Twenty-five
Talking to James has always been easy, but there’s something about Sam that drags random thoughts and ideas out of my head. Like, how I want to major in something science-related if I ever decide to go to college. Biology was my favorite class sophomore year—the only subject that’s ever come easily to me, unlike my brainiac brother—but I never really thought of it as something I could do until Sam. He makes me feel like maybe I have a future outside of this bedroom and my father. Like maybe I have a future outside of James.
It’s a dangerous thought.
“How can you harass me about UCLA when you’re not even applying anywhere?” he asks the following Friday morning. “That’s pretty hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“If you promise to call UCLA and try to get in this fall, I promise to apply next year.”
“Really?” He hesitates, the victory in his eyes dimming. “Wait, you’ll apply at UCLA, right? Or at least somewhere nearby? I’m not going to L.A. unless you’re with me.”
I smile. “I’ll be with you.” Somehow, someway, I’ll find a way to follow him to Los Angeles.
“Then, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Sam leans across the seat and gives me one of the chaste pecks that means his mom is watching us from her place behind the cash register. “I’ll pick you up at two. That’ll give us an hour and a half before I have to be back to set up. Are you sure you can’t sneak out tonight?”
I groan. Not only is sneaking out on James’s watch impossible, I’ll be losing six whole hours of Sam time working with his mom while he picks up all the last minute supplies for the caramel apple stand she’s running with one of the neighboring shops. Granite Falls celebrates its 125th birthday this year. You’d think a parade or maybe a new Welcome to Granite Falls sign would be in order, but apparently a mall-sponsored weekend carnival is the best they can do.
“He’d catch me if I tried,” I grumble. “What if I call in sick? Can I stay with you?”
He chuckles. “You’re the one that offered to help out. If things had gone my way, we’d be in your bed right now.”
My smile falters. In bed. But doing what? When Sam knocked on my door right after my brother and father left for work on Monday morning—two hours earlier than I thought he’d show up—I assumed he wanted sex. That’s what boys expect once they’ve done it with a girl, right? And I wanted to be with him again. I dreamt about it all weekend, and had to force myself not to leap into his arms when I answered the door.
He took my hand and led me into my bedroom. Hummingbirds had nothing on how fast my heart raced when he ran a hand across my unmade bed. Thinking about sex while Sam stood in the room I share with James felt…strange. Maybe too strange. Whether I wanted it or not suddenly didn’t matter. When he tugged off his work boots and shirt, climbed into my bed, and asked me to join him, I didn’t think I could go through with it.
But instead of ripping off my clothes, Sam wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my hair, and fell asleep.
Which was right about when I’d decided, yes, I absolutely would go through with it.
The rest of the week was more of the same. On Tuesday, he made us toasted cheese sandwiches in my kitchen, forced me to eat two of them while he did the dishes, then drove me to the grocery store. On Wednesday, he clutched me to his chest and passed out immediately. On Thursday, we kissed and touched until I thought I’d go crazy with needing him. Finally, I thought. But no. He pulled away, asked to use the shower, and took me to work as soon as he was finished.
This morning was another pass-out-immediately day.
I can’t be mad at him. It’s my fault he’s so tired. Sam works just as hard as James, but on way less sleep because of all the time he spends with me. Still…it’s getting harder to ignore the little voice in my head telling me I’m doing something wrong.
With a sigh, I cross through the cordoned-off parking lot and make my way into Enchanted Garden. The hulking carnival rides being unloaded and set up look alarmingly rusty in the daylight.
Sure enough, Liz is waiting behind the counter with a pair of ratty gardening gloves in her hand and the phone pressed to her ear. “That’s wonderful, sweetie. We’ll talk more tonight, okay? Love you.”
She hangs up the phone and grins. “Right on time,” she says cheerfully, “though, judging by how happy he sounded on the phone, my son probably did his best to convince you to skip out on me today. Not that you’ve been apart for more than thirty seconds, but he says to say hello.”
I smile and follow her into the back room, deciding it’s probably better if she thinks Sam is dating a wholesome girl who’d rather work than corrupt him. “So what do you need done? I dreamt about stabbing buckets of apples with Popsicle sticks last night.”
Liz laughs. “That’s Sam’s job. You’re going to be doing the seedlings this week so I can finish up some last minute orders before tonight.”
She gestures to the low wooden table set up beneath the only windows in the back room. Dozens of black plastic trays that look like egg cartons filled with dirt sit in orderly rows across the top. From the center of each cup, a gangly green vine sprouts toward the windows like a light-seeking jack-in-the-box.
“You’ll be putting them in the green pots,” she says, pointing to the cheap plastic cups I’m already familiar with. I cut my thumb open on the edge of one in front of a customer my first day on the job.
“That’s it?” I ask, frowning. There’s no way this will take six hours. Twenty plants, five minutes each…I’ll be in Sam’s arms before lunch.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me with the arrangements today.”
My eyes widen. Sam hadn’t been kidding when he said Liz hated people touching her flowers. So far, all I’d been allowed to do is hand her the glittery white tulle when she added the final touches to basket bouquets. “Really?”
She smiles and squeezes my hand. “Anyone capable of convincing my hardheaded son to choose his future over babysitting me is plenty capable of manipulating a bunch of stubborn flowers. Don’t you think?”
Man, he’s fast. Unease and a tiny bit of guilt erase my surprise over the flowers. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t any of my business and if you need him here—”
“No, no. I’m glad you talked to him. I’ve been trying to get him out of the house for months, and when UCLA accepted him… God, Joe would’ve been so proud.”
