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My first impression of this boy was that he may be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. His first impression of me was that I had terrible taste in music.
“Ah, so that explains the accent.” “I don’t have an accent.” He slowly raises one brow. “Yeah, you do. It sounds like you’ve got honey in your mouth when you’re talking.” “And it sounds like you have bullshit in yours. Where’s that accent from?”
“Yep. Honeysuckle.” “Excuse me?” “You remind me of honeysuckle. Nectar sweet as honey, like the sound of your voice. But the berries are deceiving—poisonous if consumed.” He shrugs playfully. “Beautiful and deadly.”
“That boy is a heathen. If you’re smart, you’d stay far away from him.” “He certainly is,” I respond, knowing I’m nowhere near as smart as she thinks.
“Is your name really Honeysuckle?” one of the twins asks. At least, I assume he and the girl next to him are twins—maybe siblings. “No, I just call her Honeysuckle because her mouth reminds me of it. Sweet yet dangerous.”
“I call her honeysuckle because of the sound of her voice and her little country accent,” Heathen mutters.
He walks between me and the road, always a step behind, as if ready to intercept something. I realize he’s protective by nature. I also realize that and the fact that he surfs and likes to taunt girls he’s just met are the only things I know about him. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt. “I’ve been calling you Heathen in my head.” I hear his footsteps stop suddenly, and I
“A heathen is someone who doesn’t practice an organized religion, although I do suppose your understanding of it would be the more modern definition.” He
not wrong, though. I don’t believe in religion, and I don’t particularly care for most of society’s rules, either.”
“You don’t believe in God?” I sputter. “I believe in a higher power. Divine intervention. The Universe. Whatever you want to call it.” He turns around, back facing me now. I fail to ignore the muscles in his arms as they flex with each of his steps. “Do I believe that some dude in a white robe is going to smite me because I’m not adheri...
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“I think you just need to learn the difference between the rules that matter, and the rules that only truly exist so they can be broken.”
He’s inescapable. He’s always been inescapable, but today of all days, I need his face completely out of my sight. I’ve done a good job of avoiding the covers, bit down on any itch I’ve had to watch his competitions. His interviews. Old footage. Tabloid claims of polyamorous relationships with models and heiresses. But of course, today is the day he just so happens to be gracing the three-year-old issue of Sports Illustrated sitting on the table in the bridal suite of the church where I’m to be married.
I would’ve preferred to have had my friends from college, even Maggie—my boss from the flower shop I worked at in Wichita—as bridesmaids, but I didn’t get to choose the women who will stand with me at the altar. My mother did. Save for one person.
She reads me better than anyone in this world, and she sees all the words I can’t say. I can’t do this. I know it’s not a coincidence that our parents have done their best to keep us apart the last few months. They’ve always thought she was a bad influence on me. They’ve been incapable of reining in their oldest daughter since the day she was born. Dahlia has always been rebellious, unwilling to be confined to the expectations of our upbringing. I—for the most part—have always been the opposite. I know she’s been against my relationship with Jackson since it started seven years ago, but I’ve
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Dahlia may not care about her reputation, about pleasing our parents or finding a husband “suitable” by our father’s standards, but Dahlia has something worth fighting for. She has Lou, something worth more than society, status, and wealth.
I have nothing...
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of that anymore. I can’t blame him for giving up after so many years, for finally accepting this arrangement for exactly what it is: a perfect
If Dahlia got any whiff of my…hesitation to move forward with these nuptials, she would’ve done something about it. Stolen me away in the middle of the night. Made me admit the inner thoughts I’ve been holding inside. My parents know this. I know this. So, I’ve let her stay away. I let my dad convince me to move out of the house I shared with Dahlia and my niece, Lou, and move back in with my parents as we approached the wedding. My mom claimed it was so she could help me with planning.
I knew if I let her see the truth underneath my mask, I’d have to face it. Face the fact that I will never love Jackson the way I’m supposed to. My parents knew I’d never make it down the aisle without her up there with me. Regardless of the man standing at the end of it, if Dahlia isn’t there, I won’t be either. She flew home from a “business meeting” in Chicago last night, rushing straight to the church this morning.
I’m not seeking out that cove. Tonight, I’m seeking out the girl who’s likely sleeping in the bedroom upstairs.
I’ve always loved the beauty of the boardwalk at night, but I quickly realize it holds no comparison to the golden girl standing in front of me now.
A bouquet made entirely of honeysuckles. My mind goes to a thousand different places and possibilities, landing briefly on that letter I wrote two weeks ago, the one I shoved into my desk drawer and ensured would never be seen again, making this exact scenario entirely impossible. It has to be a joke.
Dahlia shakes her head. “No, Darby. I spoke to Leo myself twenty minutes ago. He was the one outside with those flowers in his hand.”
Leo. A name I haven’t spoken—haven’t even allowed myself to think—in years. When I was twenty, just after my first date with Jackson, I broke down one night and told Dahlia everything—every little detail of that summer, of that night, of what happened afterward. I told her that after I let it all out, I never wanted to speak of it again. Never wanted to
speak of him. Of what I did and what I gave up. I’ve become accustomed to keeping those memories and those feelings locked into ...
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The honeysuckles sitting right in front of me feel a lot like a key to unlocking a lot of things I’ve fought tooth and nail for years to forget. Those flowers feel like confro...
