by Casey Winter
My mind was already spinning from what just happened—so many people, so much emotion—but now I feel like it’s going to twirl right off into la-la land. What does he mean, Mom killed Evelyn?
What the hell is he talking about?
“You evil man,” Mom explodes, throwing herself forward. I jump out instinctively, wrapping my arm around her, hugging her close. She yells in Spanish, “Little dog. Pathetic little worm. I didn’t kill her and you know it. You liar. You beast.”
“Mom,” I whisper in Spanish. “He’s just drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Dad, what the hell are you blabbing about?” Luke growls. “Mom’s car slipped on an icy road. Everybody knows that.”
“Just what I said,” Russel yells. “Teresa killed your mother and here you are, fraternizing with her daughter. It’s a disgrace, Luke. Jock was right about that. Hannah is just the same as her mother. They’re both evil, conniving—”
“Don’t say a goddamn thing about Hannah, old man,” Luke snarls. “Not one word.”
“Luke, I can talk for myself,” I snap, trying to stop Mom from leaping at Russel. “Stop thinking I need a knight in shining armor all the time.”
I don’t even mean this, but right now, with Mom like a miniature tornado, and all the craziness of the past few minutes making the room knife-butter tense, I just find myself exploding.
“I want to leave,” Mom declares. “Changuito, I want to get out of this horrible place.”
“That’s it, run away from the truth.” Russel sneers. “Just like you always do.”
Mom marches for the door. I follow, looking back just once.
Luke and I meet eyes for a moment. I feel like something—no, everything—has just changed irrevocably. He looks like he’s annoyed with me for snapping at him. His lips are a firm, inscrutable line. His fists are no longer clenched. He looks calm. No, not calm. He looks frozen.
Tell me to stay. Fight for me.
But then I’m out of the door with Mom, followed by Russel Nelson’s cruel laughter. Mom moves quicker than she has since the cancer struck, pacing toward the road so fast I have to jog to catch up with her. She stares at the ground, her arms wrapped around herself as though expecting attacks from every direction.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she whispers when we’ve been walking through the trees for a little while. Her voice carries far in the quiet. “I didn’t … I was allowed to have them on. There was an investigation. The sheriff told me it wasn’t my fault. I was allowed to have them on.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” I whisper, part of my mind still on that dead look in Luke’s eyes.
What did it mean? Is he taking his father’s side? Is this the jolt that’s going to finally wake us up from this dream we’ve been living in?
Mom looks at me with tears in her eyes. I immediately wrap my arm around her, hugging her. “My high-beams,” she mutters. “That night Evelyn died, it was icy, it was cold and miserable and … and I was driving down the road with my high-beams on. Because it was foggy, too. I forgot to mention that. It was just awful. Evelyn was coming the other way and then I heard this horrible screech, little monkey. It was just … ah. It was evil, that screeching noise.
“I got out of the car and I ran to her and I called the police, and I waited there with her. But when Russel found out that I’d had my high-beams on, he stormed over to our house and slammed on the door and roared at me. He said it was my fault. Even when the sheriff told him it wasn’t, that I was well within my rights to have my high-beams on, even when they said it wasn’t the lights that caused the crash … he wouldn’t listen.”
She stops walking, shoulders slumped.
It’s difficult to take this information in. It just won’t fit. All this time, I had this image of Evelyn just sliding off the road, a lonely ghostly figure in my mind. But Mom was there …
And she blames herself.
Mom was with Evelyn when she died. That’s good, if nothing else about this is. At least she wasn’t alone.
“Mom, it’s not your fault,” I say firmly. “Sheriff Fuller is good at his job. He has a solid sense of right and wrong. If he says you’re innocent, you’re innocent.”
“Not just him,” Mom croaks, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Separate investigators from Lorham, too, since the crash happened on the road between the towns.”
“So he’s just looking for somebody to blame,” I say.
