A Deep and Dark December by Beth Yarnall Page A

the bench startled him. He reached for his weapon by habit, his heart banging hard against his ribcage, then halted the motion when recognition hit.
    Her. What was she doing here?
    “Sorry. I was trying not to disturb you,” Erin said, her voice as thin and wispy as the ocean breeze.
    He made his way over, forgetting the cold and the reasons he had for leaving. He stopped in front of her. “What are you doing out here?”
    “Probably the same thing as you.”
    “I doubt that.”
    She scooted over, making a motion for him to sit beside her. He did.
    “I came to clear my head,” she said, looking out over the black ocean. “Too many clouds to see the moon tonight, but it’s there.”
    “Do you come here often?”
    She laughed and it did something funny to his insides. “That sounds like a bad pick up line.”
    “I don’t really have any good ones. Wanna see my gun is about as good as it gets.”
    She looked at him, leaning back a little. “That is awful.”
    “Told you.”
    “I suppose you don’t need pick up lines with those eyes, do you?”
    She liked his eyes? That thought made him cheerier than he’d been all day. Hell, all week. Maybe all month.
    She returned her gaze to the dark sky. “Can’t see any stars either. That’s my favorite thing about coming out here at night. There are so many stars.”
    He stole that moment to look at her profile, shadowed and uninhibited. She’d tucked her hair into a knit cap and wrapped a scarf around her neck, framing her face as though it was a picture. There was something so very honest and forthright about her.
    “How do you stand it?” The words fell out before he knew he was going to say them.
    She tilted her head and looked at him. “What?”
    “This town.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The smallness.”
    “That’s one of the things I like most about it. It’s quaint.”
    “Haven’t you ever wanted to be anonymous? To be able to tell somebody something about yourself without them already knowing everything about you and your family?”
    “Ah,” she said with a small, sad smile. “Our families are famous in this town for very different reasons.”
    “Just my point. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk into a room and not carry generations of your family’s baggage?”
    “At least your baggage matches. Mine is mismatched and Duct-taped together.” Her smile flattened and her expression turned brooding. “You fit in. I never have.”
    “Fitting in isn’t belonging.”
    “For me it is.”
    Her words hit him hard, making him feel like the world’s biggest dumb ass. Here he was complaining about the respect his family’s legacy afforded him, while hers set her apart.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    Hitching a shoulder, she jerked her gaze away. “Nothing for you to be sorry about.”
    He racked his brain for words to fill the long, awkward silence that followed. None came. He could only stare at her profile and wonder what it would be like if their roles were reversed. If he were the outcast free to leave any time he wanted and she was the one anchored to the community by generations of service.
    “I can see how your family’s legacy might feel strangling,” she said, breaking into the quiet. “It’s like a rich people problem.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Having money doesn’t make your problems go away. It brings a whole new set of problems, but it also brings more choices.”
    “My problem leaves me no choice,” he said.
    “Not true. You could choose to not see it as a problem.”
    “Accept it, you mean? Just give in?”
    “No. Give over to it.”
    Give over to it. She was talking about something he didn’t know anything about, a different kind of acceptance. But wasn’t that just a fancy word for giving in?
    He shook his head. “I don’t have your optimism.”
    “It’s not optimism. Happiness can be as simple as making a decision.”
    “If it’s that simple, why haven’t you put it into practice?”
    “Who says I’m not