hand on my bare knee. His touch is warm and strangely comforting, just like it is to share this with him. “She checked into a state psychiatric ward and was there for a month before we could find her. A month,” I repeat. “No one called my parents or even her boyfriend to tell them she’d been in the hospital, arrested, and sent to be evaluated. She lay in a bed with straps around her ankles and wrists for weeks, and after having been raped, you can imagine how that messed with her mind and emotions.”

I can tell he understands, that with his line of work, he’s likely heard a hundred other stories that are equally disturbing and horrifying. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Six years ago. She’s improved a lot—a lot.” I stress the word. “Before, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her or sit close to her—but couldn’t handle being alone, either. She’s overcome so much, but there’s a lot of fears and demons she still struggles with.”

Joey nods before tipping his head back and slowly scanning my face. “Trauma doesn’t happen to just the victim, it affects the whole family—especially when you’re close.”

My neck stiffens. I don’t know that I really agree with him. Sure, I graduated a year later than expected because I stopped going in order to help my sister and parents. Yes, I was up for shifts in the middle of the night with her and learned to sleep with lights on and chase invisible demons that consumed far too many of her thoughts. But the pain and trauma I’ve experienced is so slight in comparison to what she’s endured. From being called crazy—and believing those same allegations—to then being raped and living with the aftermath.

“I didn’t mean to unload on you! I’ve successfully trespassed, ruined your dinner, and have now aired all of my dirty laundry—welcome to Haven Point!” I smile, and strangely it feels genuine.

His chin dips. “It’s okay that you’re done talking about it for now. I totally understand how hard it can be to spend prolonged periods in dark thoughts like that, but if you want to talk about it more, you can always reach out to me.”

I look past him to one of the windows because it’s too hard to maintain his gaze right now when I feel so exposed after what I’ve just shared. I fear that if I do, I might be inclined to tell him everything about me, even things that aren’t important. “I appreciate that.”

“I have just one question.”

I press my lips together and look back at Joey when he doesn’t continue, wondering which stitch he’s going to pull loose.

“Is that why you hated me so much? You thought Ben Holden was getting off?”

My tears blur his face. I want to ask questions about the case, plead with him to verify Holden is in fact guilty, but I know that’s only for my own benefit and would be asking him to jeopardize his job and the oath he’s made. Instead, I nod and hope beyond measure that Joey is as good as he seems and that Ben Holden will eventually pay for the crimes he committed that took too much from his victims.

“I can’t talk much about it since it’s an active and open case, but I can assure you that if I were still leading it, there’s no way in hell I’d be anywhere but at the office.”

Joey’s fingers constrict around my knee. “Tell me about Violet.”

“You’re not going to ask me about Grace and whether she’s taking medications again or if she’s seeing a psychologist or anything?”

Joey sits back on his heels. His dark hair, which is always pushed back, falls forward, still wet from his shower. On impulse, I reach over and softly rake my nails against his scalp. His hair sifts between my fingers. With a single pass, I pull back, slightly mortified that I touched him with so little thought and complete lack of warning or invite. Joey’s eyes are closed, his chin raised. My fingers itch to make the same path, and when he doesn’t move for several seconds, I do.

The second time my fingers run through his hair, Joey’s shoulders drop like a wall of defense, and with the third pass his dark-brown eyes open. They’re more almond-shaped than round, and his eyelashes aren’t particularly long, but they’re full and the color of ink, making his eyes so distinctive. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow shades his jaw, and like I did the day I backed into him, I find myself staring at his lips for too long.

“You should eat,” I tell him, pulling my hand back. “Your dinner’s probably cold.”

“Wasn’t I told that the sun is God’s oven and keeps all food hot here during the summer months?” His hand slides just above my knee, and my heart races with hopes and fears and a million other emotions that are too small in comparison to label.

With a brief squeeze, Joey stands and reaches for the box he’d set upon the nightstand. “This Chinese restaurant is surprisingly good for being here in this small town.”

“Is it?”

He looks up at me through those jet-black eyelashes. “You haven’t tried it before?”

I shake my head. “It’s new. Believe it or not, this town has nearly doubled in size since I moved away.”

With stretched eyes, he looks at me. “How big was your graduating class in high school?”

“Ninety-seven.”

His head falls back as he laughs. “Ninety-seven? I can’t even imagine! I had over two thousand kids in my class.”

I chuckle. “It was nice, though. We all knew each other and were friends. Granted, I think I like it more now looking back than I did at the time.”

“Didn’t it feel like you were dating your cousins when you were growing up?”

I laugh harder, louder. “You don’t want to hear about the dating stories of small towns. It starts sounding a little like incest when you hear about a guy dating his ex’s best friend for the third time.”

Joey’s deep laughter mixes with mine—jovial and sincere.

“You can take your pick, chopsticks or the fork?” Joey grabs the utensils again. I opt for the chopsticks.

“I don’t have plates up here, so you’ll have to just dig in.”

Suddenly, the scents of chilies, peppers, and ginger have me starving—or possibly it’s Joey’s eager expression.