Sinking my toes into the warm sand brings back good memories.
The beach isn’t crowded. I scan the area and count maybe ten or eleven people. No one’s in the water. The waves are rough, the shore rocky. Wind whips Shelby’s hair into a swirl around her head. She laughs and gathers it into a ponytail, wrapping an elastic around the mass, leaving a messy, floppy loop on her head.
With the wind and crashing waves, no one should overhear us. Even so, I guide her to a cluster of wide, flat rocks the size of recliners. It’ll be a while before the tide rolls in, filling the spaces between the rocks. We choose a giant slab that butts up against a large smooth wall of rock. I climb up first, making sure it’s safe before helping Shelby scramble next to me.
“This is so pretty!” She shields her eyes and stares out at the ocean. One giant rock formation juts high out of the waves with a small, round space in the middle, framing the sea beyond like a window.
“Let me take a few pictures. You can send ‘em to your mom.” I hold out my hand for her cell phone and she passes it to me.
Am I stalling again? Maybe. But we won’t have a lot of time here. I’d like to have one last picture of Shelby smiling and happy before I dump my years of emotional garbage at her feet.
I snap a few solo shots and then she asks for the two of us together.
“I’ll post one or two of these.” She glances up, searching the beach. “Later. After we’re long gone.”
My mouth twitches. “Good plan.”
I drape the beach towel over the rock right up against the wall and drop down, stretching out my legs in a V. I pat the space in front of me, inviting her to sit with her back against my chest. As soon as she’s settled, she tucks her knees under the sweatshirt and wraps her arms around her legs.
I curl my arms around her and kiss her cheek. “You cold?”
“Not really.” She turns her head, catching my lips in a quick kiss. “You’re nice and warm.”
How’s that possible with so much ice swirling around in my gut?
“You had questions before,” I say, not sure where to start. There’s so much ugliness before I even get to Ashley.
She turns sideways, staring up at me. I curl my arm around her back and she drapes her legs over mine. “Tell me about your family,” she says.
I groan and scrub my hand over my face. “I told you my parents are dead.”
“How old were you when they died?” she asks softly.
I swallow hard and stare at the sky, watching two birds circle a spot out over the ocean. Can I really do this?
My past. The family I came from. My parents. They’re subjects I never talk about. Jigsaw knows, obviously. My club brothers probably knew at one time but have forgotten by now. But a woman I care about? No, the last time I shared the story, it ended in disaster.
“Thirteen,” I finally answer.
I brace myself for the natural follow-up question.
“I’m sorry,” she says instead. “That’s already such a sucky age.”
I grunt in response.
“What were they like?” she asks.
Maybe it’s because she didn’t ask how they died, that it’s easier to loosen up my tongue.
I glance down at Shelby’s expectant expression. I’ve allowed her to get closer to me than anyone has in a long time. If I’m going to lose her over this, better to do it now before I’m so in love with her I won’t find my way back.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m already there.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy. After this morning, I just want—” Her voice breaks.
“You don’t have to apologize.” I stop and cast my memory way, way back. How do I even begin?
“What was your mom like?” she asks, as if she knows I’m having trouble figuring out where to start.
“Sweet. Talented. She was an artist.” If I close my eyes, I can still picture her sitting on the screened-in back porch in the morning sunlight carefully swiping her brush against canvas. Although, if I dwell on the image for too long a host of blood-soaked scenes move in to replace the happy memories. “Not a professional or anything but she always wanted to open her own gallery one day.”
Shelby rubs her hand over my arm. “No wonder you’re so understanding of us creative types.”
My lips quirk. Never thought of it that way.
The knot in my chest tightens. We haven’t approached the worst part.
“Was your dad an artist too?” she asks carefully.
I blow out a harsh breath. “No. He hated anything that made her happy.”
Shelby lets out a sympathetic hum but doesn’t say a word.