Blurred (Connections, #3.5)(2)

If there is a moment in time that comes to alter the course of your life forever—mine would be the day Caleb Holt told me I had to disappear. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m alone and left to pick up pieces to a life I don’t have. Rock bottom. It’s a phrase I never thought I’d use to describe myself, but it’s the only one that fits.





Chapter 1


Dead and Gone

The world spins faster as I stumble forward to enter the front door of what used to be my house with Dahlia. After attempting to hang my keys on the old key shaped holder, they fall to the ground when I miss. I leave them there. Once I’ve made it to the bathroom, I grip the countertop tightly because the wallpaper seems to be tilting and the flowers on it are fading in and out. I lean over the sink to wait for the sick feeling in my gut to pass. When I look up, my vision fuzzes suddenly? blurring her features, but I know it’s her because she’s wearing her pearls. I have to touch her, feel her, so I press my hands to the glass in an attempt to grab her and pull her to me. My pulse thunders in my ears as I splay my fingers against the cool surface and try not to blink, not to lose sight of her. But I can’t help it and when my eyes slam open again, I notice her hair isn’t blonde anymore, it’s red. And this time the pearls are gone, replaced by twinkling emeralds. I shut my eyes tight, willing the room to steady and the delusions to go away.

“Ben? Are you okay?” a concerned voice asks.

I pull in a deep breath and open my eyes, cautious, fearful, but this time all I see is the dirty-blonde–haired reflection of my sister and myself. I nod and force all of the air out of my lungs.

“We have to go. You’re not even dressed. Do you want me to pick out your clothes?”

I shake my head once and try not to move again for fear the slightest movement will send the room rotating. I can feel her stare, but let the weight of it pummel me before I shift my eyes to hers in the mirror. “No, I can do it. Sorry, just give me a minute to jump in the shower and I’ll be ready.”

I catch sight of the pain in her eyes. She hastily turns to leave, then pauses but doesn’t twist around as she says, “Okay. The limo is here, but I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

I want to say something else but I can’t. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway. Maybe that I’m sorry. Maybe that everything is my fault. But my mother is gone and nothing I say is going to change that fact. I stand here knowing I have to pull myself together for my mother’s funeral. Without looking in the mirror again, I breathe slowly and finally, breath by breath, the spinning fades just as the hallucinations did.

***

The large red double doors that lead us into St. Mary’s Church feel heavier than they ever have. I must have opened them a couple of hundred times in my life and never thought about the color. It’s the color of apples, the color of blood, but when doors are painted red they are supposed to symbolize a place of safety, forgiveness, and reconciliation. Now as I pass them I have to wonder . . . does that apply to everyone? Even those of us whose souls are ravaged?

The sanctuary is filled with people, which is no surprise because my mother was friendly with almost everybody in Laguna. Everyone loved and adored her and she felt the same about them. That fact makes me proud. I take the lead and grab my sister’s hand, guiding her down the aisle. As we walk to the reserved pew in the front, I notice the array of flowers that line the altar and wonder if Serena sent some from us. I wish I had thought of it.

I haven’t been to church in so long that when I kneel and make the sign of the cross before entering the row, it feels foreign, strange even, but natural at the same time. This ritual was instilled in me during my early teen years. After all, I went to Wednesday night Catechism classes until I was fifteen. My mother wanted me to be a good Catholic boy and tried to secure this by making sure that the sacraments of initiation were bestowed upon me. I received the rights of baptism, made my first Holy Communion, and was confirmed like all good Catholic boys. So I guess that means that God has given me the graces necessary to live a truly holy life. I try not to laugh out loud at the thought because the life I have been leading does anything but follow the straight and narrow path.

Organ music fills the church and Serena starts to cry. When she dabs her eyes with a crumpled tissue, I reach into my pocket and hand her a white hankie that used to be our mother’s. “Use this.”

She stares at it for the longest time. Catching sight of the monogram only brings more tears to her eyes. My father’s initials, LBC—Lucas Benjamin Covington—are scripted across the corner in navy blue block letters.

“Where did you get this?” she asks quietly.

“I found it on the floor in the family room a few days ago.” I don’t tell her it was the day I was supposed to pick her up and go to the funeral home with her to make the arrangements. But since I was late, she had left without me. I don’t need to point out to her what a mess I am. She can see it.

I just can’t seem to get my shit together no matter how hard I try.

“I thought I’d lost it,” she says squeezing it tightly in her clenched fingers.

Suddenly someone leans forward and places a hand on Serena’s shoulder. When I see the large pearl ring emblazoned with diamonds, I know immediately it’s Dahl. I turn and glance at her. She’s dressed in black, like all of us, and she’s wearing her pearls. Next I survey the row, the people sitting with her, him, his brother, and then I notice his sister, S’belle. My eyes dart to her. I want to say I’m surprised she’s here but I’m not. She’s not wearing black, but rather a dark green dress with many gold chains around her neck and I think, rebel. I always got that vibe from her. When Aerie, Dahlia’s best friend since college, makes her way across the pew, I’m forced to shift my eyes away. She nods at me with a sympathetic look, which is more than I would have expected from her. We always had a love/hate relationship. Thinking back, I’m not sure why since we both only ever wanted what was best for Dahl. Then it hits me. Aerie somehow knew all along that I wasn’t what was best for Dahl.