The Tethered Soul of Easton Green: The Tethered Soul Series Book 1 Read online

  “I’ll try the soup as you recommended. Thank you.” Easton smiled at Sue as he handed her the menu off the table. Sue’s cheeks turned red all over again. She had a crush. Easton was probably the first guy to show her attention in a long time. Had he not been so much younger than her, I’m sure she would’ve made a move. Probably with me sitting right across from him.

  “Same. Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile.

  Sue didn’t like me, and she showed it when she snatched the menu out of my hand and turned sharp on her heels. I was used to it by now. Most women didn’t like me. I’d heard several times from friends that I was different than what they had expected of me. It must be my face. The way I carry myself. An invisible pheromone I put out. Something . . .

  Easton’s glacial eyes were burning a hole through me. Waiting for my answer.

  “We do? What is it?” I asked, both intrigued and worried in equal parts. Did I want to know what I had in common with a suicidal homeless man?

  “You’re having a shitty day. You said so yourself, back at the bridge,” Easton said, relaxed here at the diner as if he wasn’t wearing wet clothes or sitting with me, a stranger. Why was he so comfortable? This conversation alone was freaking me out. I shuddered as water from my hair dripped onto my chest.

  “You’re right. I did say that.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I wasn’t ready. “You clearly are having a shittier day than I am. Do you want to talk about it?” I asked him. I had to take the focus off of me. I wasn’t the one ready to end everything, after all. I still had some fight left in me. As brief as it may be.

  “I’m not having a bad day. Thank you, Sue.” I jumped again. Easton helped guide his soup down to the table. Where did she come from!?

  Sue placed my soup down in front of me. Her thumb dug deep into my clam chowder. I sighed, not able to thank her. Chills ran down my spine after hearing her thumb pop out of her mouth like a kiss. She was probably attempting to flirt with Easton. It was nothing but gross. And now my soup was tainted.

  “But if you want to talk about what you're going through, I’d listen,” Easton said before digging into his soup.

  Me? Like I was the crazy one here? Huh . . . I guess it was a possibility.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” But as soon as I said it, the silence was deafening. My leg bounced uncontrollably under the table. All the tension I had been carrying around with me grew heavy. I didn’t want to talk about it. But I needed to.

  “You’re not the only one dying, you know. We all are. Just at different speeds,” Easton said casually.

  I gasped. How did he know that? Was he a mind reader? A clairvoyant? I felt incredibly vulnerable, like he could see right through me. I tightened my wet jacket around me.

  “How,” I started.

  “You told me back at the bridge. Remember? You were disgusted with me and how I could be throwing away my life when you didn’t have the choice to keep yours.” Easton paused, taking me in.

  I didn’t remember saying any of it to him. But it was exactly how I felt. My thumb-dipped soup stared back at me. I pushed the bowl away; I wasn’t hungry anyhow. My memory must have lapsed at the peak of the adrenaline rush. I furrowed my eyebrows at the distaste of feeling exposed. He was the first person to know. I didn’t feel as bad as I thought I might, though. Perhaps it was because he was a stranger. A stranger who had his own baggage and misfortunes. Like me, he couldn’t possibly judge; he had no grounds for it. I felt his gaze on me, and I shrugged, unable to look back at him.

  “What is it? Cancer?” he asked as if he were checking the flavor of a chocolate candy before popping it in his mouth. He returned his gaze to the meal before him.

  I reached up to my neck and traced the lump with my fingertips. A small sound escaped my throat as if an admission of guilt.

  Easton nodded before settling his crystal eyes on me. For a brief moment, I felt understood. I must be at a really low point in my life to feel like the only one who understands me is a soaking wet stranger sitting across from me in a stained vinyl booth.

  “I’ve had it for some time.” I looked everywhere but directly at him. The words fell out of my mouth. “I ignored all of the symptoms. I thought I was too young for something like this. It’s my fault, really. I had a biopsy years ago, but it was inconclusive. They wanted me to come back for a repeat, but I thought there was no way in hell I was having a needle jabbed into my throat again.” I winced at the memory of the pressure on my throat and the pain in my ears.

