The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

10. Vacant Hearts

Vacant Hearts

Thursday, Present

T he hotel is rundown but clean. At least it was, before I kicked off muddy shoes and sopping wet leggings onto its shabby carpet. I flop onto the queen bed that smells of stale smoke and lavender detergent, wishing this trip could just be over.

When we reached the bottom of the photos and broken things, all we found was an address, a time, and the word shame scrawled along a piece of driftwood. Oliver had looked it up on his phone, his lips turning into a thin line of disapproval. The only thing he’d tell me was that it was a bar, and to be ready in an hour. I fought, demanding to be told now where we were going, but he wouldn’t relent, shutting his own room door in my face. I stormed in here, determined to find my own way, somehow. That was thirty minutes ago.

All I’ve come up with is that I need to shower and then run until all of this is so far behind me, I can mistake it for the mirage that it is—nothing more than my hopes masked as a bad dream. But without another plan, there was no doubt Oliver would be here on time, beating down the door, and unwilling to take any excuse to be late. I’d seen him suffer worse than my complaints for a lot less .

So, I stayed, underwear exposed, t-shirt riding up, leaving very little of me covered—a live wire of skin and emotions, to be easily caught on fire or rubbed raw from the strain of trying to burn. I couldn’t bring myself to get dressed, or move, for fear that if I did, I would walk myself right to Oliver’s room and demand answers for more than just the clue. I was hanging on by a very thin thread that right now couldn’t take the strain of being pulled.

I hear a knock at the door, and my heart races, but I don’t move. He’s early.

“Five more minutes,” I yell, frustrated.

Really, I just want to irritate him. Make him feel every second that he is forced to stand outside a locked door, wanting in. Or better yet, for me to come out. How does it feel to want? I stare at the picture I took while those words grow loud in my head because I want so much .

It’s from our trip to Salem, the three of us with our arms wound around each other, smiles shining in front of the Nightmare Gallery’s sign. It had been our first trip together, the boys insisting I not be left behind. The first time our friendship had faced the challenge of our statuses and gone up against Madeline. The tattered letters I had written to both boys while they were away at Artist’s Creation camp when I was twelve. I had missed them more than I thought possible and had written every day. Paxton had kept them all. Even Oliver’s. My eyes had stung rereading my clumsy handwriting through the sandy plastic bag.

Even now, thinking about it, I’m having trouble holding myself together. The old me is slipping through the cracks demanding satisfaction any way it comes. But who I am now cannot allow it. Even as I want to run to the door, I refuse my muscles. It’s his own damn fault for being early. He can wait, I think.

Thankfully, he doesn’t disappoint. Several more pounds shock the poor, battered door.

“Eve,” he growls through the wood and into my skin. “We have a time limit.”

He doesn’t need to remind me. I know. Just a few more minutes should do. My nerves will be satiated enough to shove everything back behind the locks and pretend that none of how I feel is real. But he can’t even give me that.

It was stupid of me to keep the door unlocked in my hurry to go nowhere. Stupid of me to forget that I had. The handle is turning, and the hinges squeak as it does. I hurl myself from the bed, trying to grasp for anything, embarrassed to be caught in such a state of undress, both emotionally and physically. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I scold myself. You’re not strong enough to play this game with him.

“Oliver! I said give me a minute!” I yell, but it’s too late.

I scurry, no longer comfortable with the thought of him seeing me like this. The covers are pinned too tightly to the bed frame to budge. They won’t allow me to pull them free to use as coverage, and my bag lay on the other side of the room.

Between it and my exposed self, Oliver finally steps inside. We stare at each other, my shirt still barely holding onto my nipples and my underwear only a scrap over what’s left. Oliver’s eyes are glued to me. I can only imagine the rasp his breath is taking from the way his jaw is left unhinged. He takes me in as if he’s ravenous, pupils blown out and wild within fractions of a second. The fragility of our distance and our resolve to keep it comes sharply into focus.

