Seven
Sam Donavon is holding my hand. Not the hand of one of the much prettier girls prancing around the living room, but mine. In public.
And he doesn’t seem embarrassed.
If the shock doesn’t kill me, my sudden inability to breathe will.
Wait. Maybe he’s waiting for me to let go?
Stomach tumbling at the thought, I loosen my death grip so he can shake his hand free, but he doesn’t. When he laces our fingers together and smiles, any hope of catching my breath fizzles out.
Definitely death by asphyxiation.
On the porch, Sam and I skirt around a group of guys wrapping entire packs of sparklers in duct tape. Alex, standing in the center of them all with his graduation gown tied like a pirate bandana around his head, gives me a nothing-to-see-here grin that puts me on edge. Third period Trig last semester passed in a flurry of pranks which usually resulted in Alex being sent to the principal’s office, and our teacher, frumpy spinster-in-training Miss Rabidon, sobbing to the counselor about mean-spirited children.
If he’s plotting something, I know better than to stick around.
“Homemade bombs,” Sam tells me when we reach his car. “Leslie will kick Alex’s ass if he sets those off out here. The county is dying for a reason to bust her.”
He lets go of my hand to grab a big flashlight from his trunk and open the driver’s side door of his beat-up black sports car, dredging up an unexpected emptiness at the loss of contact. When he leans inside, the door groans like it might fall off its hinges.
I’m all for Leslie getting busted—James can’t do what he can’t buy, but then I realize my brother’s here—probably high already—and might get hauled off to jail right along with her.
I glance over my shoulder, hoping whatever comes out of my mouth will convince Alex this is a really bad idea, but he and his minions have already disappeared. Great. If the cops come, Sam will have to get all three of us out of here. There’s no way I’ll let James drive home if he’s on something, and there’s no way he’ll let me anywhere near his truck.
Hopefully he’s not stupid enough to be hanging out with Leslie herself.
Sam emerges from the backseat with two hooded sweatshirts. He hands me the thick black one I’ve seen him wear a thousand times. I manage to tug it over my head without falling over, which is a miracle because it smells so freaking good. Like fabric softener, pine trees, and Sam. He pulls on an older, navy blue hoodie with a huge, white “LA” scrawled across the front. I pretend to be fixing the hood of mine so he doesn’t catch me pressing my nose into the collar. “Do you think we should look for James?”
Sam shakes his head. “He can take care of himself. If the cops show, he’ll just hide in the woods like he usually does.”
“Usually? You guys come here that often?”
“A couple times a month, maybe.” He gives me a funny look. As if he expected James frequently hiding from the cops to be the bigger surprise. Little does he know, James and I have spent our lives hiding. “Why?”
“No reason.” The lie does nothing to tamp down the irritation that spreads across my skin like a rash. James and I swore never to keep secrets from each other, and yet, everything about tonight points to the biggest lie of all. “So, um, when was the first time?”
“Leslie latched onto James back when we were still at Logan. He didn’t even have the truck yet, so two or three years ago, maybe?”
I was a freshman when James bought his truck. If he’s been hiding Leslie and her drugs for that many years, I’m going to kill him. “Wow. Okay.”
A frown tugs the light from Sam’s eyes. I take a deep breath, glad for the cover of darkness, and let all of my irritation flow out on the exhale. There’s no way I’m letting my stupid brother and his stupid drugs ruin my chance to spend an evening with the guy I’ve had a crush on forever. I make a mental note to talk to my brother when we get home, then change the subject.
“So, the Dodgers, huh?” I ask, pointing at his sweatshirt. “I’m surprised my brother hangs out with you.”
“When it comes to sports, your brother and I agree to disagree. Mainly because he doesn’t know a damn thing about anything except boxing. You want one?”
I’d been so busy staring at his eyes—charcoal swirled with gray tonight—that I didn’t notice him pull out the tiny tin of cinnamon mints. Maybe this is his subtle way of saying my breath stinks? “Oh, um, sure. Thanks.”
He waits until I take one, then dumps the last six or seven into his mouth and chews them up. Yikes. Maybe he’s more concerned about his breath.
