Ryker
The rest of the week passes by in a blur. A minister said a blessing over the ashes of Justine’s parents, even though she said she didn’t need to hear it. Someday, I hope she’ll be thankful she had the closure. We went to all our classes, and I took notes when Justine would space out, her fingers stilling on her keyboard.
She needed to get away, and because figuring out what Justine needs and giving it to her has become one of the most important purposes I’ve had in my life, I decide to take her away from everything.
She looks out the window of my dad’s truck as we drive up into the hills, lost in her head. This weekend is about getting her out of her head and back to the land of the living. She’s had it rough, and I want to give her easy. I want to give her peace.
I turn down an unmarked drive and Justine still says nothing. I wonder what she’s going to say when she sees my family’s summer cottage. To me, it’s fancier than some, less fancy than others, but Justine has made it clear that my childhood and hers were light years apart.
When she drops her hand from the window and sits up straighter as the house comes into view, I try to see it through her eyes. The white clapboard house with a giant front porch sits at an angle on the lot, facing the river that flows by below. A large covered wooden deck sits at the edge of the bluff, marking the top of the stairs that lead down to the water.
I pull to a stop in front of the house.
“This is your cottage?” A tinge of awe colors her words.
“My great-grandfather built it, and it’s been handed down to each generation. Someday, it’ll get passed down to me.”
So many of my best memories were made here, and I want to give those kinds of memories to Justine.
“Come on, let’s get inside and get the place warmed up. I can impress you with my manly fire-building skills.”
We both climb out of the truck, grab a few bags—our clothes and the groceries we picked up before we left—and I lead the way up to the front door and unlock it.
The tour of the inside doesn’t take too long, but Justine stays quiet through most of it. It’s that quiet I brought her here to fix. I want the real Justine back. The one full of life and fire. The one who didn’t hesitate to tell me to go to hell. We’ve got two nights and two full days before we have to go back to the real world, and I’m hoping it’s enough time for her to find that girl again.
We end our tour in the kitchen, and I pull two bottles out of the six-packs we brought in. Popping the tops on both, I hand the cider to her. “Do you want to put away the groceries, and I’ll get the hot water and furnace going?”
She sips her cider and nods. “Yeah, divide and conquer. Sounds good.”
I lean in to press a quick kiss to her lips when she lowers the cider. “I’m glad we’re here. We needed this. Just you and me.”
Her smile isn’t bright and brilliant yet, but it’s still a smile nonetheless. “I’m glad we’re here too. Now, go do manly things.”
When I return to the kitchen twenty minutes later, I find it empty. The grocery bags are gone, and so is Justine.
With the winter shutters down over the windows, I can’t see a damn thing out the front side of the house. From the side windows in the kitchen, the car is visible, but she’s not out there either.
I head out of the kitchen, through the porch to the screen door, and down the front steps. A large gazebo-like roof covers the deck that sits at the top of the bluff before the stairs heading down to the river. The furniture has all been stored in the garage for the season, but the built-in benches are still there.
That’s where I find Justine. Curled up, a blanket from the sofa inside wrapped around her shoulders, tears streaming down her face.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
She doesn’t even notice my presence until I speak. Her head turns toward the river, and one hand comes up to swipe away the tears.
A crumple of plastic draws my attention. The blanket falls from her shoulder at her movement, and I catch a glimpse of a bag of marshmallows clutched to her chest.
“Sorry. I’m—”
“Shh.” I don’t let her finish. Instead, I sit behind her on the bench and lift her onto my lap before closing my arms around her, the blanket, and the marshmallows. “It’s okay.”
She turns sideways, curling into my body, and I squeeze her tighter. I don’t ask for an explanation, but I know I’ll get one if she wants to share.
“I didn’t know you grabbed these at the store.”
“You were getting orange juice, so I thought we could make s’mores. It’s a little too cold out here for a campfire, but you can make just as good ones inside over the fire.”
“Do you know that I’ve made s’mores once in my life? The only time I’ve ever been ‘camping.’” She uses her fingers like quotation marks around the word camping.
“How old were you?”
She curls closer to my chest and I tighten my grip around her shoulders, as though my strength can be transferred to her.
“Seven.”
“What happened?” I don’t want to push, but I have a feeling she needs to get this out.
“I thought it was an adventure. We packed up the car with a tent and sleeping bags and everything, and headed out to the campground. My mom made my dad stop at a store to get hot dogs and marshmallows and all the stuff. Everything about that night seemed magical. My dad didn’t have a swearing fit when he put up the tent. My mom didn’t yell at me for sneaking chips out of the bag before we ate. My dad rounded up firewood and long sticks so we could cook over the fire, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”
A tear slips down her face, and I wipe it away. I suspect the part of the story I probably don’t want to hear is coming next.
“And?”
“And then we were about to make s’mores. I’ve got my stick and my marshmallows ready, and the chocolate and graham crackers are out. I had my marshmallow up over the perfect spot because I wanted it to be golden brown and delicious . . . that’s when they started arguing. My parents must have cracked open some booze or something. I remember my dad yelling that it was her fault this time. Couldn’t she have been nicer to the landlord to buy more time? I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. We were homeless. It wasn’t a camping trip. S’mores weren’t a treat. They were something to keep me occupied because we had nowhere else to go.”
I can’t imagine being seven years old and knowing you were homeless. Growing up with that kind of knowledge would change everything.
“How many times did you have to move as a kid?” I can’t help but ask the question. I want to understand.
“Before I finally moved in with Gramps? Dozens. I lost track. We’d be one place for a few months before getting evicted or my parents packing up fast and moving us somewhere.”
This is the part I still don’t have a grip on. “What did your parents do?”
Justine is quiet for several moments. “They were scam artists. They ran cons. Petty theft. Worked odd jobs when there was nothing else available.” She finally turns to meet my eyes. “They weren’t good people. And I feel like I’m just like them.”
I release my hold on her in favor of cupping her jaw with both hands so I can keep her gaze on mine. “You are not fucking like them. Nothing like them.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t even think it. You’re not like them.”
She swallows. “All I wanted when I was growing up was to be normal. I wanted a normal family. A normal house. A normal existence. I wanted parents who tucked me into bed, read me stories, and told me they loved me. Why couldn’t I have that? Like you did.”
I press a kiss to her forehead before lowering my hands to wrap my arms around her once more and crush her to my chest. “Baby, no one’s family is perfect. Even the ones who seem normal and tuck their kids into bed and read them stories. There’s no such thing as normal. And for the record, you became an amazing woman in spite of everything. You’re smart, strong, resilient, resourceful, and fucking mind-blowing. The fact that you’re all those things should prove to you that you didn’t need normal. They didn’t do you any favors, but they gave you a gift—just look at how much you’ve accomplished. You’re the most capable, intelligent, and incredible woman I’ve ever met. That’s why I wouldn’t give up asking you out. I knew you were everything I could ever want.”
The tears that fall from her eyes now are happy ones. “I thought you just wanted a piece of ass.” The words come out on a laugh.
I shake my head. “I told you, since that day you opened your mouth in Torts class, I knew you were a hell of a lot more than a great rack and perfect ass. I wasn’t going to stop until you were mine. Now I’m the luckiest fucking guy in the world because you are.”
She leans forward, her tears wetting my cheeks as she presses her lips to mine before drawing back an inch. “Can we agree that we’re both lucky?”
“Definitely.” I smooth the hair back from her face as her stomach growls. “Now, it’s time to feed my woman.”
She nods. “That too.”
I lift her up and carry her to the house, determined that this weekend will be the beginning of all good memories. She deserves it, and I’m going to work like hell to give it to her.