The Oath We Give (The Hollow Boys Book 5)

coraline

“Miss Whittaker?” 

I lean over on my stool, peering around the canvas in front of me. I’m far too young to be called anything other than my first name. But it makes a little more sense when I see who is standing there. 

“Hi, Faye. Coraline is fine. I’m not actually your teacher,” I tell her gently, softer with her than I am with most. Maybe because she reminds me of Lilac. “Can I help you with something?” 

“Yeah, sorry. You’re right, my bad.” A blush tints her cheeks, and she tucks a piece of loose pink hair behind her ear. “I was wondering…I mean, it’s fine if not—I don’t want to be a problem or anything. I was just thinking, if I could—” 

“What do you need?” I cut her off midsentence, knowing how notorious she is for rambling. 

I know it stems from her youth and what she’s been through, but this world will not be easy on her, even though it should be. If she doesn’t learn to demand what she wants from life, it will take from her until she has nothing left. 

Even if she’s rotting away on the inside, her voice has to stay alive, or she will have no chance of making it. 

With a quick nod, she straightens herself up. 

“Could I take some paints home with me? Just the primary colors would be fine. My mom said she’s trying to save up to get me my own soon, but I just wanted to see if I could borrow some until then?” 

My cold, hidden heart defrosts enough to let me feel it ache for her. Her single mother is already spending money driving her from West Trinity Falls, and with four other kids at home and the price of paint, it’ll be a while before she gets them. 

I swivel in my stool before standing up and walking toward the wall of materials that stretches the entire length of the studio. Cabinets, shelves, and bins are filled with different mediums and supplies. 

Scooping up one of my extra satchels, I lift the flap open and start filling it. Faye is still learning, but she’s incredible with watercolor. So along with acrylic, I add a pack of unopened Winsor & Newton watercolor paints, ones I’ll never use because I hate it. My hands scoop out brushes, flat, round, and mop. Paper, a couple of small containers, three palettes, a roll of masking tape, some pencils, and a drawing compass.

This would be better than any art supply trip. It’s expensive paint, and if she’s smart, she’ll keep these materials for a long time. When the bag is almost full, I quickly toss the top back over it and extend my arm toward her. 

“Here.”

This world took so much from her. At fifteen, she’s barely got enough to give. It’s unfair that before she even had time to become a person, she was given irreversible trauma. 

Her round face lights up, eyes shining with a thin veil of tears. 

I swear to fuck if she does, I’ll kick her out. 

Crying isn’t something I can handle. Not for myself or anyone else. I loathe doing it, and I never know how to help anyone going through it. I prefer to avoid it best I can. 

It’s a waste of water and does nothing but make you feel worse in the end. 

“No, no, I can’t do that.” She holds her palms up, refusing at first. “Those are yours.” 

“Which means I can do what I want with them. Take it, Faye. Everything inside is replaceable. You’re good, but you need practice. Consider this more for me than you. It makes me look bad if you’re not any good.” 

This makes her laugh as she sniffles a little, holding in her tears so that none fall. I’ll make this about me if it means she will take the bag. I’ll make myself look like the arrogant Whittakers I stem from if it means she can have this one good thing. 

Softly, and thankfully, she grabs the bag from me, tucking her head underneath the strap and letting it rest on her shoulder. 

“Thank you.” She shakes her head a bit. “I don’t know how to even repay you for this.” 

“Click the light off when you go, then we are even. I’ll see you next week.” I lift an eyebrow, pulling my canvas from the easel and laying it flat on one of the wooden tables near the wall. 

Soft music plays over the speakers as I clean up, tossing a rag over my shoulder. “Boston” by Augustana begins my early 2000s playlist. 

“Is there something else?” I ask, still feeling her presence behind me. 

I gather all the forgotten brushes and palettes from today, quickly tossing them into the soapy sink when she speaks. 

“You always tell us to be direct with our art, and I think that’s your way of telling us to be direct in life. So I guess I’m wondering why you never go to group meetings? I think you could help some people. Letting them see how normal you are, how well you’ve adjusted.” 

I bristle, spine steeling and shoulders tense. 

Normal. 

No one is normal. It’s a societal term slapped on people, but regardless of life experiences, no one is actually normal. Especially not me, but it’s the image I present to people. I can’t even be angry at her assuming it. 

“I adjusted because my family has money. I paid to be okay. If I show up to those meetings with women who have real problems, it’ll be nothing but a slap in the face for them.” 

“That’s not—” 

“Go.” I nod my head toward the door, looking at her over my shoulder in her direction. “Tell your mom I said hello, and I’ll see you at five thirty next week.” 

Taking this as me being done with this conversation, I finally hear the sounds of her footsteps retreating toward the open garage-style door. The entire front wall of the studio rolls up to the ceiling, exposing the inside of the space completely when it’s up. 

It lets in gusts of fresh air inside, allowing the paint and chemical scent to go somewhere else, so I try to keep it open as much as I can, even though it’s rare ’cause Oregon weather is a bitch. 

When I turn around, her feet are on the sidewalk, and she’s looking both ways when I say her name from my place. She turns, the wind blowing her short bubble-gum-pink hair in front of her face. 

