Let The Light Shine Through Read online

  “You were lucky.”

  My eyebrows clash together. That’s all I’ve been hearing lately. “You’re lucky it wasn’t you.” Really? Because I don’t feel very fucking lucky.

  I snatch my hand back and she smirks, bending to pick up her skateboard.

  “You had a great friend you loved and trusted…not everybody gets that. And I’m sure he loved you, too. You have a kind heart.”

  Her words are…unexpected. She thinks I’m lucky, not because I didn’t die, but because I had someone in my life that meant a hell of a lot more than words condensed into a seven-minute eulogy could ever express.

  Fighting past a lump in my throat, I ask, “How do you know that?”

  “You’ve had one eye on her the entire time.” She gestures behind me, but I don’t have to look to know who she’s talking about. Diane’s been my main concern since I returned, especially today. I didn’t think it was something a total stranger would notice though. Is she a stranger?

  “Her? You don’t know her name?”

  “Diane,” she says matter-of-factly, and I breathe a little easier. So she does know the family.

  But then she points at the church’s stained glass front, telling me, “At least that’s what they said in there.”

  So…

  “Why exactly are you here? It’s kind of fucked to crash a funeral, no?”

  Her thin shoulders shrug my jacket up to her ears. “This place does a nice job.”

  A blizzard couldn’t cover the surprise on my face.

  For funerals?

  “Do you go to a lot of these?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She turns for the street, and without hesitation, I follow after her. This I gotta hear.

  Over her shoulder, she says, “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind if my funeral was held here.”

  Again, that’s not what I was expecting to hear.

  “Are you planning on dying then?”

  She stops to look at me finally, saying, “Not today.”

  The board drops to the asphalt, breaking the silence—the silence? my silence?—and I blink, long and hard, considering her words.

  When I open my eyes again, she’s already got a foot on the board. She’s leaving. Now. Without me even knowing her name.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you inside.” To put it mildly. “You were the only one smiling.” That same smile grows, waiting for me to continue. “Is there a reason?”

  “I just thought you’d be a good one.”

  Good one?

  “Roz, honey, are you ready to go?”

  Waiting for me next to the short wrought-iron fence, Diane’s anxiously clutching her small purse that I know is only full of tissues—both clean and used.

  “Yeah, just give me a minute,” I tell her gently, then quickly spin around to ask, “Good for what?”

  My question goes unanswered, however, as I find the spot in front of me now empty. I rub at the back of my neck, watching the girl still wearing my jacket skate down the street, untamed hair blowing out behind her like a superhero’s cape.

  Is that who she is then? A skateboarding crusader that goes around rescuing choked-up speeches at funerals?

  Seems unlikely, but crazier things have happened.

  “I was wondering if I’d see that again,” Salvy’s mom tells me on the way to my truck.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your smile.”

  Catching my reflection in the window, I see she’s right. The person that pulled me from the void, even if it was only momentarily, left me without a backward glance or a way to ever see her again. Am I even gonna get my jacket back?

  Fuck. Me.

  I hope you’re laughing your ass off up there, I send to Salvy mentally before sobering at the thought. The last time I was this riveted by something was in Switzerland, when Salvy and I went up on a little heli trip. We became obsessed, so much so we flew back up there the next day. And look how that turned out.

  Everyone talks about addiction being dangerous, but nobody ever warns you about avalanches being one of the deadliest consequences of all.

  Roz

  “Is that the last of it?” my roommate, Fletcher, asks from the kitchen as I head back out the front door, so I throw up my pointer finger above my head in answer.

  Not long after the funeral, I ran into one of my old buddies who went to middle school with Salvy and me. After catching up, he invited me to move in with him and his roommates. I didn’t know where I would ultimately live once I moved back here, but after staying with my parents for a couple months, I knew it wouldn’t be there. It’s one thing when I’m jetting around the globe to different events with only short stints back at home, but it’s another to be there every damn day with the constant pressure to return to something I already swore off.

  Anyway, I needed out, and Fletcher needed someone else to help with rent, so I took him up on his offer. According to my phone’s lock screen, it’s already June, but I couldn’t pinpoint what day or week, even if there was a gun to my head. It all blends together into one giant endless stretch of time. The hands on the clock move but nothing changes. At least not to me.

  I don’t think it’s technically summer yet, but I guess it’s warm enough to pass because we’re opening the pool today. The party we’re hosting might be the real reason, but I stopped paying attention to the excuses my roommate makes for throwing parties. I just show up—physically.

  Mentally…I don’t know where the fuck I am anymore. Grabbing another case of spiked apple cider apparently.

  I reach for the last box in the back of my lifted Chevy, freezing when I hear a whirring—one that sounds a hell of a lot like…

  The whirring grows louder, like it’s getting closer, but there’s nothing on the only sidewalk I allow myself to actually scope out. Unfortunately, during Fletcher’s pitch to get me to move here, he left out the fact that the house sits directly across from an all-girls high school, so I make it a point to never let my eyes wander over to that side of the road. He got a great deal on the historic Victorian after a fraternity beat the ever-living shit out of it and has been trying to fix the place up bit by bit to increase property value, but since high school girls are too young for everyone that lives under this roof, I’ve been keeping my eyes—and every other part of my body—firmly on this side of the road.

