So after one month in New York, I left.

The last months of high school were rough. I hated every minute of it and my grades slipped, but luckily not enough to hurt my GPA and take away my acceptance into Luke University. My new hair style and improved wardrobe attracted attention I wasn’t familiar with. Boys suddenly wanted to date me and girls randomly wanted to be my friend. Having a social life at school, even if it only lasted for the short amount of time remaining before graduation, provided yet another distraction, one that I pretty much loathed, but a distraction nonetheless.

Finally graduation came and then summer. Almost four months had passed since Ben’s death. For everything that had happened in that time, I still felt just as hopeless and broken-hearted as the day of his funeral.

“Maybe you should get a job,” John said one morning as we both sat at the kitchen table. He was sketching something for a tattoo in one of his sketchbooks, while I sat across from him still wearing yesterday’s clothes and staring into a bowl of soggy cereal. Meanwhile, my hair was so tangled, that it was entirely possible I would never be able to get a comb through it.

“Maybe I should get a therapist,” I mumbled to my Cheerios.

John grumbled. “As someone who has been through years of therapy, I will tell you that most therapists are full of shit. But if you think that will help, I will fully support it.” Sighing, he set his pencil down and picked up his drawing to show me. “What do you think I’m missing? I can’t get it quite right.”

His drawing was of the most stunning mermaid. She was topless with her back arched and her hair flowing all around her, as if she were underwater. It was gorgeous, but John was right. It wasn’t finished yet. Her tail didn’t fit the image. I took the sketchbook from his hands. “May I add something?” I asked.

He nodded, so I finished her tail and adjusted the scales, shading heavily. His image was beautiful…but it was almost too beautiful in a way. Sometimes a mixture of darkness with beauty is best…like both are needed to counterbalance one another. John taught me that long ago, and I used that concept to finish his artwork. The mermaid’s scales were now as scary as they were beautiful.

“Damn,” he said when I showed him. “I hate that you’re better than me without even trying. It’s not fair. You know, if you want you can work in the shop this summer. Mom and Dad would probably flip, since for some reason my career choice is blasphemy to them, but they’d get over it.”

“I don’t know. I thought I’d find a waitress job.”

He grimaced as if I’d told him I wanted to clean toilets at a prison all summer. “I’m just kidding,” he said after a moment. “Work wherever you want to. I just want you to be happy. I want you to move on.”

I groaned. The last thing I really wanted to do was move on from Ben. I think that was why I’d been putting myself through hell since his death. The fake distractions always ended up making me feel worse in the end. And the pain was all I had left of him. I realized I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that. What I needed was a true distraction of something I loved, not just a temporary one, if I ever wanted to actually move on. I loved art. I loved painting and drawing. I secretly had been waiting years for John to ask me to work at his shop, but I couldn’t take his offer. I still needed to hold onto my pain. I still needed to make crappy decisions that ultimately led me back to Ben. As moronic as that might have sounded to someone else, it made perfect sense to me. It was torturing me, yes, but it kept Ben alive somehow. And I had an idea for my next distraction, one good enough to ensure I’d forget Ben in the moment and bad enough to guarantee he’d be all I would think about after.

* * *

“You can’t call me Ms. Whittle anymore. You’ve graduated. Our teacher/student relationship is officially over. So stop it. Call me Kimberly.”

Kimberly, aka Ms. Whittle and my former teacher, took a long swig of her Bud Light as she wiggled around to get comfortable in her plastic lawn-chair. She shot me a look, and I knew I could never call her ‘Ms. Whittle’ again.

“Fine,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Is Kimmie okay?” I joked.

“Not if you expect me to answer.”

“Noted. I take it ‘Kim’ is a no-go as well then.”

“You got it. I’ve never liked nicknames, and I’m not about to change my opinion on the matter tonight.” She winked at me and then glanced around the bar, taking in our surroundings. It was a little strange seeing her outside of the classroom, especially with a beer in her hand, but our age difference wasn’t that drastic, only six years, and now that I’d graduated there was no reason that we couldn’t hang out. She’d been my only friend throughout high school, excluding my brother of course, so I hoped that tonight was the first night of many.

“The big question is…are you going to talk to him?” Kimberly asked, her chestnut colored hair shining in the moonlight. “Or are we going to sit here pretending the elephant in the room doesn’t exist and that you didn’t come here for a reason?”

It had been almost two and half years since I’d last set foot inside Chancy’s Claw—as per my brother’s demands. The restaurant and bar still looked exactly as I remembered—dingy but with a certain beachy charm. It was late June. Our table was on the deck portion of the bar and the breeze coming off the ocean felt heavenly, but I was too distracted to notice or care about the ambiance.

Because there was this bartender.

And I’d come here tonight specifically for him.

“Oh, Christ, there he is,” Kimberly said, fanning herself with her menu as she stared across the room intently. “I can’t believe your first kiss was Rhett Morgan—Rhett Morgan! And I can’t believe you waited this long to tell me. Jesus, girl!”

I grabbed my vodka tonic and took a sip. Our waitress hadn’t even carded me, which was a testament to how shady this place was. With my liquid courage in hand, for the first time since we’d been seated, I allowed my eyes to drift in his direction.

Rhett.

Sucking in a breath, I took him in. Rhett was good-looking in the completely opposite way of Ben. Ben had been handsome in a clean-cut, manicured way. Then there was Rhett…who looked like he could have been a construction worker or a firefighter…or maybe a male stripper dressed up as a construction worker or a firefighter. He was lean, muscular, tan, rugged, and the very sight of him, even from a distance, brought heat to my cheeks.

Not to mention, the man was like catnip. The bar area was packed with hungry felines on the prowl. He moved fast, making drinks, smiling at the women he served, and embodying every frat-boy (minus the frat) image I could conjure in my mind. The memory of him from when I was sixteen wasn’t something easily forgotten, and a tingle touched my lips as my mind replayed the kiss we’d once shared.

Still…he wasn’t Ben.

Sadness washed over me like a bucket of ice water. I shook off the feeling. Rhett had made me feel better once before, and I had no reason to doubt the same thing couldn’t work for me a second time. The only difference now was, I wanted to take it to the next level. I wanted to give up my virginity to him…tonight. No point in saving myself for someone who wasn’t alive anymore.

“Holy shit,” I said aloud. Breaking my eyes away from Rhett, I brought my attention back to the table and to my drink. Feeling like I was buried ten feet deep in teenage hormones, grief, and God knows what else, I removed the straw, as it was only slowing me down, and I finished the remainder of my drink in a giant swallow. The alcohol burned going down, and I grimaced. “That man is not for the faint of heart,” I mumbled to myself as I set down a now empty glass. “And neither is my plan for him tonight.”