“Someone told me I survived for a reason. It was this, teaching you. Give yourself grace to find what yours is. Heal on your terms, not mine.” 

I know she only asked because we are all searching for an answer on how to heal and move on, but the truth is moving on isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula. It’s what makes everything so much harder, trying to find what makes you want to wake up in the morning. 

She smiles, giving me a small wave. “Thank you, Coraline.” 

Then she’s gone, crossing the street to her mother’s van, leaving me alone in the studio. Faye’s always the last to leave, mostly because I let her hang out until her mom can get off work, even though I know I shouldn’t. 

Bonding won’t do either of us any good. Getting attached when I know I’m leaving. The more she’s around, the more she looks at me as a role model, and I don’t want that. I’m no one to look up to or admire, not really. 

What happened in that basement? What my mind did to survive? 

It’s fucking embarrassing and weak. I barely scratch the surface of what Faye or any of those other women went through. 

To Faye? I’m put together. I’m healed.

But if she could have seen me just the other night, crumbled in the arms of a man I barely knew, fleeing the moment I’d been able to catch my breath, refused to even thank him for what he’d done?

She’d see me much differently.

She would see what I do when I look in the mirror.

I roll my shoulders, telling myself to forget the memory. I’ve gone two years without so much as running into Silas Hawthorne. This is a one-off. I can avoid him for one more; I’ll never have to see him again.

I take my time cleaning the large-sized storefront with manageable rent that was a warehouse that I converted. The interior walls are covered in exposed brick. Paint splatters adorn the concrete floors. The handful of vacant easels sitting in a circle gives each artist plenty of space to create with privacy. 

What appears on someone’s canvas belongs to them, unless given permission to belong to others. 

It took some time, but I’d been able to create what I thought was a safe space. Even with the faint turpentine scent, the lavender candles I keep lit combat it well. 

I climb down from the metal ladder, careful not to spill the watering jug in my hand. I’m surprised all the various plants hanging from the ceiling and scattered around the room have made it this long. The faux ivy along the walls need a new install, and the floors need to be mopped. 

I’d gotten this place for selfish reasons in the beginning. I needed a place that I could run away to, make a mess in, create, and breathe away from prying eyes. Where the walls could crumble and I could just exist. 

It’s exhausting being so afraid to be anything but defensive and cold.

My parents love telling their friends that it’ll be converted into my very own gallery one day, that I’m just getting my feet wet in the art world. As if I’d share anything else I create with those people. 

They’d love that. Letting a stampede of nosey-ass people stomp around my one piece of solace just to get a little more recognition. I made it out of a sex trafficking organization that my father unknowingly supported—isn’t that enough attention? 

Art is intimate. It shouldn’t be shared before the artist is ready for it to be viewed, completely stable in their love for the work before opening it to criticism. 

As I’m placing the broom back into the supply closet, my phone rings. My heart drops for a second, just a flash, but when I reach into my overall pockets and see Lilac’s name flashing across the screen, I let out a breath. 

The moment I press Answer and it’s resting against my ear, her voice floats through the speaker. 

“I didn’t know it was possible for someone to wear this much black,” she says. “Did you know it was picture day, or did you purposefully dress like the fifth member of Kiss?” 

I scoff, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hello to you too, sweet sister.” 

“Hi, hello, answer the question.” 

Lilac Whittaker drained every ounce of good from her parents when she was born, only gaining more as she grew older. I truly believe it’s her smile that keeps me going, and I’d give the world for her happiness. 

I live for her before living for myself most days. Securing her happiness and finding her joy has kept me alive. Every time the darkness creeps in and the dreams get too real, I think of her. 

Sweet little Lilac having to find out that I’d taken my own life because I was too tired to carry on. I’d never want her to blame herself or be haunted by my pain. I wouldn’t do that to her. 

I’ll suffer through life as long as I need to if it means she can keep her joy. 

“Why the fuck are you looking through my school yearbook?” 

“Found it in a box in my closet. This is fucking gold.” She laughs a little, and I can hear pages flipping. “You were, like, really committed to the emo thing.” 

A smile breaks out across my lips as I make my way across the studio, grabbing a spray bottle of cleaning liquid and a towel to wipe down the stools. 

“Black is your mother’s most hated color. I was trying to rebel quietly.” 

There is only so much a teenager can do to revolt against her family when you grow up with parents like mine. Since I was old enough to speak, I’ve been testing the limits of their patience. 

I gave myself just enough edge to annoy them but kept my grades stellar and art prizes on a shelf so I was still a good little prize horse in the barn. Just wild enough that I scared socialites. 

When I’d turned eighteen, I no longer needed the black eyeliner and metal spikes. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted when I left for college, and it was that mentality that got me kidnapped and locked in a basement. 

Playing nice to them now is a courtesy for my sister. 

“You and Emmet were cute. Even his eyeliner is kinda hot.” 

I suck in a shocked breath. I haven’t heard his name in so long. How long has it been since I thought about him? 

