Fakers (14 page)

She felt strong after her afternoon with
Stevie. Happy. Peaceful. The darkness inside her was buried deep
today. The craving for a blade against her skin was far away.

So she took a few deep breaths. She could do
this. She started the Jeep and pulled onto the street.

It wasn’t hard to find the cemetery. She’d
passed it on her way onto the island the first day. Then she’d
forced her eyes straight ahead, not trusting herself to look out
the window as she drove past. Now, she parked in front of the gates
that read “Canaan’s Cemetery.”

Kyra had never been afraid of cemeteries.
Actually, she’d always admired their beauty; they had a profound
quietness about them. They were always places Kyra was drawn to—and
that was the very reason she rarely let herself go to one.

She passed through the gates and walked down
the cracked pavement of the narrow road. It was a beautiful place.
The trees were likely hundreds of years old with their reaching
branches that wove above her head. The smell of flowers and pollen
tickled deep inside her nose. She threaded her way to the center of
the cemetery, marveling at the crumbling statues as she passed. All
the graves were above ground, which made Kyra feel as if she was
truly walking amongst the dead and not just above them.

The breeze ruffled through the loose strands
of hair at the back of her neck. It was unbearably hot beneath the
shade of the giant trees, and Kyra felt a clammy sweat slick across
her skin. She swallowed to wet her drying mouth.

In the center of the cemetery was the
Aberdeen crypt. It was elaborate and Victorian, with a huge lock on
the front door. Not like Kyra wanted to go in anyway. She already
knew her mother wouldn’t be buried inside with the other family
members. Fury clenched Kyra’s heart at that thought. Even in death,
Florence had insisted on estranging her daughter. To deny someone
peace even in death seemed like the ultimate form of disrespect.
After all her mother had gone through, she deserved to at least be
buried with her family, to find the love she’d missed during her
short life.

Kyra walked around the crypt to the side
where a small statue garden was enclosed by thick, black metal
fencing with heaps of green vines entangled around the bars. The
vegetation was so dense and untamed, she couldn’t see inside, but
she opened the creaking, heavy gate and entered. In the center was
a lone granite grave.

Her feet carried her forward of their own
accord. Inside the garden, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The
air was cooler from the tall fencing keeping out the breeze and
casting a perpetual shady darkness into the garden. Tall statues of
angels stood at each corner of the garden, their faces tortured in
everlasting sadness. A path wove to a side door of the crypt, while
another path led to the front gate. Kyra doubted the paths were
ever used, but it was typical in small, Southern communities like
Canaan to bury suicides at a crossroads, which was formed by the
paths.

Kyra settled her hand on the icy top of the
grave. She’s in here, Kyra thought. Right beneath my hand. She
pulled her hand away. Her eyes settled on the engraving on top of
the lid, which was just an elaborate, scrolling L. No dates. No
name.

The breeze rustled through the trees above
her, spreading chill bumps down her arms and causing tears to
inexplicably prick at the back of her eyes. She felt
something
, and the sensation made her heart tighten and her
stomach twist. Looking around as if a spirit would materialize from
the depths of the vines, she held her breath, a shiver working down
her spine like a cold finger on her skin. She stood still as long
as she could, but the feeling became too powerful. Unable to stand
it any longer, she hurried outside the garden and back onto the
little road that wove back to her Jeep.

She didn’t look back as she rushed away,
wrapping her arms around her middle to warm herself. She wasn’t
scared; she just couldn’t handle standing in her mother’s lonely
garden anymore. It felt purposefully solemn and forlorn, with its
sad statues of weeping angels and crossing paths. The grass was
kept tidy, but there were no flowers, Kyra realized. Everywhere
else had tons of bright, blooming flowers, as if the cemetery was
purposefully trying to be cheerful. But her mother’s garden had
been cold and dark, with only crying stone for comfort.

It was the first time she’d ever visited her
mother’s grave. She’d been too young to attend her burial. Even
though she asked many times, Uncle Thomas had never taken her to
the cemetery. She wished she could’ve stayed longer, but she knew
the length of time at a grave didn’t make one a good daughter.