So this is why they hate each other. It’s not all about me and Noah and Luke and the past. Luke and I were right when we speculated there could be another reason. Suddenly, all the bitterness that comes into Mom’s voice when she talks about that family, not just Luke, makes sense, not that it makes it any easier to digest.
“Are you listening to me, Mom?” I go on, wrapping her tightly in my arms. I kiss her on the cheek, tasting the salt of her tears. “He just needs to lash out. It’s not about you.”
“I’m so tired,” Mom says quietly. “I just want to sleep.”
“I’m not surprised,” I whisper. “All this stress can’t be good for you. What if I call Alejandra and have her come pick us up? We can wait here.”
She nods, and we walk to the edge of the path, Mom sitting on a tree stump as I squat on the ground. Alejandra, of course, agrees to come and get us right away when she hears what’s happened.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this, Mom?” I ask once I’ve made the call, returning to her. “It’s been five years. You didn’t need to suffer alone.”
She smiles sadly at me, running a hand over her oak-colored bandana. “This town, that family, I thought they’d done you enough damage.”
I sigh. “I guess that makes sense.”
We wait in silence and I try not to look toward Sheriff Fuller’s house, try not to imagine Luke driving up in his Chevy and climbing out, his face serious, maybe tears in his eyes. I try not to imagine him striding across the forest and securing me in his embrace, whispering that he’s sorry, maybe telling me he loves me, maybe telling me he wants to be with me despite the obstacles. I try not to think about the way we’d kiss, sweet but passionate, and how everything would make sense when the kiss ended.
I try.
And I fail.
Chapter Twenty-One
Luke
I feel like I’ve just taken a sledgehammer to the chest, finding it difficult to breathe properly. I wanted to go after Hannah and make sure she was okay. But, at the same time, I need to figure out just what my old man is talking about. As another fight plays on the TV inside, Dad, Coach, and I sit on the back porch, Dad sipping from a mug of black coffee Coach basically forced on him to sober him up.
We’re silent for a while, just looking at Queenie’s well-tended garden. Anger still moves through me in vicious waves, but mostly it’s been replaced by confusion.
When Hannah snapped at me, it stung. It stung like a knife wound. I should have gone after her. But I didn’t.
And I still care about her.
Confusion whirls with the anger, joining to make some twisted half-breed hate-love abomination.
“What did you mean, old man?” I ask, sipping on my own coffee.
Dad’s drunker than I’ve ever seen him. I guess he was drinking with his Army buddies all day, and then he just came here and kept drinking. His eyes are red. Capillaries zigzag like red netting across the side of his face. He glances at me, as if he’s only now realizing I’m here. Scratching at his scar, he says, “She killed your mother, Luke.”
“Russel, we’ve talked about this,” Coach murmurs.
“Will somebody explain what’s going on?” I snap.
Coach sighs, and then explains it. The more he talks, the more certain I am that this must be one of my messed up dreams, the truly horrifying ones I haven’t had for a week now, not since Hannah and I have become properly close.
Teresa saw Mom die.
Teresa had her high-beams on.
She was with her at the en
d.
“But if Coach and those investigators said it wasn’t her fault,” I say, processing it all slowly. “Then it wasn’t her fault, Dad.”
At least I know why Dad and Teresa hate each other so much now. I thought it was all about me and Hannah and Noah. But no, they have their own wounds.
Dad snorts. “Maybe not by the letter of the law, but who’s to say if those lights weren’t blinding her, your mother wouldn’t still be here?”
“Can’t live like that, old man,” I grunt. “We live by the law. And the law says Teresa isn’t guilty. And from what I hear, visibility was terrible that day. What’d those high-beams look like in a fog like that? Two dim glowing circles, nothing else. You’re blaming somebody who doesn’t deserve it.”
“He’s right,” Coach says quietly. He looks tired. “Teresa didn’t deserve that, Russel.”
