Unafraid

“Working on a ranch?” I can practically see my mom’s lip curl with disdain. “That’s not a life, not for a Covington.”

“It was good enough for grandpa.” I stroll over to the windows and rest my forehead against the cool glass. This was why I skipped graduation, and all my parents’ bullshit. The minute my last paper was done, I traded my birthday BMW in for a pick-up truck, threw some clothes in a bag, and hit the road. Eleven hours down the coast with nothing to do but think, but somehow, with every mile I felt lighter: driving away from their legacy, to a future of my own making.

“My father was a fool,” Mom replies bluntly. “What are you going to do for money out there? Don’t think your father and I are going to support this foolish plan.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” I state firmly. “Grandpa left me the land, and some left over, and I’ll earn the rest.”

“Training horses,” there’s that familiar sneer again. “Honey, I don’t know where this is coming from. We had it all planned out: Yale, then law school—”

“I never wanted to go to law school,” I interrupt, clenching my fist. This is what she does, badger you with her own plans until it’s easier to go along with it all.

But not this time. I’ve had enough.

“Then business school,” my mom corrects, “Or even straight to the company, working with your dad. We’ve been talking, and there’s a seat opening up on the board—”

“No, mom, stop it!” My voice rings out, harsh, and there’s silence.

“I’m sorry,” I bite back my frustration, “But you’re not listening. I’m not coming home, I’m not joining the firm. This is it, mom, it’s done.”

“I just can’t stand to see you throwing away all your potential. You’re not a kid anymore, Hunter. You have responsibilities.” She tries again, but it’s late, and I’m too tired for this. Seeing Brit again like that has got me on edge, too wound up to go another ten rounds with my mother and wind up exactly where we started.

“I got to go mom,” I tell her. “You take care, OK?”

“Hunter—”

I hang up, and take a deep breath, gazing out at the dark fields. It’s quiet out there, unnervingly so. This empty space is still new to me, echoing nothing but the chirp of the crickets in the grass. Back at college, lights blazed everywhere, and noise too; late night parties in the dorm, and 24/7 takeout joints lining the streets in the student ghettos. I could always find a distraction, something to block my own thoughts, but here, the nearest property is over a mile away, and tonight, there’s nothing but silence.

I go get another beer and flip the TV on to drown the quiet. Some old movie is playing, Cool Hand Luke, but I can’t concentrate. As two beers turn into four, and five, I slip into a sleepy haze and the memories start coming. The way I knew they would; the way they always do.

“Bet you ten bucks.”

“Dude, make it fifty.”

“That’s right, I forgot, you’ve got that graduation check burning a hole in your pocket.” I laugh, passing Jace the blunt to smoke. “Or should I call it the down payment on your soul?”

“Aww, man, don’t say it like that.” Jace exhales in a long sigh, smoke billowing out over the dock. He looks at the joint. “This is good stuff, where’d you find it?”

I shrug. “Some guy at a bar. And don’t change the subject. I can’t believe you’re signing up to play dad’s lapdog come fall.”

Jace rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I won’t even be in his department, I bet I won’t see him at all.”

“Except for lunch, and client dinners, and weekends playing golf at the club…” I tease, only half-joking. “I’m serious, man. Working in that place is like a death sentence. They’ll have your name over the door before you know it. Covington and Son.”

“Sons,” Jace corrects me with a smirk. “You know he’ll be gunning for you too. Just a matter of time.”

I groan, reaching for the joint again. “You ever think what it would be like if we weren’t… us?” I ask, wistful. The ocean is dark and limitless beyond the harbor, and I wonder for the hundredth time what it would be like to sail off to nowhere. “Just two regular kids, I mean, with none of this Covington bullshit to deal with.”

Jace looks at me like I’m crazy. “You want to be just another regular Joe? We’re lucky. We can do anything we want.”

“Anything mom and dad want.” I correct.

He laughs. “You’ll see. You’ll grow up soon, and you’ll realize people don’t get breaks like us. We can run this whole damn state one day. Congressman. Governor. “

“Why stop there?” I remark, sarcastic. “Why not make it President?”

“Why not?” Jace gives me a grin so cocky I have to toss a bag of chips at him.

“Douche.”

“Asshole.”

“Dickwad.”

Jace launches himself at me, and we tumble to the dock, tussling the way we’ve done ever since he was old enough to get me in a choke hold. For years, I struggled uselessly in his grips—four years older is a lot in kid wrestling terms—but ever since I filled out and made the football team as a linebacker, I’ve given him a run for his money.

This time, I nearly have him, until Jace flips me out of nowhere, and I wind up slammed facedown on the dock. “I get it, dude,” I protest, slamming the boards in defeat. “You’re still in shape—for an old man.”

“Watch it, kid.” Jace offers a hand to pull me back up. “I can still take you here, or out there.” He nods at the dark water.

“So put your money where your mouth is.”

“I got a better idea.” Jace gives me a grin. “I win, you have to go talk to that waitress you’ve been drooling over.”

I tense. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that.” He punches my arm. “I’ve seen you. The jailbait one at Mrs. Olson’s, she keeps dying her hair all those crazy colors.”

I shrug, as if I don’t know who he means. “Plenty of girls in this town.”

Jace isn’t fooled. “Whatever, dude. I’ve heard people talk, she could show you a real good time.”

“Don’t say that.” My reply comes out harsh, and Jace raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“See, I knew you liked her.”

“I don’t,” I answer automatically. “I just… I don’t listen to gossip, is all. We don’t know her.”

“We know she wears that black dress thing real well.” Jace smirks again, and I feel anger rise up in my chest.

“Leave it.” I warn him.

He holds his hands up, “Whoa, I get it. Off-limits.” He reaches for his beer and swallows back the rest of the bottle. “So, we doing this or what?” Jace nods at the water.

