by Kate Avelynn
Sam curses. “Do you trust me?”
I blink up at him, lost in a lips-swollen-from-kissing haze. “Yes.”
He kisses me once, gently, relief and desperation obvious in his smoky eyes.
When his hands find the hem of my shirt, I turn away. I can’t handle seeing the look on his face as he peels the pale blue material upward, exposing one scar after another, inch by horrifying inch. My flaws. He curses softly each time another is revealed and I feel him wincing, which is bad enough.
“Arch your back,” he says in a pained voice. I do, and the shirt moves past my white cotton bra, and comes off completely in one gentle tug.
For several long moments, neither of us moves or speaks. I keep my head turned to the side, my eyes squeezed shut, and bite my bottom lip against the emotions threatening to escape. I can feel his eyes on my body, feel them lingering on each mark I bear. When he traces the largest scar, the one I got while he and my brother were camping, from my waist to my shoulder with his fingertip, I lose it. Tears, silent and hot, slip down my cheeks onto his soft flannel bedspread.
Rather than say anything, Sam kisses the same path his finger traced in reverse, stopping to nuzzle and kiss the smaller scars he passes along the way. My body is trembling like a rubber-band stretched too tight by the time he reaches my stomach and pauses with his fingers on the button of my jeans, waiting for permission.
Part of me still wants to grab my shirt and run out of his bedroom. The other part wants him to strip my painfully twisted jeans from my legs and throw them onto the floor. I don’t know if I can do it. He seems to be handling the scars he’s already uncovered well enough, but taking off the rest of my clothes—showing him all of me—would be giving away a piece of myself. The last piece I have to give. The only piece I’ve managed to keep safe.
Sam watches me carefully. There’s no impatience in his eyes. No irritation when he realizes my answer—no—is pressing against my closed lips.
He starts to pull away. The warmth of his hand disappears from my skin and I can’t handle the gaping emptiness it leaves behind.
I grab his hand.
That last piece of myself… I want it to belong to him.
“Yes,” I whisper.
I’m pretty sure the scars on my legs aren’t as bad as my chest, so when he peels my jeans away and curses again, I think it’s a good thing. He’s gazing down at me with a mixture of heat, awe, and only a teeny bit of horror. I watch his eyes trace paths along my legs and arms, across my stomach to my chest, and back up to my face. My body flushes with embarrassment.
“I’m too skinny, I know. You don’t have to say it.”
Frowning, he sits back on his heels. “Yeah, but that’s not what I was thinking. Not at all.” He traces my bellybutton with his fingertip. “I was thinking you’re beautiful. I can’t believe I wasted five years caring what your brother thought when I could’ve had this.”
I smile. “Five years ago, I was twelve.”
“Still.” He lets his finger trail lower and I gasp. “Beautiful.”
James is the only person who tells me I’m beautiful. While it feels nice when he says it, he’s my brother and family is supposed to say stuff like that. Hearing it from Sam…it’s like a drug. He’s like a drug. I drag him down to me.
“We should probably slow down,” he blurts out a few minutes later.
We’re stretched across his bed diagonally, legs tangled and bodies glued together. By this point, my bra has joined the pile of clothes on the floor and I’ve gone for the button of Sam’s shorts twice before he’s stolen my ability to focus with one of his deep kisses. I don’t want to slow down. It’s like I’m on the verge of something that doesn’t make sense to me at all, but I really want it to. Desperate, I push him onto his back and touch him through his pants.
When he groans, I know I’m playing with fire. He doesn’t have to say it—the spark in his eyes is hotter than Hell, which is where I’m sure I’m headed after what I’m about to do. With shaking hands, I work the button of his khaki shorts through its buttonhole, and draw down the zipper. His breathing quickens when I slide my hand inside and tentatively touch what I’ve come so close to exposing.
“Oh, shit,” he gasps.
The more I touch him, the more desperate he becomes, until his body trembles like a moth beneath my fingers. And I love every second of it. Feeling reckless and alive and in control of something for the first time in my life, I climb on top of Sam. The stricken look on his face makes me laugh.
“I’ve got condoms,” he says in a strangled voice. Like he’s trying really hard not to lose control. “I swear I didn’t plan this, but if you really want to…”
Do I want to? With every item of clothing we’ve peeled from my body, I’ve shed another part of the life I’m so desperate to forget. I told myself I’d already given Sam the last piece of myself I had to give, but that’s not true. I have another piece. One I’d assumed would be taken from me against my will. “I want you to be my first.”
I expect him to jump me the second the words leave my mouth, but Sam only stares at me. Emotions that I can’t comprehend flash across his face as his fingers trail from my cheek to my neck, then down my side to my hip. Nothing feels rushed. Not even the way he removes the last of our clothes.