  “I thought they just wanted my money, so I ignored it.” My eyes drifted off to a faraway land. I felt empty inside. “And now, it’s too late. There’s nothing they can do.” I found it odd that my eyes had begun to water since I felt nothing inside. In one moment, the truth was too much to bear, and then in the next, it was so far removed from reality that it couldn’t possibly be my life. My fingertips traced my coffee mug handle.

  Easton was the best kind of listener. The one who actually paid attention. No judgment. He understood, and he didn’t try to fix anything or interrogate me with questions. He just gave me a warm body to talk to so I wasn’t alone and the time to reflect on what lay deep inside. Had I been telling this to my parents, they would have jumped down my throat, grilled me on specific details, and made me feel guilty for not taking better care of myself. Guilty for taking their little girl away from them. Or perhaps, I would make myself think that all on my own.

  Easton was gazing down into his coffee mug. He appeared sad. I knew that I was a downer, but somehow, I felt a little lighter after telling someone my secret.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just—”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s life. You can’t apologize for that,” Easton said, his forehead creasing in defeat.

  He was wise beyond his years—an old soul. I wondered what happened in his life to make him break. His hair was drying to an unruly dark mess that swept into his eyebrows. The reddish-brown bags under his blue eyes made me think that he hadn’t slept in weeks. His skin was pale like mine. But unlike mine, which was genetic; his skin appeared white due to a lack of sunlight. I wondered if he was too far gone for the mood-enhancing benefits of vitamin D.

  Sue came to our table with a check and a slice of blackberry pie “on the house.” I dug out my wallet while she talked to Easton about the storm. I tried to hide my amusement. He didn’t challenge her in the way he did me. Maybe he didn’t care to. Sue took the card from my hand as she thanked Easton. I might as well have been invisible to her. It was so ridiculous; had it been a different day, I might have laughed out loud.

  I caught myself wondering what Easton would look like with a smile. Though he wasn’t my type: tall, slender . . . emotional. Challenging and intelligent. I was always attracted to the meatheads. The ones with more testosterone than they knew what to do with. The ones that had basic needs and basic brains. And subsequently, remarkable bodies. I never needed more than eye candy. I had fun with my friends, and I could always talk to my mom if needed. Still, I questioned what a smile would do for him.

  “Are you going to be OK?” Easton asked me.

  I found it odd that I was thinking the same about him. Somehow, he made me forget about my situation. If only for a few short moments.

  “Yeah. I mean, until I’m not.” How was I supposed to answer a question like that? I assumed it would be something I would learn over the next couple of weeks through trial and error.

  “Are you?” I asked.

  Sue crept into my peripheral vision. She wasn't going to spook me this time.

  “Here you go. Just sign there.” Sue handed me a pen with the receipt. I was tempted not to leave her a tip, but I played nice. “Don’t be a stranger now, you hear?” Sue giggled, eyes set on Easton as her cheeks turned red once more. She retreated to the kitchen.

  “I think she likes you.”

  Easton shot me a smile that did something to my insides. A weird flutter stirred inside.

  I guess this wa
s it. I’d lingered long enough. It was time I said goodbye. I grabbed my bag and slid out of the booth. Easton stayed put.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be OK?” I asked, feeling guilty about leaving him.

  “I’ll be just fine. It was nice to meet you, Everly,” Easton said with a warm expression. How come it didn’t sound out of place when he said it? I glanced around the diner. It’s not like I had another choice. I wasn’t going to bring him home like a stray dog. It was weird I even considered it. He pulled the pie in a little closer and picked up the fork.

  “OK. You too,” I managed to say. It felt off, but I didn’t know why.

  I turned around and walked out of the diner. The draft sent a shudder through my body as I opened the door. The rain pelted down on me, soaking me once more. I tried to shield my head as I ran to my truck. I cranked the heater up before stealing one last glance at the peculiar stranger I had met on the bridge. The waitress was making her way back to him. Huh . . . probably going to talk to him about the weather some more. I pulled away and continued homeward. But this time, I thought about Easton instead of my diagnosis.

