The Same Deep Water

The Same Deep Water

By

Lisa Swallow

Copyright © 2015 Lisa Swallow

Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

Editing by Hot Tree Editing

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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

The Same Deep Water

Once, I wanted to die. That was the night I met Guy.

The strange man with flowers stepped from the shadows and saved my life.

Guy. Dimpled smile. Body of a surf god. Smart and funny. Running out of time.

We became travelling companions through life, ticking off items on our bucket lists. I’d hidden from happiness for years and kept my life under strict control.

Guy showed me how to step into the world and experience more.

He brought light into the shadows and helped me through the darkness.

I became Phe again. I lived.

There’s just one problem.

We fell in love and this wasn’t part of our plans.

I thought we could face the future together,

but Guy has a secret which changes everything.

Sometimes, believing the lies we tell ourselves is easier than dealing with the truth.

The Same Deep Water is a standalone New Adult romance set in Australia.

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Dedication

For Nick, my travelling companion

And for all those who struggle in the depths

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.  (Oscar Wilde)

Chapter One

#9 Save Someone’s Life

The rough wooden fence erected to keep people from the edge of the rocky cliff frequently fails. Even if the council erected ten-foot barriers with razor wire, the determined would find their way through. By the time the decision is made to come here, one last obstacle is nothing.

I perch on the fence, the wood digging into my backside as I steady myself and look down. Since I arrived half an hour ago, the sun has sunk lower, the beauty of the sunset over the Indian Ocean lost on my deadened self. Instead, with my long brown hair falling into my face, I focus numbly on the rocks below, knowing my battle is over.

“Careful, you’ll fall.”

A low voice behind drags me from the moment and I turn my head sharply. I waited near the car park until all the cars left and never expected a newcomer, let alone somebody who’d seek out this place in the dusk. In the fading light, a man stands nearby, smiling. I barely register him, past the fact he’s a young guy with dark blond hair touching his ears, and has a small bunch of white and pink flowers in his hand. Without responding, I turn back to the view to my death.

“I like the view from here, too,” he continues.

I grip the fence, splinters pricking my hands and look in surprise as the man sits next to me, ensuring he’s at a respectful distance. The growing dusk obscures much of him, but something captures my attention. The man’s eyes match the ocean, not cerulean waters on a summer’s day, but midnight blue shadowing secrets beneath. His eyes are the colour of the water which stole the girl I once was.

I prop my elbows on my knees and dig my hands into my hair, allowing strands to fall forward and obscure my face from him.

“So, do you come here often?” he asks.

I was prepared to pretend he wasn’t here and to wait for him to leave, but his bizarre comment deserves an answer.

“How many people do you think come here more than once?” I ask, twisting my head back to him.

“Not many, I guess. Why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want to come here again.”

“Want to talk about anything?”

Annoyed he’s managed to draw me into conversation, I tip my hair into my face again. The sounds of the waves below call me into the darkness that’d solve everything.

I’m unsure how long I sit and prepare to yield to my brain’s whispering plot to kill me, the one that’s waited for months and finally succeeded. Almost.

The man doesn’t leave, and when I surreptitiously peer out of the side of my hair, he’s in the same position, flowers in one hand, tapping his fingers on the fence. His nails are short and neat, hands and arms tanned.

Why am I noticing?

“Did you leave a note?” he asks.

“A note?”

“And sort your affairs out.”

“What affairs?”

“Before you jump.” He pauses. “I won’t stop you by the way.”

His words jolt my heart, the one that I need to stop beating because it keeps alive a person I hate. “Good.”

“But I hope you organised everything first.”

I shuffle further from him. “What’s to organise?”

“Well, who’s getting your money? Possessions? I presume you have some since you don’t look like you live on the streets.”

Possessions. My life is all possessions. Everything I want bought for me, to help me perform my best, to ease the pain. Comfortable and happy and lacking in nothing. An unwanted image of my grandparents trips across my mind and I rub my face, erasing them.

“Or did you just come here without really planning what to do?”

His words are invading my jumbled brain; holding a coherent conversation is something I lost the ability for days ago. “Please be quiet or go away. Or both.”

The man shivers slightly against the coastal breeze, fixing me with his sea-blue eyes, drawing me to human contact. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“Do you like flowers?” He holds the bunch out to me and I stare at them. The heads are spoilt by his mishandling and they’re still in the cellophane from the store, the price label half-attached.

“No.”

“Really? I thought all girls like flowers. Damn.” He drops them to the ground. “What do you like?”

“Being on my own,” I say pointedly.

“Being is a good start.” He stares ahead. “Rather than not being. Isn’t there a Shakespeare quote about that somewhere? There’s always a Shakespeare quote about love or death.”

Death.

“To be or not to be?” I ask.

He laughs. “That’s the one. Do you like Shakespeare?”

This man in board shorts and a faded T-shirt isn’t somebody I’d pin as a Shakespeare reader, more the kind living an outdoor life far away from books.

“No. Everybody knows that quote,” I reply.

“Have you read his work?”

“No.”

“Then how can you decide you don’t like something you’ve never seen?” he asks.

“I suppose...”

“Like the future. You don’t like the future, but you’ve never seen it.”

“Be quiet. You’re making my brain hurt. Move.”

The man obeys, shifting away, but remains on the fence, sighing quietly at first then louder until I’m ready to slap him to shut him up.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

“Enjoying the view. You?”

“Waiting for you to go.”

“Why?”

“Because you might stop me.”

“I said I wouldn’t, but I won’t leave so you’ll have to jump with me here. If you do, please make sure you don’t miss and seriously injure yourself because a future as a paraplegic would be more unpleasant than the future you’re scared of now.”

