“I didn’t mean to make it awkward,” I say and wrap my arms around me a little tighter.
“It’s not that. I just . . . it seems like you’re really struggling with this, and even though I don’t really know you, I can’t help but ask why you do this to yourself.”
I look at him askance. “Do what?”
Mike shakes his head. “After what Bethany’s told me, I’d be worried about him being over there too. Why are you putting yourself through that—the worrying, the heartache . . .”
My heart’s already pounding as all my fears boom and shriek inside my head. I dread the answer, but I ask the question anyway. “What did Bethany tell you?” Part of me knows she’s sneaky and she’d probably lie, so I shouldn’t take anything she’s said to heart, but I need to know.
Mike’s eyes widen, and he lifts a shoulder. “Ah, she mentioned he’s a flirt, I guess you could call it, and something that happened between them a while back, probably before you guys were together, but . . . it’s just weird. On top of the fact that he left you.” He pauses a beat. “And I’m getting the impression I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says as he watches my expression change, my features probably twisting into something grotesque. “I assumed you knew and that’s why you and Bethany didn’t like each other—why you were struggling so much—”
“She told you all of that?” I almost can’t breathe, even though I’m sure half of it’s not true. But some of it could be. They could’ve been together before I came into the picture, and that makes me feel sick to my stomach because I hate to imagine him with anyone else, least of all her. If it is true, I doubt Reilly would’ve told me. Why would he? I never asked him about it.
All the images of them flirting come to mind and it all starts clicking into place.
My chest is tight and my cheeks are damp. I sit up in bed and peer around my room. It’s cast in shadows, but I can tell it’s a nearly full moon by how bright it is. I try to focus on something to control my thudding heartbeat.
Scrubbing the remnants of the memories from my face, I take a shaky breath, breathing out everything that feels suddenly raw and exposed. The window’s open, and I can feel the brink of morning against my skin. The air is brisk and smells of damp earth and hay, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the sun comes up.
The alarm clock displays 5:04, almost wake-up time. But given the dreams and the distant echo of what sounded like a hammer long into the night, it feels like I barely got any sleep. Regardless, I refuse to lie in bed waiting for the sun or my alarm, whichever comes first. I need to get out of the house, away from the memories I wish I could forget, the memories that tether me to the past.
Running my fingers through my hair with one hand, I peel the sheets off me with the other. I fling my legs over the side of the bed and let the rug beneath my feet tickle my toes, helping to ground me to the present.
In only boxers and a white tank top, I slip on a pair of pink flip-flops and creep down the stairs. I head quietly out the back door, trying not to let the screen slam shut behind me as I walk toward the stable. The lake will wash the night away. I shiver with anticipation and hurry to Shasta’s paddock, determined to feel it—the wind, the bone-chilling water.
The horizon is glowing in predawn light, the ranch cast in a blue haze. The stable itself is lit only by the faint glow of the night lights buzzing, one at each end of the building. The horses stand in their stalls, mostly unmoving and asleep at first, but they rouse as I hurry by. Their heads pop up, first in concern, then curiosity.
When I reach Shasta’s stall, I slide her door open and squeeze inside with my hand held out for her to scent. She’s no doubt confused by my presence before the sun is even up, but I have little time to ease her into an early morning ride. I brush the backs of my fingers against her velvety nose. “Let’s get some air.”
Her big brown eyes meet mine and for a split second, I think she can sense or hear my desperation. Her head bobs in acquiescence, so I halter her and use the step stool Papa made for me to mount her, foregoing a saddle. Then, with the most energy she’s had all week, we trot—not nearly fast enough—out of the stable and past the chicken coops and break into a run. When I hear barking, my desperation turns to annoyance. I push Shasta to run faster and we devour the hillside, leaving Petey somewhere behind.
The breeze, already warming, hits my face and whips through my hair, and I start to feel lighter. Shasta’s girth expands against my thighs as I grip onto her with each galloping step. It’s here and now, while I’m suspended between flight and life-sucking asphyxiation, that I want to last forever, an existence where everything’s behind me, and all I have are the possibilities of the unknown ahead. But as Shasta slows, it’s clear I can’t outrun my life forever. I guess I already know this; it’s why I’ve found other ways to alleviate some of the pain.
I pull Shasta back to a walk and we circle the lake. The steel-blue, rippling water peeks through the sporadic tree trunks that surround it. The crickets are long gone and the frogs’ croaking calls silence as we walk closer. One splash followed by another makes me smile, and I imagine how the cool water will feel against my flushed skin.
After I tie Shasta’s lead rope loosely around the trunk of a tree, I hike down toward the water. The sky begins to brighten as the first rays of sun crest the surrounding hills. My feet are unsteady as my flip-flops struggle to find even ground, but I barely notice. The water’s calling to me, and I want nothing but to feel its briskness against my skin, to feel alive and buzzing instead of lost and full of unwanted emotions.