Kyra hopped into her Jeep and cranked up the
heat until the chill was gone. It took a while, but she finally
felt ready to drive. She started the car, feeling its throaty
rumble beneath her as she looked out the windshield. The cemetery
looked like a hidden oasis through the gates. It didn’t quite fit
with the bright town of Canaan beyond it.

Kyra forced herself to look away to back out
of her parking spot. She’d be back, she promised herself. And she
would never forgive Florence for burying her only daughter in the
saddest spot of the cemetery.

thirteen

K
yra opened the
door to her house to find a slew of workers slapping drywall mud
onto her walls, which meant the plumbing and electrical was finally
up to code. Some of the men walked on weird-looking stilts to reach
the ceiling. They all waved and called hellos to her as she passed
through. She smiled and chatted with them, but her eyes instantly
found Hale. He nailed a piece of drywall down and looked back at
her. Their eyes met, and she offered a small smile. His expression
immediately turned stormy.

She looked away and hurried up the stairs.
Instead of turning toward her room, she went into the front
bedroom, where the albums of her mother were still spread across
the floor. Without pausing, she took her position in the window
seat with the photo book she’d already started.

The pictures were likely typical to anyone
else. Kyra noticed all the usual as she slowly flipped
through—soccer games and swim parties. Halloween costumes and
smiling over birthday cakes. It was all there: a whole life. It
looked so happy. Florence smiled at her daughter, her love readily
apparent.

Kyra closed the book and leaned her head
back, thinking about how many mistakes it must take to ruin that
kind of love. She thought a mother’s love was unbreakable. Aunt
Carol had tried hard to replicate it, but it had never fit quite
right inside the hole in Kyra’s heart.

There seemed to be no love in Florence now.
Her eyes were cold and bitter. Her mouth twisted into a
condescending sneer when she looked at her granddaughter, making
Kyra wonder if Florence saw Lila when she stared at her.

She knew depression was genetic, which meant
her mother might have dealt with the same darkness Kyra did. She
couldn’t help but wonder if Lila had found similar ways to cope,
like Kyra had, before she turned to drugs. The thoughts spiraled
through Kyra’s mind until her head lolled against the wall and she
fell asleep.

When she woke, the sky had darkened outside
and her back was stiff as the wall she’d slept against. Blurrily,
she set the album aside and picked her way through the trail of
books. She eased the door closed behind her, as if there were
spirits inside the room she didn’t want to wake.

Maybe there were.

Only then did Kyra hear the low thrum of
music from downstairs. Frowning, she wondered if Hale had left his
stereo on. With a sigh, she headed down the stairs and to the back
of the house. She found the source of the music in the back
bathroom where she’d exposed herself not so long ago. Hale was
inside tiling the back wall of the shower, finally closing in the
gaping hole.

“I didn’t realize you would be working so
late,” she said. Hale didn’t act surprised or even look back at her
when she spoke.

“Needed to get this done.” He carefully
placed another tile on top of the tiny plastic spacers. Only when
it was in place did he look back at her. Instantly, he frowned.
“What’s wrong?”

“Um…” Kyra’s eyes darted around the room,
searching for a mirror to see the flaw he’d found in her face. Of
course it had been taken out already. “Nothing?”

“You look like you’ve been crying.” Hale
said the words like they were an accusation. He bent over and
picked up another tile.

“Oh, I’m fine.”
Liar
. “Just took a
nap upstairs.”

He placed the tile and added some more
spacers on top of it. Then he picked up another one. “Do you know
what kind of tile this is?” He held it up for her to see.

“Subway tile?” Kyra offered, confused at the
turn of the conversation.

Hale rolled his eyes as if the answer was
obvious. “It is. But this is new subway tile.” He turned slightly
in the shower and tapped on a tile already on the wall. “This is
old tile. When we demoed this room, we were careful to leave the
original work. I’m only replacing what I have to or what was
broken.”

Kyra remembered Cade telling her something
about keeping the original tile work in the bathrooms. They’d even
worked carefully to keep the original floors throughout the house.
It wasn’t something Kyra would’ve picked, but she’d agreed with
Cade when he told her it was the best thing to do.

