♫ It already started
I tried to stop it but I already know
You are something I should do without, but I won't ♪
{BANKS—Under the table}

They woke the next day to a mysterious mist, turning the city into the setting for a beachside thriller novel. Bella hated it, but Coralie found it matched her mood, and she insisted on going for a walk through the fog.

"You go," said Bella, pulling out her laptop—that Coralie begged her not to bring. "I might as well catch up on all my transfer paperwork, yeah? Go, enjoy this weird fogginess you seem so attached to. I'll be here when you get back."

Coralie didn't feel like driving, so she walked through the picturesque neighborhood and made her way to the beach. It wasn't as cold as yesterday, but a minor chill still lingered in the air, and Coralie was glad she'd put on her coat and beanie.

To her surprise, there were others like her outside—those who enjoyed the grayness, the moodiness of the weather. Those who strolled along the beach—or on it—and breathed in the freshness, the thickness of the atmosphere. A few kids played in the sand, someone was throwing a frisbee for their dog, and a couple was standing near the water, looking out at the horizon, holding hands.

Coralie watched them, envious. They were about her age, from what she could tell. Smiling at one another, kissing cheeks, swinging their arms in delight. They laughed, they spoke quietly to one another, they even admired the children nearby, as if envisioning themselves with kids of their own.

Young, new love, it seemed, surrounded Coralie, no matter where she went. She'd come here for a vacation, for a break from it all, but there was no running from it, was there? Their happiness brought out her mistakes; and those mistakes would always follow her, wouldn't they? She'd always be reminded of what she'd done, and how she'd lost the best thing in her life. A relationship with the most magnificent man.

With a sigh, she pulled herself away from the happy couple; no need to torture herself further. She'd had that, not so long ago. Their positivity, their light-heartedness. She'd been in that same bubble, in that same state of mind, with three different men. But one of them had betrayed her when she was about to give him her heart; the other two had been overshadowed by him. She'd entered the tumultuous situation willingly, and looking back, she wished she hadn't.

I never should have answered Ryan's original message.

If she hadn't, she'd have focused on Michael. She recalled the night he approached her at the bar, in San Francisco. A vision—a man she'd always had a slight crush on, but that she believed to be out of her league, interested in a different type of woman. When his hazel eyes met hers, she saw something new within—interest. Admiration. Excitement. She'd never looked at Michael like that before, and he'd never looked at her like that, either. A new emotion filled her gut, her core, her mind, and she was intrigued by him.

But Ryan swept in and ruined it all.

"No, I ruined it all by letting him in," she corrected herself, keeping her voice low.

Regret churned in her belly, upsetting it. She'd had a quick breakfast—Bella's deliciously fluffy pancakes—but now she wished she hadn't eaten at all. There was too much acid in her—on her tongue, in her stomach, in her heart. Too much sorrow, too much guilt, and too much disgust at her own actions. These sentiments brewed inside and the food she'd ingested wasn't sitting well, mixed in with such negativity.

If only she'd listened. To Delilah, to her own conscience, hell, even to the stupid TV shows she watched and the lessons they often conveyed. Men were fickle, women were complicated, and in matters of the heart, the fewer people involved, the better. But no, Coralie had gone and opened the door wide and let in two additional players in the game for her heart. And now her heart—as she'd known all along—was shattered. Chester had departed from it, Ryan had smashed it, and Michael had stolen it with no intention of giving it back.

And cheating—what in the world was wrong with her? In the past, adultery was the number one reason for her to break up with someone. She'd been cheated on before in high school, and had vowed to never let that happen again. Not only had she cheated on an amazing man, but she'd enabled another man to hurt his wife, his children.

A glob of acrid saliva grew in her mouth, and she wished she could spit it out. But there were too many people around, on their foggy strolls, and she didn't want to seem rude. In truth, she wanted to spit the stuff on herself, because she deserved it. She deserved all the pain she'd caused herself, and wished she could ease everyone else's.

Were the others suffering? Michael, most likely; he was the wounded one of the three. He'd made plans for his future with Coralie, had taken things seriously, and she'd torn into everything with her bad behavior. But Chester? No, he was likely waking in someone else's arms at that very moment, with a silent thought for Coralie, but no remorse. And Ryan? She snorted. No, he was touring New York with his wife, searching for the perfect apartment for them and their kids. He'd made it clear he'd chosen Gemma, from the start—if only Coralie had paid closer attention to that, and given up on him sooner.

She glared up at the sky, sighting the tiniest of openings through the clouds—a minuscule smear of blue glared back at her.

"What?" She waved her arms and snickered. "You have something to say?"

Coralie wasn't religious, and yet in that moment, she wondered if someone, something, was trying to talk to her. The universe, maybe; some being in space wanting to give her advice, to teach her a lesson.

"Can you help me?" She raised her voice, but it was strained, choked, and she coughed to clear her throat. "Point me towards my soulmate, or something? Or help me move on, forget about these men who messed with my brain? Ugh," she shook her head, "I messed with my brain. I enabled all this. In this story, I am the villain."