When I get to the dock, I kick off my flip-flops, step out of my shorts, and pull my tank top over my head, leaving them in a pile as I step off the dock and onto the muddy shore. The mud and rocks and reeds are squishy between my toes, but I take one assured step and then another until my feet are submerged. Before I know it, I’m covered in chills and knee-deep in the brisk water. The sound of it sloshing around me with each determined step echoes over the lake. I step deeper. And deeper. Then, I dunk my head.
When I resurface for air, my body sings as warm and cool accost my skin, sending another ripple of chills over my naked body. I’m alive for the moment, shed of the night’s—no, my life’s—shames and regrets. Right now, I’m just me, swimming in the lake, awakened and stirred back to life.
I duck under the water again and swim toward the middle of the lake. The water sifts through my fingers with each stroke. Bubbles tickle my skin, and for the first time in months, maybe even years, I am weightless.
A muffled voice booms above the water.
I flail mid-stroke and come up for air. My heart beats wildly, and I’m disoriented as I scan the bank and tree shadows.
A man stands at the water’s edge.
“Careful.”
Reilly. I’m treading, blinking away the water in my eyes as I try to collect myself. “What the hell are you—”
Something tangles around my left arm, and it’s all I can do to stay afloat in my surprise. Fishing line. “Shit,” I hiss and try to extricate myself, but it’s moving around my limbs. I can’t touch the bottom here, and I can feel it coiling and tightening as I try to move. The potential horrors of death by ensnared line and the hook tearing into my skin and me drowning all flash in my mind, and I panic. I pull at the line as it wraps around my arm and one of my legs, but it only tightens more. “God dammit—”
“Easy,” Reilly says softly. I vaguely hear him over my splashing. The line slackens, but it’s still wrapped around me. “Take it easy. You’re fine.” His voice gets louder as he draws closer, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s beside me, submerged in water. One of his arms is wrapped around me, holding me up and loosening the line around my arm; the other he uses to unwind it.
The warmth of his body pressed against mine is unexpected, but has a calming, welcoming effect. His jacket floats around us, the fabric grazing over my breasts. I freeze, remembering that I’m utterly naked against h
im.
He must feel my body tense, because he offers me a whispered reassurance. The brisk water suddenly burns like a hot spring, and I want to melt when Reilly touches the back of my arm . . . my back . . . my wrists.
As he brings me closer to shore so I can stand, barking ensues again and I’m stirred from the wormhole of my imagination. Realizing I’m untangled, I jerk away from Reilly and step back into the water, submerging myself.
Reilly frowns, dripping wet, his breathing labored. He ignores the dog running toward us and steps closer. “Are you okay?” he asks. Concern creases his brow, and I feel a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude.
I rub my wrist where it stings. “Yeah,” I say a little breathily. “Thank you.” I wonder if my cheeks are flushing as much as they should be at the thought of my body’s response to his. It’s been a couple years since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but the remnants of his touch feel like more than a purely physical reaction to his proximity; the question of what that “more” is petrifies me.
Just lingering memories.
I wrap my arms around my chest and step further back into the water, putting more distance between us. “What are you doing out here?” I ask, completely unsure what the proper etiquette is after someone saves you—while you’re naked.
Water drips from Reilly’s nose and the scruff around his jaw. He looks so different, but so much the same, it makes my heart hurt with wishes and regrets. His chest is still heaving a little when he points to his fishing pole.
“Oh, yeah, right.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself, feeling more nauseous and naked by the second, and the dog’s sporadic barking as he comes up to the water’s edge makes it difficult to concentrate.
“Quiet,” Reilly says with more authority than I ever could, and the dog seems to listen to him for a moment.
But after a few more seconds and another barking fit, I can’t take the awkwardness anymore. I start swimming back toward the dock on my side of the lake.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Reilly calls.
I wave him away between breaststrokes. “Yes, fine, thanks!”
He says something else, but I’m swimming too hard, so fast I barely hear him above the water splashing with each urgent stroke.
When I reach the shore, I sink my feet into the mud and hurry up the bank, covering my chest as much as I can as I scale the rickety steps of the dock. I can hear Reilly trying to get Petey under control, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dog’s presence.
Shaking, I yank my shirt over my head, fumbling to dress myself while I’m wet and still partially in shock. My boxers cling to my legs as I try to shimmy them on, and I groan, impatient.
Finally, I straighten and spare a glimpse in Reilly’s direction. His back is turned and he’s crouched down, holding onto Petey.
I hurry over to Shasta.
“Ah, what about your dog?” he calls.
“His name’s Petey. Keep him, he’s yours anyway,” I call back, and then I’m on Shasta’s back and I can’t get her to run away fast enough.
Nine
Reilly
The sound of heavy hoof steps quickly fades as Sam’s horse races away. And here I am, soaking wet, still standing in partial shock at what just happened, with a mangy, stocky dog panting beside me. I lean over and pull a bur from his coat. He’s covered in cattails, too. “Great.”
I straighten and sigh. “Well, that was exciting,” I say, shaking my head. The dog, “Petey,” takes a break from panting and tilts his head, perking his ears up like he knows what I’m saying.
My dog, huh? Great. One more addition to the list of things to take care of while I’m back—and to figure out what to do with when I leave. What the hell was my dad doing with a dog?