  Now though, there’s something—no, someone—that has my full attention as I chance a peek across the street.

  Russet-brown hair tied into a gigantic sloppy bun sits atop a face I’ve been thinking about since March. A face sporting the smile that drew me in from the beginning.

  The same girl from Salvy’s funeral is riding her skateboard past the finial fencing to the hundred-year-old Jacobethan Revival-style school.

  It’s not that she’s in front of the school that bothers me—anyone can breeze past it—it’s the uniform she’s wearing. The white long-sleeve dress shirt half sticking out the bottom of a black sweater vest, the tie hanging loosely from her neck, the plaid knee-length skirt, and the brown heavy-duty boots—it all really, really bothers me. And nothing bothers me anymore.

  Does she go there?

  She swings a look over her shoulder to check for cars, then she’s jumping the curb flawlessly and crossing the road. Straight to my side. Straight to me.

  Before I can react, her round eyes rise, connecting with mine, and it’s like I’m right back to that first day meeting her. Everything stops, freezing the world until it’s just us. Her and me. Me and her. Her.

  She jerks her chin in acknowledgement, then ollies on to the curb before continuing on her way, trying to leave me for the second time. Um, what?

  I dart forward, croaking out, “Hey!” and scowl at my own voice. Is that what I sound like?

  She twists her head to the side, letting her smile do the speaking, and I halt. Why am I getting the sudden urge to join her? It’s taking every bit of my control to stay where I am and not jump on that bo
ard and ride wherever she’s willing to take me right now, and fuck, I thought it was getting better—the urge. I thought it was getting weaker.

  Fortunately, she actually stops this time, snatching her board by the front as she doubles back to the driveway. To me.

  She’s really here?

  “I didn’t know you lived on Greek Sac.”

  What now?

  At my confused expression, she explains, “Greek Sac…it’s like Greek Row but on a cul-de-sac.”

  “This…isn’t a cul-de-sac.”

  “Yeah, I know. Whoever came up with it is an idiot but every campus in the country has a Greek Row and you gotta stand out somehow, right?”

  This isn’t a campus either, sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t bother voicing it. She obviously knows this place better than I do.

  She nods to the house at my back, asking, “Are you a new recruit?”

  Yeah, right. College life didn’t interest me in the slightest, and now that I know what it’s like living with three other guys that can’t find the time to clean the piss stains covering every surface of every toilet but somehow do have time to host a party every weekend, I can confidently say it still doesn’t.

  I have to swallow several times, loosening up my dry fucking throat. “It’s, uh, it’s not a frat house anymore.” Barely. “A buddy of mine bought it and I’m just crashing with him for…a while.” Is this temporary? I haven’t really put that much thought into it.

  She nods along, surveying the expansive yard. Fletcher kept the run-down volleyball net up along with the plywood beer pong table. For whatever reason, those things aren’t frowned upon here. Neither is having dozens of other fraternity and sorority houses line the same street as an all-girls high school.

  “What about you? Are you a high schooler?”

  I’ve never wanted to be more wrong in all my life than I do right now. Please, please say no.

  “Sort of.”

  What does that mean?

  “Do you go there?” I try to point, but my hands jostle the box in my hold, the glass bottles inside clanking together awkwardly.

  “Do you need some help with that?”

  My chest puffs behind the box, and I give her a headshake.

  “I missed a year, so I’m making up the classes I’m allowed in.”

  One of my eyebrows arches.

  “They’re obsessive about their rules.” She tips a shoulder, then starts walking around the side of the house, looking back, expecting me to follow.

  I do, if only to see where she thinks she’s going.

  “Our views differ on certain subjects.”

  In a matter of two well-calculated strides, I catch up to her, walking alongside her, listening, watching. She’s the most interesting thing I’ve come across since…I first saw her.

  “But I have enough credits to graduate next week, so it’s all good.”

  That sounds vague. And complicated.

  I want to ask her why she took a year off. I want to ask her what her views are and how they differ from her school’s. I want to ask her what her name is. Anything to keep her talking. But the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my tongue and all I can do is stare at the side of her face, memorizing her profile.

  We enter the backyard and she breaks away from me, rushing over to open the built-in cooler the previous occupants made for the same reason we’re using it. It’s made to look like a part of the complicated grilling station though—probably in case the cops ever showed up—so only people that have been here before know about it.

  Not bothering with offering her help this time, she immediately flips up the top of the box in my arms and starts unloading the bottles into the cooler herself.

  I consider putting the box on the ground to help her, like a decent human being would, but once I catch her scent, I stay rooted. Vanilla and…rosemary? Is that right? Rosemary? A fucking herb? Whatever it is, it’s sexy. I’m also detecting a salty tang—probably from skating—that makes it that much more mouthwatering. Makes her that much more mouthwatering.

  Jesus Christ. Now I’m keeping the box in front of my body for a completely different reason.

  I force another swallow to ask, “So, you’ve been here before then?”

  All the bottles of cider now transferred, she closes the lid to the cooler, then uses her arms to lift herself on top of it, taking a seat that’s more at my eye level.