“Okay,” she said, hesitantly.

“It’s harder work, and it takes longer,
which is why I’m still in your bathroom this late. But it’s good
work. It’s worth it.”

“Why?” she asked quietly. She wasn’t stupid;
she knew where this was going.

“Because it’s original, Kyra. It’s a pain in
my ass to order replica tiles that match the originals perfectly.
It sucks to feather in these new tiles in a way that isn’t obvious
they’re new. You don’t ever want to take away from the original
work. These tiles have been here for generations. Never destroy
what’s real or authentic in a house.”

“I get it,” Kyra said.

Hale shook his head and worked on another
tile. He tapped the corner with his finger to adjust it
infinitesimally. He bent close and studied the angle. Finally, he
said, “No, you don’t.”

It was always the same thing with him, and
it was starting to piss off Kyra no matter how much she liked him.
“You shouldn’t judge me. You don’t know anything about me.”

Hale sat down the tile he’d just picked up
and stepped out of the claw foot tub he’d been working in. He
approached her with a dark look in his eyes. When he was a foot
away, he stopped, and she had to resist the urge to step back. The
richness of his sweat enveloped her, clouding her mind.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “Knew everything
about you the first second I met you.”

“That’s impossible.” Kyra frowned. He took
another step closer, and Kyra pressed her hand against his chest to
keep him back. It didn’t work. He just leaned down over her, his
eyes boring into hers.

“Wasn’t hard. You’re as phony as they come.
Everything that’s worth knowing about you is buried too deep for
anyone to see.”

Kyra removed her hand from Hale’s chest and
smacked him as hard as she could across his strong jaw. The sound
filled the bathroom like an almighty crack. He grunted from the
impact, and Kyra’s hand vibrated with pain. She clutched it to her
chest and glared at him.

“You’re an asshole. That’s all you are.”

Hale worked his jaw before he spoke. “You’re
right. I am. But at least I’m not fake about it.”

“If you hate me so much, why did you kiss me
the other day?”

“You kissed me,” he said. “But I never said
I hated you.”

Kyra laughed, but the sound wasn’t her
normal chiming laughter. This laugh was mean and bitter. “It’s
pretty obvious that you do. You don’t go around calling your
friends fake.” She turned to go, but Hale caught her wrist.

“Cade told me about your mom and why you
bought this house.”

“He shouldn’t go around telling people’s
secrets,” she hissed as she tried to jerk her wrist away, but Hale
held tight. “Let me go, you jerk, before I kick the shit out of
you.”

He opened his mouth to speak when he caught
sight of her tattoo. Kyra tried to pull away again, but he resisted
her easily. He lifted her wrist and studied her fresh ink. It was
still raised and sore, and his warm breath across it made the tips
of her fingers tingle. Finally, he let her wrist go.

“He wanted me to understand you better, and
it worked. At least you’re not some stupid girl with a fake smile.
I would’ve hated to be into a girl like that.”

“Into a girl like that?”

“Yeah, Kyra. You’re a beautiful girl. Any
guy would be interested.” Hale shook his head, his eyes falling to
the tiles stacked at their feet. “But that’s not the point. You
have these moments, and they’re normally when you’re really pissed
at me and you start cussing like a biker, where I see the real
Kyra. That’s the girl I’m interested in. Not the faker.”

She didn’t really know what to say. The
words, fake or mean, didn’t come to her. She stared at Hale and
wanted to cry.

“Be honest with me,” he said quietly. “Let
me in.”

“I’m not honest with a lot of people.” There
was a hitch in Kyra’s voice that she tried to cough out. Honesty
hurt. It made her feel the sharp edges inside her and made her
crave a certain pain that made her wrists itch. There was a form of
safety in hiding behind her smile and fake feelings. It saved
her.

“I hate fake people, so I’m going to have to
insist on this if you’re going to keep running around and kissing
me all the time.”

“It was one time.”

Hale ignored her comment. “So what’s really
wrong, Kyra?” he asked instead. Something in his voice kept Kyra
rooted in place, because she could tell that he really wanted to
know. She stood before him, her rage and sadness coursing through
her, and she’d never felt so naked in her life.