Petey barks as he stands, and his tail starts to wag again.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?” I turn to head back toward the house. “Come on,” I say. When he doesn’t listen, I pick up a small, dead oak branch and toss it in the direction of home. Petey runs after it, allowing me a moment to think.
I glance back at the matted grass I’d fallen asleep on until I heard Sam in the water, and a thought crosses my mind. I wonder if I’d secretly wished I’d catch a glimpse of her by coming down here—knowing she spends so much time at the lake, or at least that she used to—or if I simply had needed to get out of that unwelcoming, quiet house, like I’d told myself.
So far, my run-ins with Sam have left me questioning a lot of things I’d hoped were left in the past. The plan was to ignore everything that happened between us and just get through this month with my head still on straight, but Sam’s hesitation and distance around me is so foreign and strange it’s almost like we were never together at all. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking.
I wish, more than anything, that everything about being home didn’t remind me of her—the truck, my friends, my house and the arguments I’d escaped from to be comforted by her.
Kicking a rock into the water, I let out another deep breath, wishing it would cleanse the bubbling, unwelcome thoughts from my mind that I can’t simply huff away. Part of me wishes we could just go back to before, the first night things began to change and my life got a lot more complicated.
* * *
Five Years Ago
I pull my beat-up Chevy, recently purchased from Cal’s auto shop, into the gravel drive and curse inwardly when I see the old man’s El Camino parked out front. “Great,” I mumble and grab my bag from the passenger seat. Although I hope he’s passed out in his chair with the news blaring so loud it will drown out any noise I might make, I know I’m not that lucky.
It doesn’t matter that baseball practice ran late, and as MVP I was asked to stay and help Ackerman with his pitch. The old man wanted me home right after school, like always, even though he never had a good reason other than to make me more miserable.
The driver’s side door groans open as I step down from the truck, the frame creaking without my weight. At least I have something of my own, finally. Although the Chevy barely runs now, it’s perfect for my senior project—learning how to rebuild something of my own from the ground up that can take me far away from this place. I heave my gear bag over my shoulder and head toward the house. Nick offered for me to stay at his place tonight, knowing the old man wouldn’t be happy I was getting home so late, but I made up an excuse about needing some stuff at home, not wanting to be his problem.
Removing my ball cap, I scratch my head, take in a deep breath, and brace myself for the inevitable. When I open the door, I find him passed out in his chair, and I let out a ragged exhale. Good. I’m too sore and exhausted to deal with him tonight. And by the looks of the mostly empty twelve-pack on the floor beside his chair, he wouldn’t have been much company.
Keeping my eyes down, I head for my room. The last thing I want is to look up at the dark shambles I live in, another reminder of how badly I need to get out of this hellhole. Six months . . . I’ll be eighteen in six months . . .
The floor creaks beneath me as I step into the hallway to my room.
“Look who decided to grace me with his presence.” The old man’s voice is gravelly behind me, and he clears his throat.
I stop mid-step but don’t turn around. “Practice ran late,” I say, my voice flat. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”
“It’s always one excuse or the other,” he grumbles.
I hear his chair squeak as he shifts, and I turn around to face him. “You want me to go to college, don’t you?” I bite out. “You want me out of your hair?” I know I should just ignore him and head into my room, but his unearned anger is too much tonight. I’m tired—of him, of this. “Baseball is the only way any of that is happening.”
“Watch it,” he growls.
I roll my eyes and head toward my room. “Whatever.”
“Hey! Get your ass back out here . . .” I hear the springs and clinks of the recliner ottoman closing, soon followed by his footsteps, barr
eling toward me, but I don’t care. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me, only to have it shudder back open, the old man’s wobbling figure in the doorway. His unshaven face is pinned in an ever-present snarl. “Who do you think you’re talking to, boy?” He looks haggard, his skin shining and sallow, almost sickly as he grips the doorframe. I’m not sure if he’s trying to steady himself or the anger that gleams in his eyes. “Who do you think puts food on the table, puts this roof over your ungrateful head? You’ll speak to me with some respect.”
“Okay,” I say automatically and unload my bag onto the bed. We’ve had this conversation so many times I allow my mind to wander. I need to finish my homework if I’m going to keep a C in Mr. Marco’s class . . . and I need to do a load of laundry.
“You even listenin’ to me?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” I turn around to face him. “I said okay.” I watch the old man a moment as he tries to steady himself. He’s not wasted, otherwise he’d still be in his chair; he’s in that in-between stage that makes him confrontational and unrelenting. “Why don’t you finish watching the news and have another beer,” I mutter. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
“I told you to mind your tone!” He takes a step further into my room.
“I would if you’d just leave me alone!” I shout, and my heart is suddenly thudding in my chest and roaring in my ears. I just want him to disappear. I want him to disappear and let me live my life in peace, for once. “What the hell do you want from me? To be here? Not be here? To talk to you or leave you alone?”
He snarls and takes a step closer. “You’ll speak to me with some goddamn respect.” His jaw clenches and shifts, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. “You’re walking on thin ice, boy.” His eyes shift over me, head to toe, like he’s sizing me up.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 9