The clouds pried a little farther apart, showing more blue sky. Was it an answer? A coincidence? Whatever it was, she had no idea how to interpret it, aside from knowing that the clouds would soon clear and the sun would shine.

A nice metaphor for my life, right?

She noticed a few folks who were at the edge of the water, touching its surface, giggling and hissing at its temperature. Viewing them, she had a sudden urge to dip her toes into the freezing water, to feel something again. Maybe the glacial sensation would wake something in her. Or maybe her toes would fall off—but at that point, she didn't care.

She chose a spot away from everyone else, and removed her shoes and socks, setting them aside. After a sharp intake of breath, she braved the water, letting it lap up over her toes.

"Shit!" It was, as predicted, freezing; and yet the tingling brought a smile to Coralie's lips. It wasn't the tingling she'd experienced recently—from intense arousal, from an onrush of adrenaline—but one of stinging, pinching. A gentle pain that she allowed to take her over, a modest punishment for her actions.

It wasn't enough. She'd never reprimand herself enough for those actions. Michael would never forgive her, and she'd never get over Ryan's deception, his lies. And Chester—

Someone jammed into her, knocking her deeper into the water—it wrapped around her ankles, now.

"Hey!" She spun, seeing one of the kids from earlier running off after pushing her—accidentally, from what she could tell. He was carrying something bulky, and flurried down the beach without acknowledging her.

Another one flew by her, a young boy, splashing her. "Oops, sorry!" He whirled around and waved, jogging backwards, before turning and resuming his trek behind his friend.

Before he spun away from her, she saw his eyes. They were bright—a coppery shade with flecks of earthy green, royal blue, chocolate. She paused, capturing them to memory—they were familiar, those eyes. She'd seen them before. Did she know this child? He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, and his messy mane of near black hair also reminded her of someone. She didn't have friends with kids, nor did she usually befriend kids; so who was he?

The boys stopped a few dozen feet away, laughing at each other. The first boy, she noticed, had been holding a skateboard. Its design was faded, scratched, worn out, and he played with the wheels, spinning them, seeing how fast they could go. The second one ruffled the back of his hair and posed—and it hit her, hard in the face.

Michael. The kid reminded her of Michael. And the skateboard—that was all Michael, too. He loved skateboarding, as a side hobby of his. When he wasn't taking pictures, he was roaming about on his board, trying tricks, or cruising along and people-watching. Oh, if he saw how this kid had treated his skateboard, how he'd dragged it in the water and was now carelessly throwing it in the sand—

"Fuck." She scrubbed her face and pivoted away from the scene. "I can't do this."

The mere memory of Michael made her knees buckle. She'd hoped to dim her thoughts of him—and there were a lot—during this trip, to cope with the fact that he'd never absolve her, and she'd never ask him to. But she hadn't expected her recollections of him to resurface so vividly at the sight of two kids with similar eyes and sporting a skateboard.

Jeez, I'm weaker than I thought.

She scowled up at the sky again. "You did that, huh?" Someone was chuckling at her demise, mocking her suffering, sending her signs, sights, and situations that triggered memories of the man she'd trashed a relationship with.

With a groan, she went to her shoes and socks and picked them up. It was time to go—this walk had worsened her mood, instead of complementing it. Thankful she'd brought her earbuds with her, she connected them to her phone and pulled up her music app. She pressed the shuffle button and marched up to the sidewalk.

The first song that played halted her steps. Peaches & Cream, by 112—a blast from the past, if there ever was one. She didn't even remember she had it on her playlist, and she hadn't heard it in a while.

Her eyes widened and her shoulders tightened as another piercing memory came to her.

"Of course..." She let her shoes fall to the ground beside her. "Of course." She glowered at the blue streaks of sky peeking through the clouds. "Why, dude, why?"

The last time she'd heard the song was with Michael. In his car, in San Francisco. Driving around, being silly; Coralie had plugged in her playlist and when the tune came on, Michael had turned up the volume and danced and sang with her. It wasn't his music style at all, and yet he'd had a blast listening to it and being goofy with Coralie. "Letting my hair down," he'd said—she recalled his singing voice still, to this day. Clumsy, but with a hint of an ability to hold a melody.

How had she forgotten about that moment until now? The way they'd bonded, the proximity they'd shared. Another thing Ryan's tenebrous, towering figure had overshadowed.

She gasped—there was more. "One hundred and twelve... wasn't that Michael's room number at the hotel he stayed at in New York?" Her fists tightened. "Fuck, come on!" She squinted upward, as if trying to see through the clouds, to witness beings up there toying with her fate, playing with her mind. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Was it a coincidence? She'd asked the universe for help, so was it sending her signals from space? Or was she overthinking, seeing things, hallucinating?

She was shaking by the time she made it to the cottage, and she woke Bella from her nap with a start.

"Cora?" Bella frowned at her. "You're freezing. And you... you look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong?"

Coralie sat on the couch, shivering. "I'm done. This place... it's made me worse. I'm freaking out. I'm seeing things, hearing things, and I can't take it anymore. Let's go home—I'm going crazy."

♥♥♥