“I’m not ready,” I manage to whisper.

This moment feels like a glass house, our words the stones, and even at a whisper, it shatters. Oliver twists from me, hand coming up to shield his face, rubbing his brows, his cheeks, his lips. Needing to feel skin in all the places, I’m sure his mind roamed. All the memories of where he’s touched before, unbearable.

“I know. But we don’t have a choice,” he sighs. “Five minutes.”

And then he walks out. I explode into action, locking the door before ruffling through the suitcase that was packed for me for a pair of pants. My breathing is uneven, heaving in desperate gulps. My skin is electric, but my heart knows I can’t think about what just happened. About the way Oliver looked at me. About how I wanted the rough grip of his fingertips on my thighs and wrapped around my hips. The way I remembered the sound of his sighs as they fluttered along the hollow of my throat and how much I ached to hear its echoes again. Guilt washes over me as Roger’s hurt face flashes, imagining him knowing where I am now and with who. But its hold is slippery as my mind drifts to thinking about how different this all could’ve been, if only .

Because it isn’t.

Paxton. Killer. Beach. Bar. Those are the things I need to focus on. Those are the pieces of the puzzle I’m trying to solve. And if I don’t get my butt in gear and Oliver out of my head, we could miss it. I shove the jeans I found on, and then stuff my feet into a pair of sneakers with no socks, desperate to get out of this room and away from the memory of Oliver’s eyes on my skin as fast as I can. I open the door where Oliver stands, cheeks and neck red as a firework.

"Ready?" I ask as casually as I can.

He spins, leading us to the car. I follow silently. We’re both lost in our own thoughts through the drive, and I hardly notice when we sweep into the parking lot, gravel spitting up as we do. Bounty Dive Bar flashes in red neon, every other letter nothing more than a flicker. My gut clenches as I remember another bar like this one, probably a few miles away. A day that could’ve been like any other but wasn’t.

I reach for the handle, only to feel Oliver’s warmth engulf the hand he’s now holding. A shockwave of relief and want and pain flies through me at his touch, and I look at him, wide eyed and hopeful, in reflex. He’s staring at our joined hands, thumb rubbing over mine, soothing jagged pieces of my soul as he does. He’s sober, at least enough that his cheeks have lost their ruddy tint and his breath isn’t acidic. This is not the flirtatious Oliver of one too many drinks. This is something else. Something serious. Something new.

“I know,” he chokes before clearing his throat to start again. “I know we’re not in the best place right now, but you need to trust that I’m here for you. Whatever happens in this bar, or with Paxton’s letter, I’m always here, Darkness.”

My gut clenches, his fingers suddenly like ice against mine. He’s holding something back from me. Something more to the letter, or the clues, or this whole damn thing. With Oliver, you never can tell. He holds things so closely, laying pieces down in patterns only he can see. Always believing his way is the right one. The only one.

I jerk my hand free and yank open the door, frustrated at being treated like a child and that I now have the undeniable urge to throw a tantrum like one. I am a twenty-seven-year-old research librarian at NYU! I don’t need handholding and secrets. I have survived watching my mom beat cancer. Twice. I have skirted through college and lived paycheck to paycheck for years, taking care of us both. And I have watched the person who I loved most in this world rip my heart out as he walked out of my life without turning back. Whatever waited inside this dirty little pub, I could handle.

I wrench open the door to Bounty, not caring if Oliver is following or not. I’d rather he just left me here so I could hop a flight home and leave this mess behind. But you’d never find out what really happened , the voice of my curiosity whispers. I let the door slam behind me, hoping to quell my fury, and watch as a handful of eyes turn to me. There are half a dozen people here, most with the glimmer of an early evening drink already come and gone.