The track record of men I’ve ruined because of my cursed heart is short but enough to show a pattern. Emmet hurt the most, I think. We loved each other in every way sixteen-year-olds could. 

Even though the official report was that his depression caused him to jump off the bridge, everyone always knew it was me. Even his parents, who wouldn’t let me go to his funeral, knew. 

It wasn’t a coincidence that we’d broken up the day before. That I had taken it upon myself to end the relationship. It had been my fault. 

My stepmother might call me a witch as a running joke in our household, but she’s right about one thing. 

I am cursed. 

Inside of me lives a spell that crushes the hearts of men. My bones are built from a hex, dark magic that drives boys mad. This curse I live with makes love a lethal weapon. 

Falling for me is not the fear. It’s what happens when I fall for them. 

Every man I have ever loved has either disappeared, died, or lost their mind. Magic may not be something most believe. Curses may not be real to some, but things can only happen so many times before you realize that a common thread in these tragedies is always you. 

“He used to bring you gummy worms when he’d pick me up for our dates. You liked him.” 

Talking about Emmet, thinking of the person I was in high school, feels a lot like reminiscing about an old classmate. Someone I watched and heard things about but never really knew. 

It’s impossible to quantify the distance between who I was and whatever I am now.

The distance between who I was and whatever I am now? Light years. 

“Well, of course I did. I was a kid, and he brought candy. I still don’t have anyone else to compare him to.” Even though I’m not there, I can see her tossing her arms in the air. “You refuse to date, which means I can’t grill anyone like a good little sister should.” 

I hope she isn’t holding her breath. Another person won’t be walking romantically into my life ever again. I don’t mean that in the typical way where people say it as a joke or a shield ’cause they’ve never been given the right opportunity. 

I mean it in how even if my soul mate descended from the clouds and fate wrote in big block letters in a mirror that this person was the one? I’d still turn around and walk away like I didn’t even see them. 

“I like being alone, Li. It doesn’t bother me.” 

I finish the stools, sliding the cleaning stuff beneath a cabinet, and lean against one of the wooden desks holding an array of small clay sculptures. 

“Yes, it does.” 

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Sorry?” 

“No one enjoys being alone, especially you, Cora. I get it, you love showing the world this cold, remote version of you who snaps at people if they get close. I don’t blame you. But don’t lie and say you enjoy it. I know you.” 

She’s younger than me but not dense. I can’t shield her from everything, and even though she doesn’t understand all of it, Lilac doesn’t need the details. She just knows her older sister isn’t the same one who disappeared that fall night. 

“Should I Cash App or Venmo you for the therapy?” 

“Let me come over tonight, and make me brown butter gnocchi. We’ll call it even.” 

I let out a little laugh. “What time—” 

“Oh my God,” she says suddenly.

The tone of our conversation shifts from light and easy to something else. My hand reaches up to grab the phone, dropping what I’m doing so I can start looking around for my keys, ready to drive to our parents’ house immediately. 

Over and over in the phone, she repeats, “Oh my God, oh my God. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.” 

“Lilac.” My voice is sharp, trying to pull her from the panic so I can figure out what’s going on. “What happened?” 

“Coraline, I—” she stutters. Fear has shoved its hand down her throat and strangled her vocal cords. “The news. Turn on the news.” 

My confusion mingles with concern. I remind myself to breathe, focus on every inhale and exhale from my lungs. When I find the television remote, it slips from my sweaty palms, clattering to the floor. 

Somehow, the power button gets pressed in the process, and the screen illuminates. The random news station that appears must have taken over every channel, the emergency broadcast spanning across all local channels. 

The news anchor’s voice demands my attention as I try to take everything they say in. Their voices add to the chaos that swirls inside of me. Turmoil, bones, and teeth. The grave of my trauma being dug up with abandon. 

“Coraline! Cora! Are you okay? Where are you? I’m on the way…” 

Very faintly, I hear Lilac’s voice as my phone tumbles to the ground. My weight becomes too heavy for my knees to carry as my feet stumble forward. One hand shoots out, slamming onto one desk as I struggle to hold myself up, trying not to collapse onto the floor, to keep myself standing. 

I knew that text message wasn’t a prank or some fluke. I should’ve trusted my instincts. Should’ve got me and Lilac out of here sooner. 

A red-tinted screen appears in front of me. A singular mug shot sits to the left, depicting a face I know by memory. The smell of Old Spice wafts up my nose, dizzying nausea causing my body to sway. 

“Breaking news. An inmate has escaped Rimond Penitentiary just last night. We are told the prisoner is Stephen Sinclair, arrested just a little over two years ago for his involvement in a national sex trafficking organization. Law enforcement considers this man armed and dangerous.”

A sick part of me is relieved. The waiting game is finally over. It was never an if, always a when. The moment I stepped foot from that basement, he’s been trying to find his way back to me. 

I’ve been living on the edge of my seat, just waiting with bated breath for my boogeyman to return. 

Stephen’s face appears on the screen again. My chest cracks open, and I feel the floodgates open. 

I told them. I told all of them. Screamed it for days. 

I was his Circe, and Stephen Sinclair would always come back for me.