Pushing the Limits(50)

"Wait!" I finally manage to take a breath. The features on his face soften. "How'd you know?"

He takes a sip of his soda and shrugs. "Lucky guess."

I playfully punch him in the shoulder, earning an exaggerated groan as he rubs his hand over the wound. "You've got a good arm."

"Shane."

"All right, all right. Keep your panties on."

I flash him a warning look.

"He couldn't keep his eyes off of you. I watched him all night. It  wasn't just a look of getting in your pants either. It was … as if he  couldn't breathe without being around you."

His confession shocks me, sending my heart into overdrive with a  noticeable thud. Shane has never shown this side to me before but turns  out, he's more than just abs and ass.

I lower my eyes, pulling my lower lip in between my teeth as I think  back to that night. He'd kissed me so passionately in such a raw moment  of weakness that I was almost taken off guard.

"Well, I hope it works out. He seems like an okay-kind-of-guy." The corners of his lips perk up in a mock smile.

"Please don't say anything," I plead, my eyes desperate.

"Trust me, Aspen. I have no desire to be known as the work gossip." His quip tone instantly puts me at ease.

"Thanks, Shane."

"But if he hurts you, I get first dibs on punching the guy out."

I burst out laughing, appreciating his playful banter. "You've got it."

We walk out together, separating as I head down the stairs for my first tour.

I grab a quick drink once the tour is over and head up to Christine's office for the rest of the day's tour schedule.

She's on the phone, so I quietly grab it from her desk and look it over.  As soon as I start walking back out, she stops me. "Aspen, wait a sec."

I turn around to her finger up in the air as she quickly finishes her conversation before hanging up.

"Sorry." She groans. "A couple packages came for you."

"Here?" I step in front of her desk.

"Yeah … " She turns around and grabs a box, placing it on the desk with a loud thump. "From Illinois?"

I turn them around and rub a finger along the box with my mother's handwriting. "My mom." I groan.

"Well, there's another one. Why would she send them here?"

"Because she lives to ruin my life."

Her forehead wrinkles. "What?"

"I blocked her address from sending me stuff. Birthday cards, Christmas  packages, letters. They always get returned, and apparently, she finally  got smart and stopped shipping to my address." I sigh, hating that she  found a way to get them to me. "I'll just take them down to the post  office and return them."

She gives me a curious look, and I know she wants an explanation.

"We don't get along very well."

"I figured that."

"She used to send me stuff all the time when I first moved away. I left  and didn't want to look back. I hated being home. I hated being  surrounded by the things that reminded me of my sister. So I wanted to  completely detach from that part of my life, but she was hell bent on  reigning me in."

"So you blocked her from mailing you things?"

I shrug. "I know it seems harsh, but it was the only way. She wouldn't  stop. I'd send them back, tell her to stop sending me cards and money,  because I didn't want them. My resentment was too heavy to accept  anything else from them."

"Maybe it was her way of asking for forgiveness?" she offers. I know she  doesn't know the whole story, no one really does, but she has a really  close-knit family, so it's hard for her to understand not wanting to be  involved in each other's lives.

"I wasn't ready to forgive her," I say simply. "It's a little complicated."

"Sounds like it." She frowns. "Well, I'm sorry either way. I wish I knew how to help."

"Don't be sorry. I've accepted that my parents and I have a very odd … relationship." If you even want to call it that.

"You aren't even a little curious to know what's inside? I mean, two  large packages … I'd be dying to know!" Her face lights up, the  anticipation evident in her eyes.

"Fine." I sigh. "Only because you're making me!" I playfully scowl.         

     



 

Her lips go wide in an over-enthusiastic grin. "Yay!"

I shake my head at her. "It's probably all my old stuffed animals chopped into tiny little pieces."

She wrinkles her nose and stands up across from me, cutting the tape off the sides. "You're so morbid."

I peel back the sides as she cuts them loose. Once all four are spread  open, I notice the familiar handwriting on the notebooks packed inside.

"Are these your journals or something?" Christine asks, reading my expression.

"Not mine." I shake my head, grabbing the first one on top and tracing the lettering of her name written out. "My sister's."

"Are they all notebooks?" she asks, peeking inside again. There are  stacks of them, all different colors, but all with the same lettering  written on top. Ariel Rose.

"Her journals," I respond.

"Have you seen them before?"

"No. I'd only seen her sketch pads of some of her drawings. I had no  idea she had all of these." My voice is somber, shock and fear taking  over my head.

"Why would your mom send you these?" she asks the same question I'm  wondering myself. "Do you think the sketchbooks are in the other  package?"

My eyes lift to hers, mind spinning at the realization. "Let's open it," I say hurriedly.

She lifts the other box on top, ripping the tape off as fast as she can,  not even bothering with the scissors this time. Once the sides are  lifted open, I see them. On top is one of the sketchbooks I looked at  after her funeral, but underneath is a stack of books I'd never seen  before.

"Oh my God … " I breathe out. I grab one and hold it, thinking how much  smaller it feels in my hands than six years ago. "I hadn't seen all of  these," I tell her.

I flip through it, remembering the way I felt when I first saw them. Sadness. Heartache. Pain.

The heavy shading in each drawing guts me. I feel sick, but swallow it  down. She drew these for a reason … inspired by some inner demon.

"I see the talent runs in the family," Christine says softly and  sincerely. Besides Ms. Jones, Christine is the only person here who  knows about the AR Collection. She's in charge of the financial books,  so there was no way around it. But I trust her and Ms. Jones over anyone  else.

"I hadn't even known she was drawing until she passed. She never shared them with me."

"Really?" I hear the shock in her voice. I was just as shocked, too.

"Yeah, I'm not sure why. Perhaps she was afraid to show them to me or something."

There have to be dozens of notebooks and sketchbooks in here, which means she'd probably been hiding them for years.

"Do you know what they mean?" She leans over and looks at them as I flip  through the pages. "They look really sophisticated for her age."

"I know," I agree. "She'd spend hours wandering the fields, always  falling asleep in the grass on warm summer days, or so she'd say. I just  always assumed she spaced out and got lost or something but thinking  back on it, she always did carry a small backpack with her."

"She wanted privacy," Christine suggests. "Maybe it was therapeutic for  her." She gives me a sympathetic look, seeing how hard this is for me.

She knows about Ariel falling from a tree, but she doesn't know about  the depression and cutting. These drawings are a window right into her  mind of what she was suffering through.

"She suffered from depression," I explain, the words continuing without  restraint. "My parents didn't believe her, brushed it off as her wanting  attention over me or something. They were ignorant to believe that one  of their precious children wasn't perfect. Either that or they didn't  want to spend the time helping her. Ariel kept it all inside. You  couldn't tell most days because she acted like a normal kid, always  laughing and smiling, cracking jokes back and forth with friends. But  once my parents found out she was cutting, they turned their heads and  pretended it wasn't happening."

"That's awful." She covers my hand with hers when I realize tears are falling down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I'm acting like such a baby." I'm quick to wipe the tears  away and close the sketchbook. I hate that my walls are crumbling down  right in front of her. I can feel them tumbling down one by one.

"Don't you be sorry, Aspen. Seriously."

"I think maybe I should just take them home now."

"That's a good idea. I'll let Ms. Jones know, and we'll figure out the  rest." I choke back a sob and thank her, placing the folds of the box  back together. "I'll tell Shane to come help you put them in your car if  you want."         

     



 

I nod and keep my eyes low.

Shane notices the dramatic shift in my mood the moment he helps me carry  them to my car. I feel him looking at me, thinking twice about asking  me what's wrong.