Page 57 of Somewhere Without You

Maeve

I hated the way she said my name. I hated the way it pulled off her tongue and slithered into my ears, dripping down into my bones and echoing deep into my spine.

“Maeve—”

I don’t know why I hated it so much. Maybe it was because I never felt like her— like aMaeve. Or maybe it was because whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw pieces of her staring back at me.

“For the love of god, Maeve, HELLO?!”

“What?!”I demanded.

My mother has this way of looking at me, like I’ve done something wrong—like I’m always doing something wrong. Her eyes, sea green and bright, were defined in the corners as she glared at me from across the room.

“Have you been listening to a single word I’ve said?”she asked, her face pinched together like she’d eaten something sour.

“Yes,”I lied.

Clicking her tongue, she returned to her vanity, where several lipstick tubes rolled off the table. Then, with a heavy sigh, she continued talking about things I didn’t care to listen to.

That’s how she’s always been. My mother has this insatiable thirst to stand out, to do things differently, to be a little extra.

We are the complete opposites.

Where she enjoys vibrant colors spilled onto the low-cut shirts and skintight pants she adores, I prefer comfort over beauty—wearing more casual clothes rather than high-end, uncomfortable style.

Where she paints glitter and lipstick the color of rose petals onto her lips, I barely wear Chapstick on my own pouted smile. To some, these are minor differences that hardly run skin deep, but to me, they’re part of a much bigger picture.

Her bright, bleached hair rested in tight curls around her face and shoulders. Her tan—the one she continuously pays for at the local salon—stained her skin a rusty color, several shades darker than it should be.

I rested my elbows on the counter and leaned over as I watched her apply an eclectic array of soft blues and white hues across her eyelids.

I stared at her while she swiped thick mascara over her long, full lashes—her mouth hung open as if in shock, eyes wide and hand steady so she wouldn’t poke herself with the wand.

“You should let me curl your hair,”she suggested—my gawking at her an open invitation.

I reached up and twisted my ponytail inside my fist, where strands of charcoal hair loosened from its bind.

“We’ve talked about this,”I said, trying not to sound bored.“I like it this way.”

“I know, but you would look so beautiful if you did something other than that,”she insisted—gesturing at me with her perfectly manicured hand.

Here we go again.

It’s as if I’m not beautiful without blush and lipstick. As if I desperately needed some heavy foundation to cover up my already flawless skin.

In reality, it’s not about makeup at all—it’s about envy.

It’s about control.

If she can paint me into something else and cover up my natural beauty the way she hides hers, we will finally be the same. Men will drift their eyes to her instead of lingering only on me, and she will no longer see me as competition in a game I don’t even want to be a part of.

When I was little, random strangers constantly praised her for what a beautiful child I was. As I got older, blossoming from adolescence into womanhood, those innocent compliments became bold comments—mostly made by men.

It’s why my mother puts so much effort into her appearance. Maybe it’s jealousy, perhaps it’s competition. Either way, it’s not speculation.

I’ve seen the way her crisp green eyes cut sideways glances at me every time a man’s gaze lingers too long on my porcelain skin.

Or the way her face drops—just minimally at the mention of my own eyes, a shade so blue, they might as well be teal.

I’m a walking contrast, sticking out when I desperately want to blend in.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to come out with me tonight,”she insisted as she slipped into a pair of six-inch heels. They’re gold and gaudy, and they hurt my feet just by looking at them.

“Thanks, but no thanks,”I said—peeling myself away from the table.“I have plans anyway.”

We go through this every week, and every week, I find myself re-explaining to her why I don’t want to hang out at the local bar alongside her.

“With your cat?”She asked, raising an eyebrow.

I flinched because she wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t want to openly admit that I’d much rather trade in a night filled with cheap booze and shitty music to hang out with Charles Lickens.

Instead, I rolled my eyes and laughed. A poor attempt at convincing her— at convincing myself that my life was not as pathetic as it outwardly seemed.

For a moment, things were quiet, with the uncomfortable weight of our relationship stripped bare between us. It was brief—mere seconds even, but it was long enough to irritate an already infected wound—one that’s been festering for years.

I’d waited well into adulthood for that moment when things would change.

When our relationship would inevitably shift from that of a parent and their child to one of a mother and her daughter.

The kind that carries a bond. I thought it would happen instantly.

I stupidly believed that when I became an adult, I would understand her more.

Now I understand her less.

***

Twilight cut across the sky as I walked along the sidewalk, winding through the neighborhood on the south side of the shore.

It was warm but still barely June, and the night air still held on to a leftover chill from the wet spring season.

By now, vacationers and summer residents have already started returning to Saltridge, and at the end of the month, our quiet little town would be roaring with life again.

I decided not to head straight home but instead, headed for the beach.

The moon hung heavy and full, casting a shimmering glow onto the water as the tide swept in. The view was stunning. The reflection cast off the waves looked like it’s own galaxy, spilled across the sea.

I’ve lived here my entire life, yet I’ve always been an outsider—a stranger in my own home, in my own skin, someone who openly doesn’t belong, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

Yet here, where the edge of the world is stitched together on a fine seam—constantly on the brink of unraveling—I feel most at peace.

There was a spot just out of reach of the hungry water, where the sand was left dry and untouched.

Sitting down, I dug my toes deep into the sift, inhaling a breath of salty air.

The slight sting of it tickled the back of my throat, but I didn’t mind because it left behind a familiar aftertaste—one I could never seem to hold onto for very long.

For a while, I watched as the waves rolled onto the shore, crashing and pulling away slowly, dragging pieces of the world back as they retreated.

It was a beautiful and well-rehearsed dance, and I wondered how long it would take before the earth had no more of itself to give.

How often would the water kiss the sand before stealing every grain, leaving nothing but disappointment and emptiness upon its return?

I’ve always been fascinated by the ocean—its vastness, its hunger. And although I’ve never been in it, I can’t stay away from it either.

The open sea is a dangerous creature, unpredictable and heartless. It will swallow you whole and dissolve your bones into foam. It is a lawless, wretched thing, yet equally seductive, alluring, and elusive. I cannot think of a better thing for a monster to be.

Sitting here, I craved it. Every part of my body vibrated as I stared into the dark horizon, my skin becoming covered in gooseflesh. It happens every time I come here, and I can’t tell if it’s from excitement, or fear.

I’ve tried countless times to walk into the water but can never seem to reach it because I falter every time. All the confidence I’ve mustered, all the courage and self-assurance I’ve managed to build up, somehow spills out of me and onto the shore, where I remain rooted in apprehension.

And yet, every night, it calls to me.

Every night, I lie in bed, listening to it sing. There’s this part of me, a dark and wicked thing coiled beneath my skin that rattles itself awake when I listen to it cry. As if the ocean’s songs were meant for it—beckoning it home.

Maybe it’s not the dark and menacing water that scares me, but this ache inside my bones, the one that wants to drive me far out into the horizon until my head is underwater and my lungs give out.

Shuddering, I drew my knees to my chest, catching a glimpse of my mark in the moonlight. It was a blended shadow of purple and crimson, and like smoke, it snarled its way from one leg onto the other. A nearly perfect line, creating an almost perfect imperfection.

It is the only blemish I own, the only stain that brandishes my skin.

There are no moles or wrinkles, no sun-weathered dark spots.

I’ve never had a pimple nor found a single freckle stamped along my skin.

This is all I have—this single linear signature that cuts across my legs like some faded and forgotten path.

They say birthmarks are an imprint of a past life—evidence of how you once left the world before you came back into it as someone else. But mine are tied to a life I was supposed to live—to a life I was doomedto survive. Now, I didn’t know where I belonged.