The Waves Read online

  THE WAVES

  For anyone who feels lost,

  abandoned,

  discarded,

  forgotten.

  You’re not.

  You’re just floating for now.

  Your rescue is coming.

  Believe it and keep treading water.

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Matayo

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.amymatayo.com

  Cover Designer: Murphy Rae/Indie Solutions

  Editor: Kristin Avila

  Proofreader: Kacie Young

  Interior Designer: Paul Salvette, BB eBooks / bbebooksthailand.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Half-Title

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by Amy Matayo

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Lies We Tell Ourselves

  THE WAVES

  by

  Amy Matayo

  CHAPTER 1

  Dillon

  I’m drowning again. Not literally, of course. To be literally drowning, I would have to figuratively pull my face and my spoon out of this carton of Cherry Garcia and head for the bath, and I have no intention of doing that anytime soon. Maybe later. Maybe I’ll fill the tub to overflowing, hold myself under water, and slowly count to a thousand. That ought to do the trick.

  Three boyfriends in six months. No serious boyfriend ever. Why do I keep winding up here? Is this the obvious route for a therapist who analyzes people for a living, but doesn’t like to let anyone get too close to her? This sort of self-analysis has become secondary to me. It might be nice to find an answer that doesn’t involve me eating my feelings.

  A line of melted ice cream slides from my lip to my chin, so I stick my tongue out and swipe left to lick it off. The rest comes off with the heel of my hand. I don’t have a napkin, so I wipe the mess on my shirt and groan. Chocolate is so hard to remove from white cotton, but even the idea of a ruined top can’t motivate me to care. I’ll buy another shirt later when I have a reason to live.

  I push off the sofa and shuffle toward the kitchen.

  This carton of ice cream is empty. I flick the container onto the counter and open the freezer, knowing for a fact there’s an emergency stash tucked behind the bags of frozen blueberries and Eggo waffles. Out of sight, out of mind was my thought process when I put it there. Today my thought process includes eating another carton and maybe another, then pulling Kirk’s heart out of his chest, dangling it from my fingers, and dropping it from a boat Titanic style. It might be fun to watch it sink to the bottom of the ocean while Celine Dion sings “My Heart Will Go On” in the background. Except Kirk’s heart won’t go on because he’ll be dead.

  Just like Jack in the movie; no happy ending for either one of them.

  I grab the emergency carton of Rocky Road, then shrug and shuffle back to the sofa, pulling off the lid and dropping it on the ground as I go. I have a fleeting thought about carpet stains but dismiss it because I don’t care. I glance at the lid one more time to make sure. It’s ice-cream-side down and undoubtedly leaving a permanent mark.

  But no. I don’t care one bit.

  My phone buzzes beside me, and I glance at it. I know better, but I’m weak and stupid and apparently there’s no immediate cure for either of those deficiencies.

  It doesn’t mean anything, Dillon. How many times do I have to say that? Please call me so I can explain.

  Sure, explain it.

  By all means, explain what happened when I was sitting in my counseling appointment earlier this afternoon, listening to a bride-to-be recite her pre-honeymoon jitters. Will I be enough for him? Will he be happy with me for the rest of our lives? Will he get bored eventually and move on to someone else? Explain how, while I was thinking of super-reassuring responses to assuage her doubts, she drops a casual: Kirk thinks I’m ridiculous for worrying. And then all of a sudden I’m the one plagued with doubts.

  My mind stumbled on the name Kirk, silly as it seemed. Lots of people are named Kirk. Even in tiny Franklin, Tennessee. That’s what I said to myself, my red stiletto swinging from my foot back and forth. At least they look nice against my spray-tanned legs, making me appear like the well-put-together professional I am. A master’s degree in psychology didn’t make me all kinds of crazy, no sir.

  Until she said this: Mrs. Kirk Donahue. Can you even imagine?

  Could I? Could I even imagine?

  Even as she squealed and bounced in her seat a little, I just could not imagine.

  But here’s a better question.

  Can you imagine my shock at hearing his name? Or the way my head went light and spun until I, not the bride, suddenly felt faint with impending doomsday jitters? Or the way I politely excused myself from the session and threw up in the bathroom down the hall? Or the way my tears came hard and fast and were immediately followed by embarrassing wails of anguish? Or the way my co-workers knocked on the door out of concern because they could hear me? Apparently, the entire waiting room full of clients could hear me.

  Explain that.

  I jam my spoon inside the carton and drag out a mound of chocolate and marshmallows, then get a brain freeze in the seconds that follow. I rub my temple and glare at the room, particularly at the sofa I’m sitting on.

  I was kissing Kirk Donahue just last night in this very spot, the sofa now littered with wadded tissues and dotted with chocolate ice cream from the spoon I dropped ten bites ago. How did I never see the signs?

