Beacon in the Darkness

4. Throwing Stones

Shawn brushed past Lauren ignoring her blatant glare. He knew he'd get an earful of her ranting later. Opening the door to the house, he quickly slipped off his cleats, grasped them in one hand, and bounded up the stairs, shutting himself in his room. He crossed the floor to the closet, hung up his hoodie, and placed his cleats neatly on the floor. After closing the door, he made his way to his bed and sat on the edge.

The paper Camila had given him crinkled under his fingers. For some reason he was nervous to open it, to look at whatever it was she'd created. She'd told him her sketchpad acted as a catalyst to letting her pain out—just like his music did for him. If that was true, could he handle what he was about to see? Did he want to?

From what Lauren had told them, Camila had lost her father when she was seven, but her brother Carlos had died recently. Shawn had recognized the sorrow in her eyes when she'd mentioned him at the fields. He knew better than anyone what agony like that did to a person. How it consumed your soul until there was nothing there but an empty crevice, leaving you broken and void.

His fingers traced along the edge of the stiff page, slipping under the fold and smoothing over the surface. In the foreground of the drawing was a hand pressed against what looked like a window. Beyond the glass, a figure stood in the rain. Near the bottom she had scrawled, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again in tiny, messy script. Scattered over the page were rough, diluted patches from what he could only assume were her tears.

Shawn dropped the paper onto his lap, closed his eyes, and ran his hands over his face. Even though he knew the basics of what Camila had gone through, he hadn't really comprehended the amount of pain she shouldered. He should have—considering his own past. It was just that she hid it so well. She seemed so much more adjusted than he was, and his issues happened long ago.

God, he didn't know what to do with this information. Why did she share this with him? Because she'd heard him sing? Did she really see more in that than what he'd assumed? She said she "saw his" and felt like she should "show him hers." What did that mean exactly? He knew how he felt while he played, but was he really that transparent to everyone else? Or was she just overly perceptive because of her own experiences? This was the exact reason he never played in front of anyone else. He would prefer everyone thinking he was a pompous ass than to see him weak and vulnerable.

He stood and stepped over to the window. The sun filtered through the outstretched limbs of the giant oak tree that stood directly between his and Camila's houses in beams of harsh yellow light. Branches swayed in the breeze, scratching against the glass and emitting an irritating squeak. Glancing down, he spotted Camila stalking back to her house, looking upset. He furrowed his brow, wondering what had gotten her angry, until he saw a flurry of black hair rush after her. Her rolled his eyes and muttered, "Lauren."

Lauren getting upset over Shawn "befriending" people she considered her friends was not a new development. Ever since they'd hit their teen years and Shawn starting turning the heads of the girls she brought home it had been a constant nightmare for him. Not that the girls noticed him—that part he enjoyed—but that Lauren always had a fit, forbidding him to so much as look at anyone she brought over. He guessed it probably was partially his fault—Britney hadn't flirted with and then dumped herself. He probably should have felt bad that Lauren lost a friend over it, but he couldn't take it anymore. Britney was clingy and needy and that just wasn't his thing.