With the thick white beam of the flashlight, he points in the opposite direction of Claire and the two guys. Blackness shrouds the trees where he’s looking. “So…I was thinking we’d head this way.”
“You’re not afraid we’ll get lost?”
“No.” He gives me a please-don’t-think-I’m-a-loser smile. “My only function at these parties is to hang out in case James or Alex needs a ride home, so I walk around a lot.”
As if I’m going to think a guy who wastes his evenings making sure his friends don’t wrap their trucks around a tree is a loser. “That’s admirable.”
“Admirable, huh?” He chuckles. “Thanks, I think.”
He’s said more words in the last ten minutes than I’ve heard him say in eight years, and apparently he’s tapped out, because we spend the next minute or two walking in silence. Without Leslie’s noisy trailer or my own anger mucking up the silence, the stillness of the forest is stifling. I edge closer to Sam on the trail. Even though we’re walking close enough to brush arms from time to time, he doesn’t reach for my hand. This would be disappointing if it didn’t feel like he’s purposely bumping into me.
“Selfish as this sounds, I meant what I said earlier,” he finally says.
I try to remember what he said, but everything is kind of a blur. “Which part?”
“The ‘I’m glad you came tonight’ part.”
So I’m not imagining the nudging or the sparks or what I could have sworn was his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand while we walked to his car. “Mmm. Well in that case, I meant what I said, too.”
He kicks a rock I’m two steps from tripping over out of my path. “You said the potholes in Leslie’s driveway suck.”
I swallow my laughter, loving the disappointment in his voice, and nearly choke on the last bit of my mint. “I also said it’s pretty out here.”
“I remember,” he says. We reach the end of the trail, a secluded place with an ancient, moss-covered log lying on the ground. He gestures to it with the flashlight. “You want to sit?”
Glancing at the log, I realize my brother’s ties to Leslie are the least of my worries right now. I detest moss, which is ironic seeing as how moss and mildew are practically Oregon’s state flowers. And there are probably millions of bugs crawling on that log. Just because I don’t see any doesn’t mean they’re not there.
“It looks like it’s wet,” I lie. “You know, from all the mist and stuff.”
“Oh.” He points the flashlight at the log and peers at it like he’s never seen it before. “You could sit on my sweatshirt, I guess. I’m not cold.”
The flashlight is on the ground at his feet and he’s grabbing the hem of his sweatshirt before I can tell him it’s not a wet spot on my pants I’m worried about, but slimy slugs and giant centipedes. The words die in my throat. Sam’s gray t-shirt bunches up around his shoulders for the five glorious seconds it takes him to tug the sweatshirt off and smooth the thin fabric back down. I’m so stunned by the hint of a tattoo on his shoulder blade, my “skin phobia” forgets to kick in.
“What?”
I rack my brain for any mortifying thoughts that might have slipped out while I drooled over the thought of seeing the rest of that tattoo, but draw a blank. “I didn’t say anything,” I tell him. “Did I?”
“No, but you’re looking at me funny.”
Only because you’re gorgeous. And I really, really want to touch that tattoo. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.” He drapes his sweatshirt over a particularly offensive patch of moss and sits on it. “This okay?”
Eyeing the remaining fabric, I realize there’s only enough sweatshirt left to protect me if I’m halfway on his lap. This is Sam, though. I don’t believe for a second he expects me to curl up in his lap like a purring kitten.
I’d like to, though.
Instead, I gingerly settle on the very edge of his sweatshirt, more balanced on my toes than actually sitting. If something wriggles too close, I’m ready to run like hell.
“If you’d rather we go back to the house, I’ll understand.”
I look at him—well, I try to look at him. I can’t turn enough to see his face with seriously twisting my neck because, if I do, I’ll wind up touching the moss. Still, I know what he’s thinking. The insecurity in his voice says everything.
Never in a billion years would I have expected Sam Donavon to be insecure about anything related to me.
“Oh, no,” I say as soon as I recover from that revelation. “I just don’t like bugs. Or moss, actually. It’s slimy.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Even his fingertips which I’ve been able to feel fiddling with the edge of his sweatshirt by my hip have gone still.