“What?” Dad snaps. “And Evelyn did? She was the best woman I’ve ever met. She was … she was a star, you hear me? You can call me a pansy if you want. But she was my shining star and I loved her more than life.”
“Nobody’s calling you a pansy, old man,” I say. “You’re drunk. And you’re right. Mom was a star. But that doesn’t mean Teresa’s to blame.”
“Of course you’re defending her,” Dad barks. “You’re with Hannah.”
“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly. “I am.”
“How can you do that to Noah—”
“Noah’s gone,” I snarl, slamming my fist on the table, causing our mugs to leap up and settle loudly. “And they hadn’t even seen each other for ten goddamn years. And things aren’t as simple as everybody in this town makes them out to be. There are things I can’t tell you, because it’d be disrespectful, but let me just say this: Hannah is a good person. And I—”
“What, Luke?” Dad hisses, voice slurred. “You what?”
I love her.
I push that impulse down in confusion. It’s been, what, a month? Is it possible to fall in love so quickly? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never even come close.
“I care about her,” I finish.
Inside the house, people cheer. Somebody bangs their foot on the floor. Somewhere in the forest, a coyote yips, high-pitched and distant.
“Well, good for you,” Dad grumbles after a pause. “Call me a cab, will you? I want to get the hell out of here.”
“I’ll drive you home, Russel,” Coach says. “Come on. It’s no bother. Or, Luke, you can drive him home if you don’t feel like hanging around?”
I shake my head. “Think I’ll get a motel for the night,” I mutter.
Dad nods shortly. “I think that’d be for the best.”
I wait for them to leave and then swig the rest of my black coffee, scalding my throat and tongue. I take a moment to wonder if Dad will ever get over Mom’s death. Part of me feels sorry for him, even as another part of me hates him for the way he spoke to Hannah and Teresa. Teresa didn’t deserve that, not even close. I sigh, closing my eyes for a second, trying to center myself.
When that fails, I text Hannah, How are you getting home? Do you need me to come and pick you up? Xoxo
A moment later, she texts back, Lift with Alejandra. Thanks anyway.
I cringe when I notice how terse the text is, and the fact that she didn’t put any kisses. That sort of thing used to seem ridiculous to me. Who cares if she puts a few xs at the end of her text? But, these days, it seems to signify a lot, mostly because she puts importance in text-kisses, and I know that by not sending them, she’s sending me a secret message: I’m mad you didn’t fight for me. Leave me alone. We’re over.
Sighing heavily, I pocket my phone, stand up, and then walk around the side of the house and out to my car so I don’t have to see anybody. I still can’t believe that all of this has actually happened.
I sit behind the wheel, starting the engine. Not even the comforting purr of the Chevy can calm me as I drive through the forest, heading for the outskirts of town to the Luxury Inn. It’s nowhere near as nice as the suite, but that was for Hannah, anyway. This’ll be good enough for me. I’ve stayed in much, much worse.
When I check in, I go straight to my room and collapse on the bed. I don’t have any clothes except the ones on my back, but I have my debit and my credit cards.
If I had a mind to, I could just disappear from this town, disappear from this country, if I wanted. I’ve got the knowledge, connections, and money to set myself up anywhere in the world. I could move to Mexico or Italy or, hell, England or Canada or Australia if I felt too lazy to learn another language. But then I managed to function well enough in Mexico without knowing any Spanish. That was fighting, though, and all of my contacts spoke English.
I try to picture myself in London or Rome, a lone wanderer, a faceless mask in the crowd. But every time I close my eyes, I see Hannah there with me.
We’re standing under Big Ben together, Hannah coaxing me into a selfie. Or we’re walking around the Coliseum, hand in hand, oohing and ahhing over the history and how grand the place is.
I leap to my feet and immediately spring into a workout, usually my cure-all solution for everything. But even as I pump the push-ups, and then clap them, and then clap and leap off the floor with my feet, I still feel exposed, vulnerable.
