Page 6

Lark

I'm back at the bar, our bar. It’s familiar and comforting in a way that places become when you associate them with someone special. Someone special like Lara. My gut twists at the thought of her.

The open windows let in the salty breeze. It plays with the edges of cocktail napkins, flirts with the fronds of potted palms, making them shiver. The beach is spread before me like a painting—golden sands kissed by a bright sun, the water blue-green and glittering under the sunshine.

I swirl my glass, watching ice cubes chase each other. Whiskey laps at the rim. It's cold, numbing. This vacation was supposed to be a chance for me to get away and enjoy myself. Instead, I’m stuck on thoughts of a pretty smile and striking eyes.

“Nice view,” a musical voice says.

I glance up. A woman stands there, not the woman I want to see, just another vacationer. She smiles, all glossy lips and hopeful eyes. She's pretty, sure, but she's not who I'm looking for.

“Yeah,” I say, not really feeling the conversation. I want her to go away.

“Can I—” she says, gesturing to the seat beside me, but I cut her off with a raised hand.

“Sorry, I'm actually waiting for someone.” My eyes drift past her, scanning the crowd, searching for Lara. But she’s nowhere to be found.

She pauses, her smile faltering, then picks up her pride and walks away. I can't blame her for trying.

My gaze returns to the beach, to the waves playing tag with the sand.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone. I tap the device against the palm of my hand, restless, replaying the moment she walked out that front door. Questions circle like vultures in my mind. Why did she leave? Did I say or do something wrong? My chest tightens with frustration and something else—want, maybe. No matter how many times I replay that moment in my mind, I can’t pinpoint where things went wrong.

I don’t even know her number. I’d been planning to ask, but she’d left in a hurry.

Pushing back from the table, I stare at my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen and I pull up her profiles again. She’s on Instagram, flashing that same smile that's been haunting me. My heart pounds as I send a follow request. It's a shot in the dark, but hell, what do I have to lose?

Minutes tick by, each one stretching longer than the last. I don’t know if I expected a response right away, but not getting anything from her feels like she’s ghosting me online, too. It’s an unreasonable thought, but it’s there. My gut twists, suddenly sour. Is it possible she sees through my mask? Maybe she got a glimpse of the real me—the guy with more scars than sense.

“Damn,” I whisper, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

A part of me wants to laugh at the irony. Here I am, Lark Carlyle , unable to get a girl to give me the time of day. But the other part of me – the one that doesn’t show up in reflections or in photographs – isn’t laughing. That part of me is wondering if, for once, I've found someone I could want for more than just a fling or a thrill.

That’s dangerous, reckless thinking, and I need to stop it right now.

I’m looking down into my glass when the legs of the chair beside me scrape the floor as someone slides into the seat next to me. I don't even need to look up from my drink to know it's not her. The scent is all wrong—a mix of heavy perfume and something sweet that’s too heavy-handed for the woman I’m pining over.

“Hey there, handsome. Buy a girl a drink?” Her voice is low and throaty with a hopeful note.

I shake my head without glancing her way. “No, thanks. I'm waiting for someone.”

She lets out a soft laugh that probably gets most men in the mood to take her home. “Well, she's not here, and I am... so...”

Annoyance simmers deep within me. What part of no thanks comes across as a challenge?

“I'm just not interested.” My words are sharp, cold and flat. There’s no mistaking that I want her to leave me in peace.

There's a pause, a huff of breath, and the seat is vacant again. I don't watch her leave. It doesn't matter. None of them do—not like Lara does.

*

Days pass in a blur of sand, sunsets, and whiskey. I try to lose myself in the usual distractions—surfing, parties, the laughter around bonfires—but it's like going through the motions of being alive without really living.

The thrill is gone.

Everything feels empty.

At night when I close my eyes, all I see is her smile, hear her laugh, feel the ghost of her touch teasing my skin. It drives me crazy. She's everywhere and nowhere, haunting me. Sometimes I catch a whiff of her scent or swear I hear her voice. And I can't shake the thought of her in my arms, the way nothing else in the world mattered when we were together.

But she's slipped through my fingers like the sands of this beach town. And I'm left with nothing but memories of a one-night stand that's turned into an endless craving I’ll never satisfy.

The ringtone cuts through the silence. I glance at the caller ID—Mom—and swipe to answer.

“Hey, Mom.” She’s going to know.

She hesitates, and I hear her pulling in a slow breath. “Is everything okay?”

She knows me far too well. After losing my father at a young age, she and I are close. She’s the only person in this whole world that I trust completely.

“Yeah, everything's fine,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.

She’s still not convinced. “Uh-huh. Met someone, didn't you?” There's a knowing tone in her voice, along with a smile.

“Nothing serious. Just a fling.” We’re close, but this is tiptoeing a little too close to uncomfortable territory. I tap my foot against the floor, wishing the conversation would end sooner rather than later.

She snorts. “A fling has you moping on your vacation, huh? That’s interesting.”

“Mom—” Sometimes her ability to figure things out is uncanny.

“Sweetheart, you've got that tone. You know, the one you get when—”

I don’t want her to finish that thought. “Mom, really, it's nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, but I can tell she's not done with this conversation just yet. Next time we talk, I’m sure it’ll come up again. “Just don't close yourself off, Lark. Life's too short for what-ifs.”

I tilt my head back, looking up at the ceiling. I know she’s right, but my hands are tied. “Got it, Mom. Talk later, alright?”

“Take care.”

I hang up, sighing. She's too observant for my own good. And the worst part is, she might be right. But it's just a fling. It has to be. What other choice do I have if Lara is avoiding me?