  Before she can answer, Fletcher bounds down the patio steps, shouting, “G!”

  My face stiffens. My back stiffens. My everything stiffens. They know each other?

  And who the hell is “G”?

  The girl doesn’t move, save for spreading her legs wider to accept Fletcher’s weird, not exactly friendly but possibly more than friendly, hug. What the fuck?

  While I’m busy debating if I should detach his head from his body, my roommate steps back and faux punches “G”’s arm.

  Yeah, I’m gonna have to rip it off. Clean. Off.

  Thankfully, the girl doesn’t fake anything when she punches Fletcher’s arm in retaliation and my roommate all but folds over in pain. She does have enough rings to rival any set of brass knuckles I’ve seen.

  Fletcher gets ahold of himself enough to ask her, “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  She pulls on the loose tie at her chest and bends a knee to place her foot on the cooler, completely unconcerned about exposing…whatever she’s got going on down there—panties? No panties? Did she forget she’s wearing a fucking skirt?

  My gaze shoots to Fletcher’s and the second his drops even a millimeter, I toss the empty box, nailing him in the side of his thick skull.

  “What the shit?” he complains, rubbing his temple, and I spin on my heel, facing him, locked and fucking loaded.

  Fortunately, a chuckle so warm and rich rings out, stopping me in my tracks. The girl’s now sprawled out on her back—knee still bent, damn it—laughing. As much as I try not to, I let my eyes drop, and I can tell from here she’s wearing some sort of boy shorts under her skirt. They’re actually not bad. They cover everything just fine with extra material to conceal even the bottoms of her ass cheeks, but it’s the thought of those ass cheeks that has me licking my lips, then side-eyeing Fletcher. He’s still fucking with the box I threw at him, which saves me from having to put him in a headlock. For now anyway.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, pulling Fletcher’s attention away from the box as he snarks off with, “Look who’s talking all of a sudden.”

  No longer laughing, “G” sits up, studying me. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. If Fletcher’s still here, he doesn’t either. Is he still here? I honestly wouldn’t know. Once again, it’s just her and me. Me and her.

  The corner of her lips pulls to the side.

  Her.

  “Um, okayyy…” Fletcher says. “Seriously, Gia, where’ve you been?” Gia? “Tell me you’re coming to our party tonight. I promise my boy won’t throw anything else.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fletcher send me a pointed look that I ignore. If I find him scoping out Gia’s panties again, I’ll fucking throw all right. He should plan accordingly.

  Only when Gia drops her leg back down do I break from her stare to return Fletcher’s scowl with my own.

  “Fletch, Fletch, Fletch, when will you learn?” Gia hops down from the cooler, tugging her shirt sleeves farther down her wrists. “I am the party.” With that, she turns to leave, calling out over her shoulder, “Later.”

  And as much as it hurts to watch her go, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather look at in this moment.

  As soon as she’s out of sight, I round on Fletcher, demanding any and all information about Gia, starting with how he knows her followed closely by her age. Actually no, age trumps all.

  Gia

  I return Mr. Robinson’s wave. He only waves at me when he’s happy, and he seems to only be happy when I skate on the opposite side of the street from his flow
er shop, which is why I just weaved my way through traffic like a noob when I got lost in my head—again—and almost rode across his beloved sidewalk.

  I make a mental note to swing by later with chalk to leave my second-favorite widower a nice note to find in the morning. It’s been a while since I did that. Hopefully it doesn’t rain before he has a chance to see it. June can be stubbornly chilly, annoyingly soggy, or blissfully warm—sometimes all in the same day. Ah New York, you moody bitch you.

  I attempt to scissor back and forth over the crumbly concrete before giving up and hopping off my board entirely. With my fave spine tucked under my arm, I head inside the bakery I’ve been meaning to stop by. It’s completely peanut-free, which is fucking awesome, not because I have a peanut allergy, but because other people do, and it’s about time we acknowledge that shit. I’ve even been trying to switch out some of my dad’s vendors to help make our pizzeria more allergen-friendly too, but it’s slow. And difficult. Dad’s stuck in his ways.

  A girl about my age, maybe younger, greets me as soon as I enter and I take her in before returning her friendly smile. She’s wearing a baggie sweatshirt she keeps pulling on that has me wondering what she’s so self-conscious about along with a slouch beanie hipsters wear to look cool. She seems like she genuinely prefers it though, which instantly warms me to her. Also, she’s got a shy kindness about her my dad probably wishes I presented to our customers.

  That thought has me almost laughing out loud as I say, “Hey,” then glance at her name tag, “Kylin.”

  “It’s Kyle actually.”

  Dope name.

  “I like your sweater, Kyle.” It says I’m not a morning person, which with her working in a bakery, she no doubt has to work early mornings on the reg, especially if she’s still in school, so…poor Kyle. “What’s the best thing on the menu?”

  Recovering from her whole face blush—shy and innocent—she recommends a fantastically high double chocolate cake with salted caramel filling. I order three slices, shovel one into my mouth, then leave her a hefty tip that makes her blush all over again.

  Kyle’s adorable.