Page 6 of Black Waters

He stopped and ran his shaky fingers through his graying hair. “Because… there’s a lot of history.”

There was a moment of silence as he attempted to calm himself. My father was a kind man who always showed self control. I think that’s why it was so shocking to see him so angry. “Reether, please let this go, for the sake of this family.”

“Dad, what history?”

More silence. “Whitney’s dad and I used to be best friends with Crash’s father.”

What the f— “You were friends with a drug dealer?”

“He wasn’t a dealer back then—well, not ’til the end. Oh god, son, you’ve got to let this go!”

“Is this about Tim on drugs?”

My father rolled his eyes. “That kid had more integrity than his father has ever dreamed of having. He never did drugs—was never an addict.”

I was beginning to wonder how dumb and naïve I had been. “How do you know about all this?”

“Doesn’t matter, but I stayed out of it then, and I’m staying out of it this time.” He pointed to me. “That means you are too. They will kill you and your mother without a second thought. Got it?”

“What? What does Mom have to do with this? Have they threatened her?” I asked with a building anger and instinct to protect her too.

“No, not directly, and I plan on keeping it that way. So drop your little crush on the Summers girl, and stop bringing this family trouble.”

“Crush? Don’t you ever speak of Whit like that.”

My mom walked in, cheerfully announcing, “Boys, dinnertime.” She stopped when she saw our faces. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, dear. Just man talk.” My father walked to my mom and embraced her as if the thought of her being murdered would kill him. I understood. Someone killing Whitney would’ve ended me.

Two things were clear:

One: I didn’t know shit about my father, and I hated him for it.

Two: I was all Whit had, and my love for her matured at a rapid pace.

After dinner, secretly going through my father’s gun collection in his library, picking a gun that looked easy enough to operate, and putting bullets in my pocket, I stayed up all night protecting Whitney’s home. Yep, I sat on her back patio like a cheap hired guard with an unloaded gun.

Terrified for her safety, I became paranoid, swearing someone else was there, spying on my girl. I paced the back patio daring someone to try and hurt her, but no one showed, so I shakily sat back down, bragging/lying, “That’s what I thought.”

I eventually drifted off to sleep, even though I fought hard to stay awake. I woke as the sun begun to rise, sprawled out across the chair, clearly not prepared for an attack. Morning dew was abundant as I returned the gun to the plastic bag it had traveled through the lake in and hid the foreign object in a bush. I went to the lake and walked in, to not get Whit’s attention before our routine morning swim, and rushed home before my father learned I had not taken his advice or followed his demand.

After sneaking inside of my own home and up our grand, curved staircase undetected, I dressed for my “supposed to be first swim of the morning.” Acting as if I had just woken from my own bed—not Whit’s lawn chair—I entered the kitchen, which smelled of bacon and pancakes. “Good morning, Mom.” I landed a good ol’ kiss on her cheek. She was trying to act like a normal wife, not a woman standing next to our maid who was working the stove, and I appreciated her effort—even though she was failing.

My mom wanted to cook her family’s meals. My father wanted her to be the rich trophy wife she’d become. She hadn’t had the education to compete with my father’s S.J.D. (Doctoral of Juridical Science) he had obtained from Yale Law School, but she was the most beautiful woman, inside and out, and sharp minded.

Her light-brown bangs loosely hung right above huge chocolate eyes as she smiled at me like always: like I was the sun of her universe and she was so thankful to have me. I’d once asked why she didn’t have more children. Her eyes welled as she tried to smile. “My heart is too full. I have you.”

“Are you ready for your morning Whitney swim?” Mom asked with a wink. If she didn’t adore how close Whit and I were, I would’ve thought that wink to mean she was on to my actions last night and this morning.

“Yes, and I plan on winning, so oatmeal it will be.”

Our maid, Matilda, laughed from the stove. “Why do you torture that poor girl?”

My mom grinned at me as if she saw right through me. “Why don’t you surprise her with this wonderful breakfast we have prepared? Bacon, eggs, and pancakes?”

For a moment, everything seemed to have a normalcy that I didn’t know I desired until I realized I had none. I even found myself daring to wish for a forever with my girl. I wanted to see her at the stove, proudly smiling at me the way my mother was, seeing me as her only sun in her universe. But remembering my predicament and the slim chance that daydream could ever come true because Whit’s life was in danger had my hands turning into fists. I needed to find a way to get Whitney through this unscathed and then convince her to fall in love with me.

I paced my back patio, waiting for Whitney to appear in her robe at her back door like she did every morning. When she didn’t, I dove into the blue water. I was terrified that somehow, someone got to her in the one hour I was not on guard, but when I got to her sliding glass door, I saw her dancing out her internal torture. I knew there would be no convincing Whit to fall in love with me. That ship had sailed.