  She said in our very first session that she was marrying a veterinarian. She said he’d graduated from Texas Tech more than five years ago. She mentioned he had brown hair, and was a bit shorter than her, and had a crooked front tooth that hit her tongue just right when she kissed him.

  She never mentioned his name. Not his first or his last. Thinking back, it’s so painfully obvious, I should probably lose my license. Counselors are supposed to be more perceptive than that.

  I pick up my phone and type. Cheaters never prosper, Kirk. Go tell your lies to some other woman who believes them. Like your fiancé. For all I know, you have more than one.

  It takes three seconds to get a response.

  Don’t be that way, baby. I know we can work through this. I need you in my life.

  I roll my eyes and delete his number from my phone.

  Kirk’s life—if not his cold dead heart—will have to go on without me.

  Ben and Jerry are the only men I’m interested in now.

  I’m als
o interested in the doorbell. Specifically, I’m interested in bashing it with a hammer until it breaks into a thousand silent pieces. It’s been ringing nonstop for a solid two minutes, along with my phone. My mother wouldn’t know subtlety if she ran into it on the street and it asked her out for drinks.

  I drag a fistful of blonde curls off my face and roll toward the sound.

  “Go away!” I shout this from the same trusty spot on the sofa where I’ve remained all evening. It’s dark outside. The tissue pile has doubled, and I’ve added a frozen pizza box and crust remains to the growing pile of junk food around me. Melted ice cream seeps from a nearly-empty cardboard carton, leaving a ring on my coffee table that I don’t have the energy to clean. Heartbreak, coupled with the two carpet stains and random sofa splatters, comes with an expensive price tag.

  “Open the door right now, young lady. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  I’m twenty-eight. Not all that young and definitely not very ladylike at the moment unless all ladies walk around in men’s boxers, mismatched socks, and oversized t-shirts worn backwards with a tag sticking out under their chins. The thing has been scratching at me all afternoon. I’d look for scissors to cut it off, but I’m afraid I might accidently-on-purpose slit my own throat just to end this miserable day.

  When did I become such an internally violent person?

  I suppose I could turn my shirt around.

  “I don’t want company,” I call. To this, my phone rings again. With a growl, I stand up and head for the door. I’m the walking wounded, the discarded and downtrodden, and this is the way I’ll be for the rest of my life. Pathetic. Wallowing in sameness. I am woman, let me sleep. End of story. That’s that.

  I’m greeted with my mother’s disapproving stare. The woman could make wax melt with that look. She gives me a slow perusal up and down, just like she gave me every morning in high school during my blue eyeshadow and pink-streaked hair phase. She still has the ability to make me squirm. Do all mothers have this superpower, or just mine?

  “What have you done to yourself? You look terrible.”

  Probably just mine. She reaches out a hand and pulls something from my hair, yanking out an actual twelve-inch strand in the process.

  “Ow! I found out my boyfriend’s a cheater, that’s what. And thanks for the compliment.” I rub the sore spot on my head and walk back into the living room. Falling on the sofa has become an art form today. If it became an Olympic sport, gold medallions would totally be swinging from my neck. Like a noose. Again with the violence.

  “A cheater? You really know how to pick men, Dillon.”

  Like I said, no subtlety.

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean? I don’t intentionally go for losers, Mother.”

  I throw an arm over my eyes and look up at her through a crack at my elbow. She stands over me and observes me in the way mothers do. Counting my flaws and working out ways to fix them. Hovering. Coming up with advice to magically cure my singleness. That’s what she’s doing. Hovering and internally criticizing me. She’s probably even got a problem with the way I’m breathing. I can see it in her judgmental gaze.

  I don’t intentionally go for losers. It’s just that none of them will ever be as perfect as—

  “Well maybe not intentionally. But there was Dan last month, and then David last Christmas. And what was the one guy’s name…Judah? The one with the big mole right beside his eye? I could never figure out how he had any peripheral vision with that thing sitting there. Someone needs to tell him to have that checked so he doesn’t—”

  “Mother, I don’t talk to Judah anymore. He can check his own mole. And if you’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working.”

  “I’m just saying that cancer is a serious issue. I wonder if he’s seen a doctor…”

  My mother, the perpetual worrier about things that are none of her business. Like my ex-boyfriends. The state of my hygiene. Next up, she’ll be asking about my plans to have kids.

  “I’m never going to have any grandchildren at this rate.”

  And…there it is. I flip onto my stomach and growl into the sofa cushion. What would life be like if I wasn’t continually reminded of my growing list of failures? If it didn’t come from my mother, it would be from my grandmother. Or my uncle Bob. Or my other grandparents on my father’s side. Or one of my eight thousand cousins, because both my parents have what feels like a hundred siblings a piece—the main reason I’m an only child. All my aunts and uncles contributed to population growth with at least four kids apiece. I’m certain I belong to the largest family in history aside from that one family in Arkansas with the twenty kids. They used to have a television show before scandal ripped it apart. I wish scandal would descend on me right now—something embarrassing that would result in my mother’s quick exit.