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“You don’t have to do this,” my sister repeats, her champagne-colored dress ruffling as she leans against the...
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My anger isn’t just directed at her; it’s at him, too. I made a clean break all those years ago, and while I would be lying if I said I didn’t hope he’d come looking for me, him showing up now is too late. There’s nothing that can be done at this point. “Why would he show up like this? How would he even know?” I feel a hot tear make its way down my cheek.
“I sent him your letter,” my sister whispers. “And I may have added the date, time, and address of the church before I mailed it.” I feel my jaw tremble and my nostrils flare. My entire body shakes, and I see her wince.
“Why would you read it?” I seethe. “Because you’re my sister, you’re miserable, and I’m so fucking tired of it, Darby. You’ve kept that summer locked up for years, but I asked Grandma about it once. She told me she’d never seen you so full of life than
when you were seventeen, that you’ve been dead inside ever since. If she were here right now, I think she’d be telling you not to go through with it. If she found that letter, she’d have sent it. If that man”—she points toward the door—“showed up at this wedding, and there was any chance of you getting out of it, she’d make you take it.”
“My point is, there is always a little bit of risk involved. Every time you leave the house, you’re at risk of hurting yourself and, therefore, the people who love you. When you boarded that plane to come here, every time you get into a car, whenever you walk down a flight of stairs—you’re always a little at risk, so be risky for the right reasons.” He holds a hand out to me. “I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Live a little, will you?”
I’ve been told that touching boys is wrong. Even something as simple as a hug from someone who isn’t family, my dad has always been against it. He’s told me it’s dirty, that touch is reserved for man and wife only, that our urges can overcome even the most innocent of desires, and that we’re bound to lose our control—tumbling headfirst into sin.
But Leo’s hands don’t feel sinful. They feel reassuring, protective, comfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t trust him–maybe I’m as horrible and stupid and terrible as they claim my sister to be, but I don’t feel any of those things. I’ve never thought any of those things about my sister either. No matter how many mistakes she makes or how many rules she breaks, I still love her. I still find her comforting, protective, and reassuring. Maybe that’s why I feel safe around Leo, and maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I’m stupid.
Leo…he didn’t feel real to me anymore. He feels like a teenage dream, the story of a first love, not something that still exists. The idea of him felt like a safe place to unload those feelings because he felt like a void I could throw them in. No solutions, but no repercussions, either.”
“You need a break. You need to clear your head without the distraction of…everything. Go figure out what’s going on with summer boy…or don’t. Either way, just do something you want to do without the expectations of those around you.”
“What about calling off the wedding? Telling Dad? Jackson?” Guilt swirls within my stomach. She huffs.
“What if I told you I’m pretty sure he’s fucking his assistant? Would that ma...
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“I’ll take care of that. I’ll make sure he can sneak out of here before anyone finds out what’s going on, but I need to get you the hell out of dodge first, okay? I’ll take care of everything else. I just need you to go before you get sucked into a lifetime of misery.” She pauses. “Be selfish for once, Darby. Please.” She doesn’t realize how deep those words cut, because I’ve been selfish before. That selfishness included me running away exactly as I am now. That selfishness destroyed me in ways I still haven’t been able to overcome. I’ve always been selfish.
The last time I made a decision like this, it ended with the irreparably broken shell of my former self. Yet, somehow, I feel like running away from this wedding today may be the last chance I have at ever finding a way to piece myself back together.
You being strong and brave right now, Darby, is the exact kind of example I want to set for my daughter.” Well, that does it. I’m crying again.
My sister’s eyes are a piercing blue flame. “I don’t give a shit what anyone in this town thinks of me. I don’t give a shit about upsetting Mom and Dad. You’ve overcorrected my mistakes your entire life. You’ve been the golden girl because I’ve been the black sheep.”
away. “I can’t help but feel like the reason you were mere moments away from going through with a wedding you didn’t want is because of me. It’s my fault you’ve felt s...
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Yet, as I gaze back down the hallway that leads to the altar, there is no part of myself saying I want that. I don’t want to be tied to a man who sees me primarily as a business transaction. I don’t want to be a breeding mare, a homemaker in a house that has never, for one second, felt like home to me. No, I don’t want that.
but somehow, we’ve ended up with similar struggles. She calls hers wolves, and she calls mine ghosts. I’ve never put a title on those thoughts before, but ghosts seem to be the right word. Literal, even.
But with Darby, it feels like she scares them away. She’s daylight to their darkness. They disappear when she’s around, and I don’t find them creeping back in until I’m alone in the black of my bedroom, hoping sleep will take me before they do. It doesn’t always.
she’ll still open the window later tonight when I throw rocks at it. She’ll still smile at me with that golden grin and chase away the ghosts that haunt me with her sunlight.
I know Darby is only here for the summer, that she’ll eventually return to Kansas, but knowing she’s only temporary doesn’t make me want to be around her any less. If anything, it makes me want to savor every moment a little more.
“I want to bring you with me because you scare my ghosts away, Darby.”
She looks at me, those honey eyes swirling with fear and anticipation—but also excitement. I squeeze her hand four times. I’ll. Keep. You. Safe. We jump together, free-falling into the abyss.
