Summer 1997

"Good morning Dad."

Tara Knowles' voice was a mere whisper as she picked up beer bottle after beer bottle while her father slept on the couch. He wasn't snoring, so he couldn't be that drunk, but he was drunk enough to be dead to the world. This left Michael's only daughter as both the man and the woman of the house. The clink of the bottles made her nauseous as she cleaned – she was sick of the smell, she was sick of this life, and every day she dreamed of getting out of the hell that was Charming, California.

She carefully watched her father, waiting for him to breathe. She was frozen in place, transfixed by the lack of rise and fall of Michael's back. Another couple of seconds passed, then Tara moved into action. She rushed forward, her hand reached towards his wrist.

"Dad?" His skin was cool to the touch – not cold – but the trickle of life was nowhere to be found. No pulse. Her breath hitched as she realized the gravity of the situation. Immediately, she turned the man on his back.

"Daddy?" It was another question that fell onm deaf ear. Michael Knowles didn't move.

The first thing she noticed were his pale lips, his white color. The second thing she noticed was the picture of her mother clutched in his arms. She froze again for a moment. Tara looked just like Grace, except the dark hair she'd inherited from Michael. Tara had always wanted her mother's ginger hair.

Goddamnit, Dad!" she yelled. Hesitation over, Tara ripped the frame from her father's grasp, and it fell to the floor, next to the cordless phone, which Tara immediately grabbed. She clumsily dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Uh – my fath –" her voice stumbled a little – "My father isn't breathing."

"What's the address?"

"318 Rembrandt Avenue."

"I'll get EMS there right away. Where is your father at the moment?"

"On the couch."

"Can you move him to the floor?"

"I have to put the phone down," she explained, removing the phone from her ear. Placing it on the coffee table, Tara the reached for Michael's arm. His emaciated body wasn't hard to move. It easily crumpled to the floor. Tara resumed the call.

"Now what?" Her voice was calm.

"Do you know CPR?"

"Yeah – yeah, I do." Tara had been a lifeguard every summer for the last three years, but she'd never actually used it on anyone. She swallowed hard.

"Then go -"

"I'm gonna put you on the speaker," Tara interrupted. The phone went to the floor after she pushed the button. She heard the operator say something about EMS, but she was focused on the compressions. 100 beats per minute. Sweat beaded under Tara's arms and across her back.

"C'mon Dad," Tara breathed as she worked. She could hear the sirens in the distance. She stopped compressions and breathed into her father's mouth. The compressions resumed. Rapid movements, arms aching from effort and despair, Tara's tears blended with the sweat that poured off her face, and she screamed. Hollow, scorching screams were a chorus to the ambulance wails just outside her door.

Soon the EMTs were in, and she screamed again when she was ripped away from him, the last effort to awaken him lost. She'd failed, and the explosion of pain her chest and abdomen doubled her over. A woman cut her father's shirt while another prepared the paddles. A ring split the air, and Tara heard the woman yell.

"Clear!" The thud of electric current hitting raw human skin sickened Tara, but she watched, fascinated, as her father's chest connected the circuit. The current now released, Michael Knowles fell back to the floor. The female EMT yelled again. Tara clamped her eyes shut.

The beeps were slow at first, but they picked up. Tara's eyes opened. She saw a tall, dark haired man placed a plastic mouthpiece to Michael's mouth while he squeezed the red bag. Her father still wasn't breathing on his own, but he was alive – for now. The EMTs placed them on the gurney, strapped him in tight, and began to head out. The female EMT stepped away as they took Tara's father out.

"Is there anyone I can call for you?" she asked. Tara, her red-rimmed stare was fresh with pain, fresh with unused tears, stared into the woman's clear blue eyes.

"No. It's just me."

"We're taking your Dad to St. Thomas. Do you want one of the cops to take you?"

Tara nodded. The woman moved towards the door, and Tara immediately fell in step and went outside. It was the first day of summer in Charming – the golden sun made the horizon wave in the ninety degree heat, and it was barely nine a.m. She squinted, and something red caught her eye. An old Chevy pickup was moving toward her house. She glimpsed the shock of black hair and tanned skin. She saw the intense dark eyes headed in her direction, and there was nothing to do to stop it.

David Hale bolted forward. Living about a mile and a half away, Tara was sure her childhood friend had seen the lights, heard the sirens. Jumping out of the truck, he rushed towards her, and before she knew it, his arms were wrapped around her.

"What are you doing here?" she mumbled into his chest. "Did you see the lights?"

"No, I was on my way when they showed up." Tara broke the hug, and stared at her oldest friend. He'd grown so much this summer – he was well over six feet now, looking more like a grown man every day. He damn sure looked older than his eighteen years. She remembered his boyish face like it was a moment ago, and in all truth, it was.

"Why?" There was no school, so there was no reason for him to pick her up this early.

"It's June twenty-first." Tara felt a knot form in her belly. Waves of nausea ebbed and flowed, but she didn't have a damn thing in the hollow space.

"Your seventeenth birthday," David reminded her. She still couldn't breathe. She looked at him then, and it was his turn to catch his breath. She was his best friend, but he wanted so much more. He just wasn't sure if she wanted the same thing – he'd always been too afraid to tell her.

Standing before him now, her dark chestnut hair blazed, her auburn highlights danced in the sun, and her hazel eyes – God, he knew the small flecks of green like the back of his hand. He couldn't speak, much less think of what to say next.

"Miss Knowles?" The EMT wanted her to come. Tara looked at David, then towards the EMT.

"Follow us there," Tara mumbled, her eyes meeting his. He silently nodded and pulled the keys from his pocket. Tara watched as the boy she once knew climbed into the Chevy and cranked it to life.

Tara had already turned away from David. Her long t-shirt damply clung to her shoulders. The dark hair had begun to tumble, and as he stared, he felt his chest tighten. How was this girl ever going to make it? Her mom was gone, and her dad was heading out the door. He knew she would turn to him – because she had no one else. Tara Knowles was the quiet one, the studious one, the one no one in school really knew. She would leave the minute she turned eighteen. He knew it.

Tara stepped into the back of an unmarked police car, and her face disappeared from his view. With that, he revved the engine and waited. He didn't know what tomorrow or even next year would bring, but he knew he loved this girl.

In the car, Tara watched as the ambulance flew down the long stretch of dusty Charming streets. She couldn't cry anymore. She could only swallow the pain and lurch painfully forward – she'd been doing it since her mom passed. She'd been doing this for eight years – she was tempered in agony.

"Good God, it's my birthday," she whispered low, allowing herself a moment of self-pity. A tear fell down her cheek as they followed the EMTs to St. Thomas. Maybe, she thought, maybe one day she'd have a happy one again.