  The most scandalous thing I’ve done all year is drink two Starbucks Frappuccinos on the same unseasonably warm Monday afternoon last March. Coincidently, it was the same day Judah broke up with me via text. While we dated, my mother never stopped worrying about his mole. My father, by comparison, never stopped insisting he was the cowardly type from the moment they first shook hands. The cowardly break-up only confirmed it. I should have listened to my dad.

  Of all the people in my outrageously large family, he’s the one that is firmly on my side without fail.

  “Where’s dad?”

  My mother pushes my leg mostly out of the way and sits next to me. There’s a chair by the fireplace but no, my lap it is. “He’s with the plumber at our house. The bathtub isn’t draining right so he wanted to have it checked. That’s the reason I came over here.”

  I push myself up on my elbows and scoot back, mainly because my mom is sitting on my thigh, and I need to move it.

  “You just needed a place to hang out until he’s finished?”

  “No. I wanted to know your decision about the cruise. We need to finalize the head count tomorrow.” She reaches for an old Cosmopolitan magazine and opens it to the middle.

  There’s logic in that sentence somewhere, I think. “Your backed-up bathtub made you think about the cruise? Not exactly the best mental image, Mom.”

  She discards the magazine without even looking at it. “That girl was half-naked. I don’t know why you read this trash.” She sighs, loudly. “Honestly Dillon, can you please just go? It would mean a lot to your grandparents, and it’s only for a week. They’ve already paid for it, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like you’ll be out any money.”

  What my mother lacks in subtlety, she makes up for it in guilt trips. The worst thing is, she’s right. It’s my grandparents fiftieth wedding anniversary next month. To celebrate, they pre-paid a cruise for our entire family—that’s aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, a few random friends thrown in because my musician-cousin Teddy doesn’t travel without an entourage. The whole lot of us will be under the same swaying roof. If you’re the curious math type, that’s fifty-nine men, women, and children heading toward the same Caribbean destination while sleeping under a not-big-enough-for-me third-floor hallway.

  I don’t want to go.

  I don’t have a choice.

  “I’ll be there. Put me down as a yes.” I may as well have said, “I have poison oak. Buy me some ointment,” for all the enthusiasm in my tone. But I’m showing up, right? No one said I had to be happy about it.

  “You could be a little happier about it.”

  Except my mother, of course. It’s like she has a one-way ticket straight inside my brain.

  I roll away from her and bury my head in a sofa cushion. My boxers have ridden down, and I can feel some air on my butt, but I don’t move to pull them up. She came here without my permission, so she can deal with a little crack in my personality. So to speak.

  “I’ll get happy about it next week.” I won’t, but I keep that information to myself.

  “Honestly Dillon, pull up your pants. No wonder.”

  Wait just a gosh darn minute. I fl
ip over to glare at her, tugging my shorts up because I want to and no other reason.

  “No wonder what?”

  My mother stands and shakes her head. Her sigh could be heard at the Grand Ole Opry if anyone craned an ear.

  “Nothing. Just…please take a shower and pack a bag before we leave for heaven’s sake.” She takes a few steps, then pauses to look back at me from the doorway. “And just for the record, no man is worth wallowing like this, especially covered in dried ice cream. Self-pity doesn’t look good on you, not when you’re that beautiful. Now get up and find someone who treats you better than Jonah or Kurt or whatever their names were. And brush your hair, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Judah and Kirk. Not to mention Dan and David, even though you did.”

  She tilts her head. “Two things about that. One, I barely recall the other men, but I still insist you couldn’t have looked at that horrible mole the rest of your life. Seriously, he needs to have it checked. I swear it has cancer written all over it. Someday it will probably spread to his actual eye.”

  As usual, we’re off track. “And two?”

  Her eyebrows pinch together. “Two what?”

  I swallow my sigh, feeling my insides explode just a little bit. “You said two things?”

  “Oh. In the Bible, Judah was a snake.” And with that, my mother leaves.

  I can’t help a tiny smile.

  That might be the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.

  CHAPTER 2

  Liam

  “And you’re sure she’s going to be there?”

  I’m holding a pair of Doc Martens in my hand and thinking seriously about chucking them at Chad’s head. Packing quickly and in peace was the plan, but that was nothing more than wishful thinking. After the crap day I’ve had, I’d really rather not continue this conversation. It’s been going on for ten minutes already.

  “Dude, if he says she’s going to be there, she’s going to be there. It’s a family reunion. Her family. Why wouldn’t she show up?” I drop the Docs in my suitcase and reach for a navy swimsuit.