The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(42)

When the girls used to come here with me, things were very different. I didn't really give a shit about the cabin. I didn't pay attention to the small details of the place. I only cared about the partying. The booze we could steal away from our parents. The occasional bottle of pills Zen lifted from her Mom's purse. Diving into the lake in the middle of the night, high, drowsy and languid on Percocet, everything feeling like a dream, the black, inky water over our heads, laughing like giddy ghosts, clinging to each other on the pebbly shore. I'd sleep like the dead, not caring where I rested my head because that was unimportant.

Now, I see the scuffs and the scratches of the place and think of them as lines that mark the face of a familiar old friend, bringing them to life. The collection of small, colorful steel wind-up birds perched on the bookshelves, hiding in the corners of closets, at the back of kitchen cabinets, fallen down the back of the furniture, are totems of my childhood, reminding me of a time when I used to delight in the way they seemed to move of their own accord overnight. I would wake to find them relocated, convinced that they came to life while I slept and fluttered all over the cabin on silent wings, communing with one another in the dark. It was Mom who'd moved them, of course. She'd place them around my bowl at the breakfast table, as if they'd gathered there, waiting for me to drag my lazy butt from my bed, but the sunrise had rendered them inanimate again before I managed to show my face.

The throws that hang over the backs of chairs and at the ends of the beds are old and a little holey, but surprisingly spared by the moths. They have a smell all of their own, a little musty and dusty but comforting—the smell of faded sunlight and summers past, captured in the crocheted pinks and blues, and browns and oranges of the rough wool.

The creaky floorboards have been worn raw in some places, the varnish rubbed away by the footfall of too many sock feet, and the paint on the window sills is chipped and peeling in places. The stove in the kitchen is temperamental and likes to cut out halfway through boiling the water inside the old, dented copper kettle, and sometimes the pipes rattle and judder mid-shower, but there isn’t one single detail, one single flaw that I don’t cherish about this place. It’s perfect in its imperfection, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My favorite part of the cabin, though, is the deck. Out of the front bedroom, the raised wooden platform is at least six hundred square feet and seems to be both suspended amongst the trees and reaching into the water at the same time. I used to spend most of my time at the cabin sprawled out on the deck when I was a kid. I can close my eyes and still feel the rough wood beneath my belly, the sun beating down on my back, as I laid on my stomach, flipping the pages of book after book, the weeks of summer vacations passing by in a lazy, hazy blur.

I stand in the kitchen now, patiently waiting for my tea to steep, steam curling up from my grandpa's old mug, and I plan out my day: first, guitar. Then, couch time with the newest Orla Stanislavski book. Later, probably around three, I unashamedly schedule in a nap for myself. Then I'll head to the store and pick up the groceries I neglected to buy on the way up here. In the evening, I'll cook myself some dinner and relax in front of the T.V. There's no cable or internet up here, but there's something comforting about selecting a DVD from the cabin's respectable library and tucking myself up on the couch with a blanket—I usually pick ‘Die Hard With a Vengeance,’ since it was Grandpa’s favorite. The man loved anything with Bruce Willis in it.

I fix my tea with milk and a dash of sugar, the English way, Nona says, and I gingerly carry it up the narrow stairs in one hand, my guitar in my other, trying not to spill any liquid on the way up. Thankfully, the deck is partially covered by an overhang from the eaves so I can sit out there in an old, weatherworn rattan chair with the waist of the guitar resting snuggly against the top of my thigh and not get soaked by the rain.

It comes down in sheets over the lake, pitting the surface of the water with millions of tiny ripples. Across the other side of the lake, a column of smoke rises from another chimney, but I can’t see the other house. There’s someone over there, just like me, hiding from the world inside a small, warm cocoon; they’re probably looking at the column of smoke rising from this cabin’s chimney, trying to pick the building from the masts of the trees, too. It’s so secluded here that it is mildly comforting to know there’s someone out there. Not that I’d have a hope of finding or reaching them if I needed help, but still…

I fingerpick my way through a series of chord progressions, warming up my hands, stitching a melody together, trying to keep my mind as blank as humanly possible, but it proves difficult. I can play without any real concentration on my part, so a succession of thoughts parade through my head, one by one, all demanding my close attention.

“I’m not going to force you to fall for me, Silver. You’ve already been forced to do too much. But don’t blame me if I try and change your mind.”

Alex's words had felt like a promise. They felt like an omen of some kind. He's not just going to let this lie. He's already shown himself to be a determined person who gets whatever the hell he wants. Turning up at my place after I told him our lesson was off and hanging out with my dad until I came home? Yeah, that proved that well enough. It was there in his eyes, though: a steel will, focused directly on me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I will give him what he wants when all is said and done. Does it matter that it seems to be what I want to? I'm so fearful of that—my own urge to hand myself over to him, even though I know just how dangerous it is to contemplate such a thing. I've trusted before, and in turn, I've been so badly burned. My scars are all internal, but they're there, brutal and horrific all the same. He can't see them. He can't know how deep they run.