When her eyes well with tears, I turn away. Crying mothers are almost as foreign to me as mothers who love their children. To keep myself in check, I picture the tattoo on Sam’s back.
She follows me over to the trays of seedlings and plucks a tool off the wall. It looks like an ice cream scoop, but its value is clear when she uses it to remove one of the seedling pods from the tray with a flick of her wrist. Ten seconds later, the seedling is nestled in a new green pot, tucked into the fresh dirt and moss like a newborn.
“Nothing to it,” she says, handing me the ice cream scoop as if we hadn’t just had the world’s most awkward moment. “As soon as you finish these, we’ll get started on the funeral arrangement for tomorrow. Those are always fun.”
I blink. Is she serious? Before I can ask, she leaves me to my thoughts, which are overflowing with all the reasons making funeral arrangements will not be fun. The last thing either of us need to be thinking about is death.
I’ve repotted almost half of the seedlings when I hear the tinkling wind chimes on the front door.
“We’ll be right with you!” Liz yells, frowning at the elaborate bouquet she’s creating out of pink and white stargazer lilies, purple irises, and bright yellow roses. “These greens aren’t fluffing quite right,” she grumbles. “Can you help that customer for me?”
“Sure.”
I pocket the miracle ice cream scoop and slip off the ratty gardening gloves. Cellophane crinkles out front. This will be easy if all the customer needs is a bouquet. Pasting a happy-to-help smile on my face, I part the curtain of sparkly beads and—
Blond hair. Broad shoulders.
The black Godsmack t-shirt I gave him on his seventeenth birthday.
I stagger back through the beads and flatten myself against the wall. His back was turned, so I know he didn’t see me, but I can’t stop my knees from shaking or slow my thrumming heart. The look on James’s face when we argued about me working haunts my dreams.
He’s not our father. He loves me.
And he’ll be furious when he finds out I disobeyed him.
On wobbly legs, I pick my way around the table to the far side of the room, stumbling over a plastic pot that I must’ve dropped earlier. It clatters across the floor and hits Liz in the ankle.
“What the—” When she sees me, Liz drops her floral tape and rushes to my side. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t go out there,” I whisper. Why isn’t he at work? He’s supposed to be at work.
Liz hurries over to the beaded doorway and peeks through the strands. When she sees James instead of the masked gunman she probably expected, her eyebrows shoot up. For several uncomfortable moments, she stares at me huddled in the corner of the room. How can I explain this without saying too much?
Or maybe I don’t need to say anything. By the time she pushes aside the beads and greets my brother with a warm hug, I get the distinct impression she knows exactly what’s going on.
“Two bouquets?” she asks, amused. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
James chuckles. I imagine him running a hand through his hair like he always does when he’s embarrassed. I picture the way his worn t-shirt pulls at the thick bicep that has gotten thicker with each trip to the Armory. “You know me,” he answers. “Can’t keep the ladies away.”
“Yes, well, as long as you’re being careful.”
It’s such a mom thing to say, and for a second, I’m irritated that he’s always had Sam’s mom to guide him while he kept me locked in our room. My hand strays to my pocket and wraps around the ice cream scoop. Running my thumb along the warm metal curve calms me down just enough to keep quiet.
Cellophane crinkles again, closer this time. He’s at the cash register.
Crawling closer, I strain to hear their voices over the chirping register as she punches in his order, and the clunking release of the cash drawer. From my place on the floor behind the table, I can see my brother through the beads, but I doubt he can see me.
“You know, I don’t get to see your sister as often as I’d like,” Liz says, handing him his change. “How is she?”
“She’s fine.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m looking to hire a part-time assistant. Maybe she’d be interested?”
James’s smile never falters. “She’s allergic to flowers, but I’ll tell her you said hi.”
As soon as the chimes confirm his exit, I bolt to my feet and peek through the beads. He’s already across the parking lot, two bouquets of multi-colored roses in his hand, sliding into his truck.
Liz studies me from her place at the cash register, arms folded across her chest. “I wonder how many times he’s lied to me over the years without me knowing it. Your brother being the charmer he is, I’m guessing hundreds of times.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other and finger the ice cream scoop again.
“Let me guess. He doesn’t want you working?”
I shake my head.
She reaches for my shoulders and pulls me through the beads into one of the motherly hugs I love, but don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
“Oh, honey, I know exactly how you feel. Dealing with overbearing men is a specialty of mine.”
I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of lavender and the little white flowers she calls baby’s breath, a scent my mind equates with “mother” now. If James bossing me around is all she thinks is going on, my secret is safe. “Thanks for not telling him about me working here.”
“Little sisters have to stick together.” She releases me, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “If you ever want to talk about it, call me, okay? Some of the stuff my brothers have done in the name of protecting me will make you cringe. You’d think I was made of glass.”
Somehow, I doubt any of her stories can beat the one where James kisses me. “James isn’t that bad.”
“Well, don’t let Sam give you hell, either. Lord knows he tries to give it to me.” She holds the curtains of beads out of our way and gestures for me to go first. “Like father, like son. Or maybe it’s like uncles, like son. Who knows?”
Back at my station, I slip the ice cream scoop out of my pocket and reach for the gardening gloves. There are a dozen seedlings left. Gangly, green vines with puny leaves locked in their tiny egg-carton prisons. The way they reach for the small square of light on the wall feels way too familiar.
“Let’s work on the funeral arrangements for a little bit,” she says from behind me. “Nothing cheers me up like a good funeral wreath.”