Every Little Piece - By Kate Ashton Page 0,56

the small houses from years of living near the ocean. It’s prime property. The houses are worth millions for a few small rooms.

With each block that passes under my feet, the rage fades. The salty smell of the ocean tickles my nose and brings back not only sad memories, but everything from the past year. All the walks I’ve taken along the sea, talking to the waves and the fish and the sky as if they were my friends.

My heart whispers. The ocean is just water and salt and fish. It’s not a friend, not in the way a person needs. Justine and my family have been trying to tell me that for months, but I didn’t want to listen. People hurt one another. That’s what happens.

Tate’s on speed dial. I need a friend who won’t push me to talk or show so much sympathy I want to puke. He’s better off not dating me and he should know this. I’m broken. Continuing to date me would suck him into a vortex of pain and confusion. Because that’s what I do. I hurt the people I love.

I wait, but Tate doesn’t answer his phone.

Justine’s next. I let her know where I am. While I wait for her to respond, the breeze plays with the ends of my hair, and my fingers bump along the top of a white picket fence enclosing a yard. It’s small, but around here it might as well be a gigantic field. Grass is a precious commodity.

I keep walking.

My surroundings blur. I ignore the cries of my heart, pushing up, pressing against my soul, sending messages to my brain. I refuse to listen, but my feet seem to be telling something different. By the time I reach Shore Drive, my legs ache.

From across the street, I stare into the Seaside Inn, my home for the past year. Shadows move in front of the windows. Katie and Justine are hard at work. The dinner rush is just starting.

I’m not going home. I refuse to talk to Noah.

I walk around to the back of the restaurant, to the one-car garage. For the past year, her uncle has allowed Justine to park her ancient Chevy in there. I know where she hides the keys.

I’m not going home.

My body is like a robot, on automatic, like someone has taken it over. I reach inside the planter to the right of the garage and feel around in the dirt. For the hard piece of metal. Her keys. Last year, she said I could borrow the car anytime. Of course, she stopped offering because every time I said no. I’ve only driven once since last year. I shook so bad I didn’t drive again. My parents sold the car soon after.

Crouched down, I place my fingers under the bottom of the garage door. It lifts pretty easily with a creaking that must announce to everyone what I’m doing. I expect Justine to run out the back door and question me. I wait, my heart pounding.

But the door stays closed.

I move into the dark. My hands stay on the car, guiding me to the driver’s side. The metal is cool against my skin. My fingers stumble against the handle and then lift it. The faded cinnamon spice of her air freshener wafts out.

What am I doing?

I climb inside, even though every part of me screams to stop, to run back inside and refill all the ketchup bottles. I turn the key and the low rumble of the engine vibrates my feet.

My arms shake. I put the car in reverse and jerk out of the garage. The experience feels foreign, yet at the same time, like I just drove yesterday. Some things stay with you forever, even if you don’t want them to.

I press gently against the gas and the car creeps to where the driveway meets the road. I turn left, and within seconds, I’m driving, away from the ocean, away from everything comfortable and safe. Minutes pass and I keep going in the same direction.

I’m heading home.

That thought sends ripples of nausea through my stomach. My chest shudders and memories of that night flood through me. My vision blurs. I yank the car to the side of the road, my wheel ramming into the sidewalk and going over it. The bottom of the car scrapes the curb.

I need to get out. The car is suffocating. I fall onto my knees in the dry patches of the grass. I breathe in and out