  I pulled into my driveway. It was my parents’ house. They’d bought it as a rental. When I was old enough to move out, the place was vacant. It was only fitting that I moved in. The dead potted plants were finally getting some water with the rain. Mom would be happy about that. I knew they would get a drink at some point in time. Maybe they would grow back, and she would never know I neglected them in the first place. I ran to the door and fumbled with my keys. My hands were wet and slippery. Yeti impatiently barked inside.

  When I finally opened the door, she jumped and barked rambunctiously, her bear-like body intermittently bumping into me. I peeled off my jacket and kicked off my wet shoes. They joined a shoe graveyard where five or six pairs lay scattered by the front door. I placed my bag on a small entry table before greeting Yeti. But her excitement only made me sad. What would she do after I was gone? Maybe my brother would take her. I would have to start bringing her over to his house to break her in slowly. Get her used to the idea. I padded barefoot to the heater. Even the carpet was cold under my feet. I tried not to think about it, but everywhere I looked was one more thing I had to deal with now, or my parents would have to later. I would have to start scaling back my already empty house.

  Late that night, I found myself nose-deep in a hot bath. As the chill in my bones lifted, the heat helped to calm my aching heart, though tears continued to flow down my face. I didn’t know how I would make it through the next few months of my life. The last few months of my life. I didn’t know much about the emotional stages I would be going through, but I knew acceptance was one of them, and I couldn’t wait to get there. If I could just get there.

  My doctor's voice, low and callused, played through my head. “Terminal.” Like a punch to the gut. By the time he said, “metastasized,” I was barely listening to anything but the ringing in my ears. I winced. The punch was fake, but the pain was real.

  With my eyes closed tight, I saw something different altogether, and I welcomed the change in thought. I saw Easton’s rain-soaked shoes hanging over the rail of the New River Bridge. This, too, pained me. But in a different way. Without knowing Easton, I recognized that he was special. And the world needed special people; they were the glue that held the rest of us together.

  It wasn’t fair that he would have considered jumping. Regret boiled up inside of me. My eyes opened and focused on my red toenail polish—chipped fire hydrant red, nearly two weeks old. I should have stayed at the diner. I should have done more to help him. I played my regrets over and over in my head until the bathwater turned cold, and I became chilled once more.

  Chapter 3

  When my alarm sounded the next morning, I picked up my phone and threw it against my wall as hard as I could. As luck would have it, the alarm didn’t stop. I tossed my heavy blue corduroy comforter off me and lay motionless while Yeti bumped her nose into me and bashed her tail into my nightstand. Why do I need to go to work anyway? Why do I need to do anything? I could just lie here and wither away.

  As tempting as it was, the beeping of my alarm was maddening, and the dog needed to go out. I suppose I could be a contributing member of society for one day longer.

  I pet Yeti on the head as I retrieved my phone from a pile of dirty laundry I’d been planning on doing for days. The screen had broken on impact. I sighed. Usually, I would tell myself, ‘It only gets better from here,’ but today was different, and I knew that was no longer true.

  I took out a pair of crisp jeans from my closet; they were the only ones left that were clean. I pulled them on, jumping several times to get them over my butt. They would loosen up as the day went on, but straight out of the wash, they were much too tight. It was typical for cheap jeans to make a girl feel out of shape and start her day off with more self-esteem issues than any one person should have in a twenty-four-hour period.

  I slipped my embroidered Fresh Grounds T-shirt over my head and brushed my teeth. The only thing I enjoyed about working was unlimited caffeine. And today, I needed it more than ever. I owned a coffee pot, but I usually got my coffee from work, even on my days off. The little shop was on my way to school, making it convenient for me to drop in on my way out of town. I sighed, looking into the mirror before deciding to embrace my pale, bare face, but I drew the line with naked eyes; I coated my lashes in black mascara. I knew my cheeks would pinken throughout the day, so I skipped blush and finished with a lip gloss that would darken my naturally rosy lips, ever so slightly. Without it, my face would look like a ghost. How ironic. After parting my hair to the side, I pulled back my light blond strands into a messy bun at the nape of my neck. It would be covered by my Fresh Grounds trucker hat anyway.