“Sure.” I reply, glad to change the subject. “Get ready to pay, old man, ‘cause you’re going down.”

The sound of infomercials wakes me.

I sit up, my head pounding, and squint at my watch. It’s 4:00 a.m. and dawn is breaking outside on the far horizon.

I pull myself up off the couch and go fix myself a coffee, pouring in a splash of whiskey to take the edge off my headache as I head out onto the back porch. I settle in the swing, watching the sun slowly edge up over the trees, dark skies brightening with the new day.

Slowly, the ache in my chest eases. Like every morning, I wait–– wait for the shadows of the night to drift away. For the memories to tuck themselves away in the back of my mind for another night. For the world to slip back in focus.

Just one more day, trying to feel human.

They say it gets better in time, but I’m still waiting. Even now, I still wake to nights so dark I don’t think I’ll live to see dawn. Nights when a bottle of whiskey is my only friend, and the past is a knife, slicing through the façade I’ve built and digging deep into my heart.

It’s in those darkest hours that I find myself reaching for the memory of her, like a kid grabbing at his blanket after waking from a bad dream.

Brit.

Funny, how the idea of someone can mean so much. It was just a few hours we spent together all those years ago, but I’ve clung to the memory of her strength and tenderness, like the only light in my darkness. A north star, guiding me on, making me believe that for all my guilt and grief, I could feel something more too. A moment of peace, some glimmer of joy.

She saved me, and she doesn’t even know it.

The irony makes me smile, but it’s a bitter one, edged with rueful resignation. You’re a damn fool, Hunter Covington, I tell myself, taking another gulp of bitter black coffee. I’m not crazy, I’ve known all along that the girl in my mind doesn’t exist anymore – if she ever did to begin with. It was just a summer fling. Some boy she hooked up with back when she was too young to know any better. It’s not like she even stuck around to see morning with me.

But I’ve kept her with me all this time, like a photo tucked in my wallet, or a letter pressed against a soldier’s chest, folded safely like a reminder of better times. Something to hold onto, some reason to believe.

And now, she’s real again.

I think back to last night, greedily pulling apart the details in my mind. The cutoff denim miniskirt, barely covering her creamy, pale thighs. Her petite frame, lush curves straining at the edge of her bra. And that face…

I’ve often wondered if my memory was playing tricks on me: if any girl could be as gorgeous as my memory of her. I figured reality had faded under my imagination, painting her more lovely than the truth.

I was right. My memories were all wrong. Because Brit is even more stunning now than I thought possible.

Heart-stopping. Soul-crushing. Beautiful.

I feel a surge of desire and let out a ragged sigh. Yeah, I’m a fool alright. A fool for coming back here. A fool to cling on to the vision of a girl I barely even know.

And a fool for wanting her so desperately, all over again.

I get to my feet, and head inside, finding my phone and a scrap of paper with a scribbled number. It’s early, but the person on the other end of the line picks up almost right away. Guess I’m not the only one having a bad night.

“Hey,” I start, “I’m going to need your help…”

He calls.

Garrett must have given him my number, because Hunter rings the next morning, and that night, and all through Sunday too. I don’t pick up, but each time, he leaves me a message in his familiar, sexy drawl.

“I don’t care if you’re playing hard to get.” I play his latest voicemail, feeling a shiver at the casual amusement in his tone. “Your kisses don’t lie. I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”

I hang up, cursing myself for the scene in the storeroom. That place must have a weird power over us Ray kids, because I can’t think of a single reason why I could be so stupid as to swoon right into Hunter’s arms.

Maybe because those arms are so damn sexy…?

No! I push back the dizzying memory of his lips, softly brushing mine, and hurl my cellphone across to the couch, safely out of reach. I made those rules three years ago for a reason, and not a damn thing has changed since then. Even if he makes me feel like nothing else on earth, that’s not enough. He’s still perfect and gorgeous and wealthy, and I’m still… not. Not nearly good enough for the likes of him.

He’ll only break my heart.

But my God, you’d die happy.

I crank my music up and turn my attention back to the sketches scattered across the table in front of me. Hiding away trying to avoid Hunter has been good for one thing, at least: with the whole weekend to spend on my designs, the sketches of my dream dress are coming along at an amazing rate. The silk is still sitting in their bags, carefully folded in layers of tissue paper, but I couldn’t resist pulling out a tiny corner to look it. It spills out onto my work bench in a pool of deep, violet fabric, full of possibilities.

The dresses take shape under my pencils, sharp strokes bringing them to life. Should I try this one, with a gathered bodice, or let the silk fall in a single drape? And the hemline…

I work until afternoon, finally taking a break to stretch out my muscles and go fix a PB&J sandwich. I eat on the back porch, watching the ocean waves roll in to shore.

“Knock, knock.”

I look up. Garrett circles the back of the house and climbs the steps. He clocks my grade-school lunch and laughs. “I haven’t seen you in days, I figured you’d starved to death by now.”

“I can take care of myself,” I retort. It’s no secret I live off burgers and fries at Jimmy’s these days, grabbing a snack in between shifts and eating cold pizza for breakfast the next morning. I hold up my sandwich as evidence, “See, a fully nutritious meal.”

“I don’t see any vegetables,” Garrett teases, collapsing on the porch swing.

“Strawberry jam. Fruit,” I declare, and take a big bite.

“Don’t blame me when you die of scurvy.”

I laugh. “Says the guy who lives off of takeout and beer. You better watch yourself,” I add. “I’m starting to see a beer gut there.”

“What, here?” Garrett lifts his shirt, revealing washboard abs, and the scroll of a tattoo that reads Semper Fi. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Put it away.” I toss a potato chip at him. It bounces off his stomach before Garrett grabs it and crunches happily.