Then he bursts into laughter.
It’s so crazy unexpected that I laugh, too. “Don’t make fun of me!”
“Sorry. You looked pissed off the whole time we were walking, so I was worried you only came out here with me because James ditched you,” he says. “And then when you got uncomfortable about the log…I’m just relieved it’s the bugs you’re scared of and not me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not very scary,” I say, still grinning like a fool. I haven’t smiled this much around someone other than James in…well, forever. “Scary people don’t typically hold hands with the person they’re about to kill in the middle of the forest.”
He laughs again. No matter how many times I’ve heard it tonight, I still can’t get over how the sound makes me feel. Or how chaotic my breathing becomes when he reaches across his lap to hold my hand again.
Neither of us says anything for a long time. It’s a comfortable silence, though. With his warm hand wrapped around mine, it doesn’t take long for my breathing to even out and my nerves to settle. Which is insane, because I’m holding hands with Sam Donavon, but he must feel the same way, because his deep sigh sounds content. Relaxed.
A gritty techno-rock song wafts up to us from further down the hill and mixes offbeat with the swarm of crickets chirping in the ferns. We’re not far from Leslie’s, despite the winding, five minute walk uphill. The lights on her trailer blink through the branches shifting in the light breeze.
“So, you’re a senior now,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, but all I care about is graduating so James and I can get out of here.”
He turns my hand over and traces a line from my palm to the tip of my middle finger and back. “Where are you guys going?”
I barely restrain my shudder when he moves onto my ring finger. “I don’t know, but hopefully far, far away from Granite Falls. James didn’t tell you?”
“No, but—”
Something flutters against my cheek before he can finish, and I nearly jump out of my skin swatting at the air around us. Sam laughs, wraps his arm around my back, and rests his hand on my hip, not-so-subtly pulling me against his side. The same crackling static I felt inside Leslie’s comes back full force, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen in the forest now that he’s so close. So much for being calm.
“What about you?” I manage.
“Not sure,” he says. “I’ve been working nights loading freight for a couple years and took some classes at GFCC, but I’m not getting much out of either. Maybe I’ll follow you guys around for awhile, keep James out of trouble.”
“I’d like that.”
I’d also like him to kiss me. The sleepy way he’s looking down at me feels so intimate. It wouldn’t take anything for him to close the small distance between us, or to reach up and touch my face. He shifts closer, and for a second, I think he’s going to do it.
Before anything happens, he clears his throat and looks up at the night sky. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I have no idea,” he says, chuckling. “You make me nervous.”
I make him nervous? This night couldn’t get more surreal if unicorns tromped across the trail. “Is that why tonight is the first time we’ve talked? We’ve known each other forever, but you’ve never given me the time of day.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Maybe I’ve made his nerves worse.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for years,” he finally says. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the thumping beat now pouring out of Leslie’s. “James isn’t big on the idea of us being friends. On you being friends with anyone, for that matter.”
Friends. The word sits in my gut like a jagged piece of lava rock and I shrug out from under his arm. “If you wanted to be my friend, you could have been.”
“Have you seen what your brother does to people who piss him off?”
Over the years, there have been a few guys who limped into class Monday morning after fighting my brother behind the Armory over the weekend. Stitched up lips, swollen eyes, mottled blue and purple bruises blooming on their cheekbones…James swears up and down they’re only messing around, but somehow I don’t think the other guys felt the same way.
“So, why are you talking to me now?” I ask. “What changed?”
“I don’t know. Just seemed like the right time to make my move.” He bumps shoulders with me, and his crooked smile turns my brain to scrambled eggs.
His move? As in…“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I feel his intense gaze skimming my face and force myself to look him in the eye. This time, when he leans closer, I know what he wants. He traces my jaw with his fingertips, then moves lower to my chin. My eyelids flutter closed when he tips my face up.
Oh my God. Sam Donavon is going to kiss me.
The forest holds its breath.
I hold my breath.
Our lips brush, light as eyelashes. His fingers trail back into my hair, tilting my head. Hot cinnamon dances across my mouth.
I’m drowning.
And then my name, roared at the top of familiar lungs, cracks the silent night.