There are no bar games. No darts or pool. No karaoke machines. There’s a bar top. A tiny stage built only five inches from the ground. There are cocktail tables and tall stools pushed off to the side so a small dance floor can welcome any guests of the band. There are three booths, in different stages of disarray—benches ripped up and dining chairs taking their place. Broken tabletops filled with plywood or said benches. Everything here is broken, then pieced back together to function just enough.

I step in, unsure of what I’m looking for. What could Paxton see in a place like this? I walk up to the bar and the man behind it smiles at me. He’s about my age, surprisingly good-looking in that ‘ I don’t give a fuck’ kind of way. He has tattoos and piercings lining his body, his dermals making the art pop out into 3D. So unlike the men I have known. Have loved. It makes me quick to smile back.

“Hey, what can I get you beautiful?” he asks, voice husky from many nights drinking, probably in this very bar.

“A beer. Any beer. I’m not picky,” I reply, flushed from the compliment.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t get our shipment today. We’ve rush ordered, but it’s mixed or straight only tonight, love. No bottles and the tap’s been broken since ‘93.”

“Then she’ll have a whisky sour, friend, ” Oliver’s voice pipes in from my shoulder before I feel his hands on my waist in an overprotective manner I haven’t felt since high school.

The bartender looks him up and down then goes about making my drink, over pouring. I know I should order water instead and remove Oliver’s hands from my hips and scold him for his jealousy. But in the blurred lines between now and then, it feels nice. Comfortable. I allow the hypocrisy of both the drink and the way my body curls towards him, under the guise of giving myself grace. A girl can only take so much when faced with death and heartbreak. He slides the orange-tinted glass in front of me, plopping in a maraschino cherry as a final ta-da.

“Looks like you needed this more than a beer anyway with a guy like that and the look you’re giving.” He raps his knuckles twice on the wood. “Let me know if you need another. ”

And then he’s gone, talking to someone at the other end, not even bothering to offer Oliver a drink, which leaves me smiling into mine.

“Rude,” Oliver huffs.

“Yes, you are,” I can’t help but quip. “Now, what do you think we’re looking for? I want to find it and get out.”

I drag down a large chug of my drink, the whisky burning all the way to my stomach. I’m not much of a drinker. Never have been. When you grow up in a house that’s keenly aware of alcoholism, you learn it isn’t worth it. Old habits die hard, but I tried not to let it stop me from enjoying one now and then. That Oliver remembered the first drink I liked, makes me take another swallow.

Instead of keeping my gaze on the bright red cherry atop the ice, I look to find Oliver searching around, probably for anything familiar or out of place. This part of the clue doesn’t feel familiar enough to me, so I let him guide us. His head swings to the walls, filled with posters and random scraps of paper.

“It might be something up there. It looks like a lot of notes have been left on these walls,” he says before moving to one side to look through them.

I follow his lead, walking to the other, toward what’s left of the booths, and scour the pieces hung around them. Cherie and Mac were here and fell in love! one reads. Dusty memories of nights long past with people who wanted to remember, makes me long for a simpler time. One that never existed, where Oliver and Paxton and I could get lost in a place like this, even just for the night. Seeing the smiling photos makes me think of my 21 st birthday and how different it all could have been. Tiny slices of ifs and onlys make paper maché of my heart.

I move on, trying not to linger in words that aren’t meant for me. There’s only one I’m hoping to find. All the others only hold regret, and I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. The worn seats crease and creak beneath me as I rest my knees on them to get a closer look.

“Eve,” I hear Oliver call.

But I ignore him, too entranced by the cluster of notes and photos I’m looking at. One, in particular, that’s almost out of reach. It’s there I find a scribble I recognize. A curled word that cannot be mistaken. I step onto the tattered chair and push my face right up to read :

Forgiveness is the fragrance, rare and sweet, that flowers yield when trampled on by feet.

My fingers curl around the edge of the paper, eager to pull it down when I feel the heat of someone standing behind me. Before I can turn, I hear the last thing in this world I ever thought I would again.

“Puddin’?”