  I said goodbye to Yeti and threw my apron over my shoulder before heading out the door. I surprised myself with how typical my morning was. When would it all change? It was difficult to imagine that one day I would be too feeble to serve coffee.

  The storm had subsided, but the dampness and chill remained. A cool breeze blew, causing me to pinch my jacket closed around my neck. I started my truck and waited impatiently for it to warm up. The steering wheel was like ice under my hands, and my breath was visible. I switched the station on my stereo about every fifteen seconds. Every song made me feel something, and every emotion reminded me of my limited time. It was in my best interest not to tap into my feelings before work. If I did, I might never find my way out. I was about to pull into the parking lot before I turned off the stereo all together. I figured that music and I would have to part ways.

  The warm air welcomed me from the post-thunderstorm breeze outside. But nothing was better than the smell of fresh-ground coffee. I inhaled deeply, trying to get even a morsel of caffeine in my system. Used books lined the shelves behind two old leather recliners. Fresh Grounds coffee mugs and T-shirts sat on the shelves for sale. Even though the place was packed, I recognized Greg’s camel-colored jacket. He was about fourth in line. There was always a line here at Fresh Grounds, and Greg always seemed to be standing in it. He was one of our regular customers. We had tons of regulars, but he was one of the few I enjoyed serving.

  I swung the bar door open and whispered my order to Lindsay as I passed by. She was in the middle of crafting marvelous latte art. Nobody could turn milk into art the way Lindsay could—not even the owner. Lindsay and I were longtime friends. We applied for the job together when the coffee shop opened up. Luckily, we both got a job and often worked together. My days were better when she was on schedule with me. I stashed my bag in the backroom and slipped my apron over my head.

  “Hi, I can help you over here.” I tied my apron behind my back as I stepped up to the open cash register.

  A mom and two beautiful twin teenagers stepped up to my register. They must have been passing through Clover. A road trip, perhaps? I’d never seen them before.

  “Good morning, I’ll take two coffees with room for cream
. To go please,” the mother said.

  As I entered the info into my register, one of the twins took a step forward. Her long blond hair was stunning. A pang of jealousy rippled through my body, and I hated myself for it. She had it all, though: beauty, family, and from the looks of it, money. She was young—maybe sixteen. I bet she was the “it” girl at her high school.

  “I’ll have a grande caramel frappe, make that half caff, and extra whipped cream. Make sure you drizzle the caramel on the inside of the cup before pouring in the frappe. Oh! And a cheese danish—hot,” the girl said as she raised an eyebrow. Huh, it figures she was entitled, too. One medium caramel frap . . . got it.

  The second twin, a spitting image of her sister, stepped forward. “Um, I’ll have the same.” She looked away quickly, not making eye contact. It was clear that she wasn’t the dominant twin. I looked between her and her sister before feeling bad for the girl. She lacked the confidence a girl needed to survive high school. It was as if her sister had absorbed it all in the womb and left her with nothing.

  “Oh, and can you make it full caffeine? Sorry!” She shouldn’t need to apologize for changing her order. I wish I could tell her to stand tall, take up space, and order her caffeine with confidence!

  “Not a problem, and what’s the name?”

  “Hadley—” she said.

  “Holly!” The sister barked from behind her.

  I paused and looked at both of them before writing Hadley on all four cups. Lindsay slipped my coffee next to me, and I gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. The bitter americano soothed my parched throat. I would have a sugar-riddled frappe on break, but breakfast was always black and bitter. Much like prying myself out of bed in the morning.

  “Good morning, Greg. How are you doing today?” I asked as he approached.

  He had his camel jacket on as he did every single day of the year. I wasn’t sure that I would recognize him without it. The doorbells jingled, and the line grew longer. My day had just started, and I already needed a break.