Changed.
Maybe that most of all.
I feel like a different man to the one who worked out in that other motel room back in June. Hannah has opened up doors in me I didn’t know existed and now that everything’s gone tits up, I find I don’t want to close them. I want to throw more open. I want to be with her.
And yet …
It scares the shit outta me.
It scares me for all the usual reasons. I need to stay hard, cold, or that messed up SEAL mission might break me in half and destroy me. I might relive it, again and again, every moment for the rest of my life.
I might feel, and, in feeling, I might discover that I can’t take it. Love might kill me, that’s the goddamn truth. But something else scares me more, because being with Hannah has made me realize that I can rely on her, that, instead of shattering me, she might actually fix me.
I might lose her and go back to the way I was before.
I flinch when my cellphone buzzes from the bedside table. “Hey,” Hannah says quietly, when I answer. It sounds like she’s been crying. Her tone tugs achingly at something deeply buried in my chest. “Can you meet me? I think we need to talk, Luke.”
“Why so serious, twinkle toes?” I laugh, trying for a joke. But my laugh sounds hollow. And the joke, if there was one, falls flat. “I can come over,” I say into the silence, a moment later. “When’s good for you?”
“Now? Whenever. I really don’t mind. But I’d prefer it if we met somewhere else, if that’s cool. Memorial Park work for you?”
“Sure,” I say, voice grave. I don’t like the sound of this. “I can be there in half an hour.”
“Okay, see you then.”
She hangs up, no goodbye.
—
I go out to my Chevy with a pit in my stomach, knowing what she wants to talk about, wondering how I’m going to respond.
It’s madness, how much things can change in just a few hours. We drove to Coach’s house closer than we’ve ever been and now I feel like we’re further apart than when I came to Little Fall and she was just the girl next door, the girl I could never, in a million years, develop feelings for.
When I get to Memorial Park, Hannah isn’t there. I sit down on the bench and just stare at the statue of one-eyed William Jackson Henry. I wonder if things were simpler in his day, if folks just fell in love and got on with it. Or, maybe, if love is a new idea and never came into the equation for people like him. If it was just about survival.
“Luke,” she whispers.
I look up to find her standing there in her skates, windswept and red-faced. She drops down next to me, but makes a point of keeping a painful distance between us, sighing quietly.
“Felt like travelling in style, eh?” I try and tease.
She just sighs again. “My car’s at the rink,” she mutters, running a hand through her taut-tied ponytail. “But I thought a skate might help, anyway. How messed up is this, Luke? How nuclear-grade warped is this?”
“Very,” I say.
“At least we know why they hate each other now, right? At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.” She won’t look at me. It’s very noticeable that she won’t even look at me. “I think … well, I guess we both knew it might come to something like this, right?”
Something like what?
I feel sick. Frigid rage stabs at me, but I don’t have the heart to fully summon it. I deflate.
She glances at me, but not really. It’s more like she looks past me, and then back down at her skates. “We always knew this couldn’t work. We said as much. How many times did we say it? At the beginning, we knew, we both knew it couldn’t ever really work. With Noah, well, that was one thing. Maybe we could get over that. But with this, too? This is … Jesus, Luke, it’s like the universe doesn’t want us to be together.”
I’ve never been in this position before. I feel blindsided. I grip the bench so hard it’s a miracle I don’t snap the wood. Suddenly, I’m crazily pissed at Jackson’s statue, wanting to topple it so he stops staring at us. I’m going insane.
“I think—maybe—I don’t know …” She chokes, trying to hold back tears. “Maybe we should just draw a line under this whole thing? I’m not saying I don’t care about you. But it’s just so fricking complicated.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask gruffly.
She flinches, probably shocked at my tone. But I have to be gruff or … or I might roar, or beat my chest like a damn animal, or howl into the night like a wolf. Or cry. Maybe I’d even cry like a coward. What has happened to me? Is this what love is?