Nineteen
I haven’t heard from Sam in four and a half days. Not that I’ve been counting.
By the time our father reluctantly exchanges “mourning” with his family for the boys at the mill, and James finally drags himself to work, I give up thinking I mean anything to him. But even if I don’t, his dad died, for God’s sake. He knows how this feels.
I’m so disappointed. Both in him and in me.
Which is why, when he finally knocks on the door late Thursday morning, I refuse to answer. He’s persistent, though. After enduring his incessant knocking and pleas for nearly half an hour, I toss the book I’m reading onto my bed and stomp to the front door.
I open the door and glare at him. “What do you want?”
“Thank God.” He yanks me into his arms. “I just found out this morning. What happened? Are you okay?”
Glare still firmly in place, I wedge my arms between us and shove. “Maybe if you stopped by or called or something, you would’ve known sooner.”
He frowns. “I’ve been working. And every time I drove by—which was a lot—your brother’s truck was out front. I would’ve shown up anyway if I’d known, though. Why didn’t you call me?” Frown deepening, he says, “Hell, why didn’t James call me?”
My anger bleeds away. Of course he didn’t stop by. I made him promise to keep this—us—a secret. I slip the ball chain out from under his shirt and rub one of the steel dog tags with my thumb. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“I wish I could’ve been here for you.”
Me, too, though I can’t imagine where Sam would’ve fit into my life these last few days. James hardly let me out of his sight, like he was afraid I’d die every time I stepped into another room. I gave up on privacy when I realized we weren’t leaving his bed unless it was to grab food or use the bathroom.
Not that I’ve been much better. All I can think about is James and the stupid drugs Leslie gives him. Our mother’s death has seriously messed him up. What if I leave him alone and he overdoses by accident? No way am I letting that happen.
“So, do you want to talk about it?”
Not really. I drop the dog tag and pick at the white paint peeling away from the doorframe. “They’re calling it a suicide.”
He frowns and seems to analyze my expression. I do my best to keep my face neutral.
“You don’t believe them,” he finally says.
This is a defining moment for us. Either I open up to Sam and let him into the mess that is my head, or I push him away. He stands eerily still, watching me, like he knows how important this moment is, too. Looking into his eyes, seeing the kind of affection I’ve craved my whole life, I find my answer.
“I think my dad did it,” I whisper. “James doesn’t know.”
Though he doesn’t move, relief flashes across his face. “What can I do?”
I know what I want him to do. Four nights of kissing him in my sleep has left me achy and desperate for more. I don’t know whether it will help, but I’m willing to find out. I look up at him through my eyelashes, feeling embarrassed by what I’m about to ask. “Can you make me forget?”
I expect him to back me into the doorframe and kiss me senseless, but he doesn’t. Instead—after checking to make sure I have shoes on—he reaches behind me and closes the door like he did the last time we were standing in this exact spot. I take his outstretched hand and let him lead me down to his car.
When we’re five miles outside of town on the road that leads deep into the mountains, I realize he’s taking me to Leslie’s. Anger and hurt seep into my heart. Does he seriously think buying me drugs is a good idea after I watched my mother die of an overdose?
But then he turns onto a service road that takes us away from Leslie’s and down into the small valley below.
“We’re going to the river?”
“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “I thought maybe we could have a secret place. Somewhere we can spend time together without worrying about someone coming to look for us. I thought it might be nice to get away.”
My cheeks get hot, and not just because I feel like an idiot about the Leslie thing. Total seclusion, zero interruptions, and Sam. So many possibilities.
But then I realize that this is what James has wanted to do for a while now—take us away from everything—and I feel guilty for saying no so many times. When he comes home tonight, I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind. Screw the money.
Sam pulls into what looks like a wide, pine needle-covered campsite that slopes sharply away into a fast-moving stream—one of many that wind away from the Rogue River in these hills. The trees here are thick and cast an ominous darkness over the forest around us, but the rocky ledge and the water are bathed in the beautiful morning light. I’m out of the car running toward the sunshine before Sam can cut the engine.
The slope is too steep for me to make it down in flip-flops. If I slip, I’ll land in one of the many patches of slimy moss and lichen tucked into the millions of crevices and mucking up the stones’ smooth surfaces. It’s pretty, though. Even prettier is the little deer trail that leads from the rocks through the ferns along the edge of the slope and back into the forest. I’m going to need to buy a jug of bug repellant before we come up here again.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe when Sam finally catches up.
He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on top of my head. “Do you want to walk around for a bit, or should we get right to the ‘make you forget’ part?”
The ferns and the trees and the clear water gushing over the rocks look inviting, but they’re no competition for the warm body pressed against mine. “Make me forget.”
He scoops me up and carries me over to a worn flannel blanket lying neatly in the middle of the pine needle clearing. In the few seconds I spent looking at the water, he’d been busy. My heart flutters at the thought of how sweet he’s being. We stretch out on the blanket, me on my back and Sam hovering over me. Judging by the serious look on his face, any hope of me forgetting is doomed before it can begin.
“The more I’m around you, the more I realize just how much James didn’t tell me,” he says. “How much I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re the dark, thunderstorm gray I love best. “If I had any idea, I never would’ve waited this long.”
He leans closer and threads his fingers through the hair above my neck. My breath catches in anticipation—so close, so very close—but he doesn’t kiss me.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he whispers. “I’ll keep you safe.”
That he cares enough to make a promise like that—even when I’ve heard it a million times from my brother—burns in the very best way. It’s too bad that, short of gluing himself to my side, there’s nothing Sam can do to protect me from my father. Rather than ruin the moment, I just smile and say, “I know you will.”
When he kisses me with more tenderness than I’ve felt in my entire life, let alone my recent dreams, I almost believe myself.
Around two, when our empty stomachs grumble loud enough to be heard over the burbling stream, Sam and I tear ourselves apart and head back into town in search of food. He doesn’t protest when I lie across the seat with my head on his lap like I wanted to the first day he rescued me from my house. It’s so tempting to fall asleep when he strokes my hair.
I must have, because the next thing I know, we’re parked in front of a cheerful florist shop called Enchanted Garden with the rich aroma of teriyaki chicken, tangy pineapple, and hot rice curling like steam from the three bento boxes sitting on the dashboard. With my mouth watering and stomach singing with anticipation, I gape at the food. “Where’d we get that?”
Sam nods to the old coffee drive-thru across the parking lot that now houses a Japanese food stand. “You were sleeping, so I picked up lunch. You like bento, right?”
“I love bento,” I say, scrambling into an upright position so I can grab the closest box. “You didn’t have to buy three meals, though.”
“Yeah, I did.” He gives me a sheepish, please-don’t-hurt-me smile. “We’re having lunch with my mom today.”