Though he goes slow, it still stings more than I expect. He freaks out every time I whimper, and I have to beg him not to stop more than once, but there’s no way to keep my tears from leaking onto his bedspread. How could I possibly explain what I’m feeling? Sam Donavon is taking my virginity, not my father. I want to laugh and cry and run around the room and none of it—not a single emotion—makes any sense to me.
Until fifteen minutes ago, Sam felt like something I’d never be able to hold onto. Like cupping my hands under a faucet and watching the water slip through my fingers. Now, it feels like maybe being with him could be permanent. At least for a little while.
Afterward, Sam pulls me against his chest and smoothes my hair away from my forehead.
“Do you regret it?” he asks, a tinge of worry in his voice.
Listening to the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of his heart, I realize he has no idea what he’s given me. What he’s saved me from. If I get my way, he’ll never know.
“I’m glad it was you,” I tell him.
His shaky smile turns warmer than summer sunshine. This incredibly smart and selfless boy, with his strong arms, enormous heart, and addictive kisses, wants me.
If ever there was something too good to be true, this is it.
Twenty-four
By the time Sam drops me off, I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick. I spent the entire drive home worrying James will take one look at my flushed cheeks from his place across the dinner table and know exactly what I’ve done.
Instead, he spends most of dinner making excuses for why he showed up three hours after I did, with a split lip and a rapidly swelling eye.
“There’s a guy down at the Armory who hasn’t been paying his tab. Leslie asked me to scare him a little, so I did.” He grins, seemingly oblivious to the fact that all this smiling is wreaking havoc on his split lip. A drop of blood falls to the table with a near-silent plop. “You should’ve seen him, Sarah. He must’ve weighed two-seventy-five!”
“You were with Leslie?” I ask from where I’m standing in front of the microwave.
“Yeah, but we didn’t do anything, I swear. I even told her I wasn’t going to her party this weekend.”
The microwave dings. While he wipes the blood off the table with his sleeve, I heap another serving of reheated rice and cream of mushroom chicken onto his plate and carry it to the table. “I’m not mad, James. Unless you took something?”
He shakes his head vehemently, and grabs the plate from my hands. “I’m not taking anything anymore. Promise.”
When he’s done eating, we lapse into easy conversation. Mostly about the new job they’ve put him on at the mill, and my plan to clean out our moth
er’s room before our father drags everything to the dump.
Miraculously, I manage to skirt any mention of what I did that day or what I plan to do the next morning. James doesn’t mention Leslie again until we’re putting away the dishes he just washed. “I won’t go see her again,” he says. “You have to believe me.”
This is obviously really bothering him. My first instinct is to slide an arm around his waist and give him a peck on his swollen cheek, but stop just short of touching him. What if he takes it the wrong way?
James looks from my arm, hovering motionless halfway between us, to my face, his expression drooping. The sadness and regret in his eyes is too much to bear. Sighing, I give him a hug. “I do believe you.”
He rewards me with a dimpled, sparkly-eyed smile that makes me feel slimier than squishy moss inside. No matter what I tell him, he’ll believe me. Worse, I’m already planning all the ways I can use his trust in my favor. Alone time with Sam. A job at the florist shop. Maybe even a night away without him if I play things right.
I’m an awful person.
My guilt doesn’t go away. Not even after an unnervingly calm week around our house.
Now that it’s just the three of us, our father doesn’t come home until eight or nine, by which time James has already eaten all the leftovers. If this pisses our father off, we haven’t heard about it. He’s been hanging out at Smoke Jumpers, regaling the local drunks and tourists passing through town on their way to California with his best Knockout Jimmy stories. They’re probably plying him with an endless supply of beer nuts and buffalo wings to keep him around.
Maybe the ego-stroking is what he’s been craving because, on the rare night he is home, our father is shockingly non-confrontational. I still creep around the house, sticking to the shadows and drawing as little attention to myself as possible, but rather than come after me when I make too much noise or burn part of his dinner, he ignores me completely. We crossed paths in the hallway twice this week—I shrank back against the wall, expecting to be smacked or at least yelled at for breathing his air. He didn’t say a word. Just looked straight through me.
For the first time in our lives, James and I don’t have to rush through dinner. He chats about his day at work while I dish up his food and make up story after story about what I do all day while he eats. The library is my most-used lie—where else could I be getting all these recipes? A piece of my heart dies every time I lie to him, but I can’t bring myself to risk everything I’ve found with Sam by telling the truth.
I should be grateful things have been so quiet, but it’s hard to be grateful when I know why my father’s so happy. Must be nice not having a conscience after killing your wife. Plus, I know him too well. No matter how innocent he’s acting, the other shoe will drop—I don’t know when or how, but it will. It has to. Some small, sick part of me hopes it drops soon. At least with the yelling and hitting I knew what to expect.
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 cart
ons 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.