The Sweet Smell Of My Ruin Chapter 1

When I was seven, my cousin Tabitha pushed me into the deep end of our neighborhood pool and stood at the edge, watching me sink. By the time they dragged me out and pumped the water from my lungs, the terror had already taken root.

Ever since, I have been afraid of the water.

My family ran a bed-and-breakfast right on the rocky coast of Maine—the Wells Bay Inn. During the peak summer season, it was all hands on deck. My mother forced me to stand on the damp sand to welcome the incoming surfers. I stood there, my limbs trembling so violently that before the guests’ shuttle even arrived, I fainted.

My father hauled me up by my collar in front of a dozen staring tourists.

"Are you trying to ruin our business on purpose?" he roared, his voice echoing over the crashing waves. "A kid raised on the ocean, afraid of a little water? What are the guests supposed to think of us?"

One afternoon, while I was exhausted and asleep, they slipped a life vest over my arms and carried me onto our family speedboat. When I opened my eyes, the shore was nothing but a thin, dark line on the horizon. We were in the middle of the open ocean.

My father stood at the helm, his back to me. "You’re not coming back home until you dive in and swim a lap."

I cried on that deck until I was completely dehydrated, my throat raw and bleeding. In the end, it was the Coast Guard that towed me back to land.

By nineteen, I had found my escape in scent. Perfumery didn't require water. It only needed pure alcohol and the delicate chemistry of essential oils. I designed a custom sea-salt fragrance that caught the attention of an independent boutique brand in Boston. They sent me a contract, offering me a full-time position as their lead perfumer.

When my mother found the document, she didn't even consult me. She called the representative directly and canceled the agreement.

"Our son is staying here to take over the family inn. He doesn't have time to be a servant for your little startup."

She locked me out of my room, dragged my scent cabinet into the bathroom, and poured over two hundred bottles of essential oils down the toilet.

The roaring sound of the flush filled the small space. Watching the dark oils swirl down the drain, I was suddenly five years old again, watching the water close over my head. I realized then that in all these years, I had never actually been saved. I was still at the bottom of that pool.

* * *

"What are you staring at? Think it’s not clean enough?"

My mother’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears. She stepped over the shattered glass on the bathroom floor, using her toe to kick the shredded remains of my contract toward my knees.

I knelt on the cold porcelain tiles.

The toilet tank hissed as it refilled with water. A few empty, amber-colored glass vials floated in the bowl. One was Damask Rose. It had cost me nearly a hundred dollars for a tiny gram—money I had spent six months scrimping from my meager allowance.

"I asked you a question. Are you mute now?"

My mother walked over. She adjusted the collar of her silk robe and tapped my forehead hard with her finger.

"Instead of helping with the inn, you’re wasting your time on this smelly garbage. Are you trying to give me a stroke?"

I stared at the swirling water in the toilet bowl. My throat felt as though it were stuffed with a dry, thorny sponge.

"That was my job," I whispered, my voice cracked. "They offered me a contract. Four thousand a month."

My mother let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Four thousand? That’s pocket change. Your father books out a single VIP suite for a weekend and makes double that. You want to run off and work for someone else? What am I supposed to tell our guests when they ask where my son is? How is that supposed to look?"

I looked up at her—at the woman I had called "Mom" for nineteen years.

"If I don't take this job, what am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life busing tables in your dining room?"

Before she could answer, the bathroom door was kicked open. Tabitha strolled in, swaying slightly. She was holding my phone, the screen glowing in her hand.

"Oh, still thinking about going to work?" Tabitha sneered, her lips curling into a yellow-toothed grin. She swiped her thumb across the screen. "I just used your account to send a little voice note to that coordinator of yours."

I bolted upright. My knees, numb from kneeling so long on the hard tile, buckled slightly.

"What did you send?" I lunged to grab the phone.

Tabitha stepped aside with practiced ease, driving her foot into the back of my knee. I lost my balance and crashed against the marble sink, my hip bone colliding with the sharp edge. A dull, sickening pain flared through my lower back.

"What did I send?" She pressed the play button.

My mother’s shrill, aggressive voice blared from the speaker: "What kind of cheap, sweatshop operation is trying to steal my son's formulas? Stay away from him, or I’m calling the police and reporting you for harassment!"

The audio ended. A second later, a red exclamation mark flared next to the contact name.

Isla Burt had blocked me.

She was the only person who had ever truly understood my work. The only one who had told me I had a gift.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. "Give me my phone."

Tabitha smiled, tossed her head back, and threw the phone straight into the dirty mop bucket in the corner. It hit the murky water with a heavy splash, sending gray droplets flying onto my bare ankles.

"Stop whining. I did you a favor," Tabitha said, dusting off her hands. "There are too many scammers out there. With your IQ, you’d probably get sold off and not even realize it."

I stared into the bucket, watching the tiny bubbles rise from the submerged device. It was a cheap, second-hand phone I had bought with the money I earned washing dishes during high school.

I turned slowly to my mother. "She threw my phone in the trash water. Aren't you going to say anything?"

My mother didn't look at me. She was busy smoothing down the lapels of her robe. "Tabby was just looking out for you. That phone was ancient anyway. Your father will get you one of the spare devices we keep at the front desk tomorrow."

She paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down. "Now get dressed. Put on that new high-end wetsuit we bought for the staff. There's a major surfing club arriving this afternoon."

I froze. "I can't. I have aquaphobia. I can't go near the shore."

Tabitha scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. "Still playing that old tape? You’re nineteen, Jesse. You fell in a pool when you were seven and you’re still using it as an excuse to be lazy."

"It wasn't an accident," I said, staring directly at her. "You pushed me. You held my head under the water."

Tabitha’s face hardened. She took two strides forward and slapped the back of my head, slamming my forehead into the mirror.

"Say that again, you little freak. See if I don't drag you down to the docks and feed you to the crabs myself."

My mother stepped between us, pulling Tabitha back. "That's enough, Tabby. Don't bruise his face. We have clients to impress this afternoon."

She turned to me, her eyes dead. "The suit is on your bed. If you aren't wearing it by two, you can pack your things and get out of this house."

The door slammed shut. Their footsteps faded down the hall.

I slowly sank onto the floor, ignoring the shards of glass biting into my palms. I reached out and picked up the torn scrap of my contract. Isla Burt’s signature was still visible, though the ink was already beginning to bleed from the dampness of the floor.

I pressed the paper against my chest.

Once, this room had been filled with the scent of two hundred bottles of sea-salt and botanicals. Now, there was only the rancid, chemical smell of bleach and sewage.