I swallow down the doubt sneaking in. “I’m not scared of the future.”

“No? Then why are you running from it?”

“Shut up.”

“You seem like a smart girl, with your Shakespeare quotes and all, I’m sure you can do better than ‘shut up’ if you don’t want to lose an argument.”

I glare, clenching my teeth. “Why? Why are you here?”

“Philosophical or factual question?”

I’m about to tell him to shut up again, but his raised eyebrow prevents me. “You can’t sit here with me all night.”

“Can’t I? I’m a big boy. I can do what I want.”

How old is he? Early twenties like I am? Older? He has more bulk than most of the guys my age.

What does any of this matter?

Annoyed at his distraction, I look away again. Stop grounding me; I’m not part of the world.

“I won’t try to persuade you what to do, or ‘talk you down’, don’t worry. There’s no point telling you to feel guilty about those you’ll leave behind, because if you’re here, I think you’re beyond rational thought about life, or feeling.”

“I do feel. I hurt. Everywhere, everything, and I want this to stop!” I blurt. Placing a shaking hand over my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut, back to the darkness he’s reminding me of.

“And you think death stops you hurting?” he asks. “Death doesn’t only stop the pain. Death stops everything. Death stops you.”

“I know.”

“All of you, not just the sick part.”

“The sick part is all of me.”

“No, it’s not. You know that deep down. You can fix this. You can have a new life.”

“I thought you weren’t going to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not. I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

Pressure builds in my head, aching as his words assault my dark thoughts. “You’re confusing me. Please, again, leave me alone.”

He ignores me. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“Guy.”

“A guy named Guy,” I say with a small laugh.

“Not just any guy.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“I’m the guy who’s going to save your life.” No. I stand and edge forward. I expect him to jump up after me, but he remains still. “And you are...?”

“Done.”

“That’s an odd name,” he replies, deadpan.

I glance over my shoulder. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“Not really, suicide girl.”

The word slices through my body, into my heart. This is who I’ll be. The girl who committed suicide, spoken about, grieved for. But they don’t understand how I can’t live with this pressure expanding in my skull, the darkness forcing out everything.

“Phe,” I snap. “My name is Phe.”

“Fi? Fiona?”

“No. Not Fiona.”

“Huh. Odd name for an odd girl. Would you like to go for a drink, Phe?” He stands too.

“No, I don’t want a drink.”

His brow furrows for a moment. “Oh. Too young? You look old enough.”

“I am old enough. I just don’t go out much. I prefer my own company.”

“That sucks then.”

“Why?”

“Jump off there and you’ll never have a chance to live life, to take a chance on experiences that leave you more alive than others.”

I move closer to the edge, to make a point.

“So many people live lives that are empty and full of nothing, Phe, don’t choose emptiness and oblivion when you have so much. You can do so much, believe me.”

“You don’t know me,” I say to the horizon.

“You don’t know you. You’re too young to know who you are, and your sick brain won’t let you learn.”

I turn my head. “And how are you so wise? You’re not much older than me!”

“Not much wiser either, but take a chance on life.”

He keeps doing this. Guy isn’t physically pulling me away from the edge, but his words are gradually curling around my body and tugging me back to the world.

“Do you have a bucket list?” he asks.

I look back into his strange eyes, increasingly confused by his random questions. Is this a ploy?

“No.”

“You should have one.”

“Why? I’m about to die. Do you have one?” I shoot back.

“I do. I haven’t got very far with mine though.” Guy pulls an A4 sheet of paper out of his pocket, one repeatedly creased through constant folding and unfolding. “I have ten things on the list.” He runs his finger down the paper. “I’ve done two, eight more to go.”

If he’s expecting me to ask what the items are, he’s wrong.

“Can you be my third? There’s something I want to do with you.”

Possibilities fly through my mind. He asked me for a drink. Sex with a random girl? Or maybe he’s a virgin and wants to cross that off. I appraise his lean body again. Unlikely.

“Something to tick off your list? I’m not that kind of girl.”

He laughs and sweeps a gaze over me, his scrutiny irritates me, but Guy’s look lingers longer on my eyes than my body. “I’m positive you’re not,” he says softly. “No, not sex.”

Colouring, I look away. The paper rustles and he clears his throat. “‘Number Nine: Save someone’s life’.”

I stare. “You want to save my life so you can tick me off a list?”

“Well, I don’t know you, so there’s no other reason.” He points at the bouquet. “But I did bring flowers.”

The forlorn bunch rest on the ground where Guy dropped them, and I kick the bouquet. The pink lilies tumble from the edge of the cliff and drop out of site. Guy steps forward and looks over.

“Long way down.”

A giddy lurching between my head and stomach, and my body’s natural survival instinct kicks in as rock slips from beneath my summer sandals in the direction of the flowers. I stagger back and grab the fence. Guy remains close to the edge and crosses his arms, looking at me.

“So? Can I?” he asks.

“Save my life?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of your list?”

“Yep.” He pushes his unruly hair from his face. “Plus, you’re far too good-looking to be smashed against a load of rocks.”

Why do I blush? I inspect my feet, focusing on my painted toenails. I bought the neon pink varnish on a shopping trip with my friend Erica last month. Recently I’ve worn the colour to pretend I’m a dazzling pink girl, not a girl in a black hole.

“Why not give blood? That would save somebody’s life,” I retort.

Guy’s mouth curls into a smile, accentuating the dimples. “Good-looking and smart, too. That is a very good suggestion. Oh, well, I’m here now. May as well save you.”

I dig my nails into my palms, pushing in more pain. Feeling.

“But best make it quick,” he says in a casual tone.

“Quick?”

“I don’t have long.”

“Oh, somewhere you need to be?” I ask sarcastically and glance at him again.