By the time I make it into the house, my ankle aches, but it’s not unbearable. I leave Reilly’s thistle- and sticker-covered slippers on the porch, outside the back door. I’m sure it’s encroaching on eight o’clock, and Alison is probably awake. She’ll most likely be upset that I didn’t call her, but then she might not even realize I never came home. Regardless, nothing is going to ruin my euphoric high right now, not even her.
Flushed and slightly out of breath, I quietly open the screen door and step into the kitchen. Alison’s in her robe, standing in front of the coffeepot, pouring herself a cup of joe when the screen shuts behind me. She doesn’t even look back at me.
I set my heels on the floor with the other shoes. I know Alison’s in a bad mood if she’s not even acknowledging me.
I clear my throat and brace myself. “Morning—”
I stop when she steps to the side, revealing three very distinct, sharp objects that sit on the counter next to the coffeepot. My stomach lurches and ice fills my veins. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed or horrified. Either way, I’m frozen.
“Morning, Sam.”
I look at her, watching as she sets her stirring spoon on the counter. I’m processing—waiting. She has dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept, and my mind races a million miles a second, round and round with questions and anger and shame.
Does she know what they are? How could she possibly? And why the hell does she even have them?
Her expression’s unreadable. “I didn’t know where you were. I was worried.” She says it like she really cares, and my defenses rise with each drawn-out second.
“What are those for?” I ask, staring at the pile she clearly laid out for me to see.
“I found them in your room,” she says and shifts on her feet.
I’m shaking. “What the hell were you doing in my room?” My fingers clench around my clutch. I have to bite back the bile rising in my throat.
Alison’s soft features narrow, and she sets her coffee cup down on the counter. “I don’t need permission to go into your room, Sam. This is my house—”
“You have never cared what I do or what’s in my room. Now you’re snooping?”
“No,” she says tightly. “I was worried and tried to call your cell but you didn’t answer. I thought maybe you left it here on accident, so I went up to your room to check.” Her voice is rushed, anxious.
“So you searched through my drawers?” I shake my head. “You’re such a liar.”
Alison takes an angry step forward. “No, I saw bloodied tissues in your garbage, just like I saw the blood dripping down the outside of your thigh the other day when you walked out of the bathroom. Just like I saw the way you were looking at that broken glass in your hand a few weeks ago . . . there are plenty of instances. Would you like me to continue naming them?”
All I can do is shake my head. “This is unbelievable.” How does she think she has any right to talk to me about anything?
“Why do you have a piece of a metal hanger in your desk drawer, Sam? Why do you have a knife and a—”
“Why do you even care? You’ve never cared about anything I do, and now all of a sudden you’re what, trying to save me?” My heart’s racing. “You find a bunch of random crap in my bedroom—so what? It doesn’t mean I cut myself.” Her eyes widen and I know I’ve only cemented the truth in her mind. If she didn’t know what they were for before, she does now. “Mind your own business!”
I storm past her.
“You’re not in trouble, I’m just . . . I’m worried about you, Sam. Please don’t make this into something it’s not. I wasn’t trying to snoop.” She grabs my arm. “Samantha!”
I stop dead in my tracks, bite my tongue, and will myself to breathe out the coiling anger I’m afraid will cause me to do something stupid.
Alison’s gaze darts from my forearm to my face and her grip loosens, though she doesn’t let go of me.
“What? What the hell do you want from me?” I seethe.
“Look,” she says softly. “I know you don’t want to talk about it with me, and that’s fine, but there’s a therapist in town. Her name is—”
I can’t help but laugh, a wicked, brittle sound that makes Alison wince. “A therapist? I’ve been trying to get us to go to a therapist this whole time.”
“This is different, Sam. This is about you.”
I tear my arm out of her hold. “Really? You don’t think this”—I point to my head and then to my hip—“has anything to do with you?”
Alison straightens.
“You think I do this for fun—”
“Of course no—”
“—that I’m not completely miserable because of you?”
“You’re miserable? You took him away from me!” Alison screeches as her palm collides with the side of my face, leaving an intensifying sting as I realize what’s happened.
I bring my hand to my cheek and feel the color drain from my face. All I can do is stare back at her; a thousand emotions I didn’t know Alison had are housed in her eyes as they study my face. My shock is reflected in her expression.
Both of our chests heave, we stand there in astonishment—horror—until Alison blinks and reaches for me. “I shouldn’t have done that, Sam. I’m—”
“It’s fine,” I say. I walk out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room. Alison doesn’t bother to follow me.
I quietly shut the door and toss my clutch onto my bed. My mind is numb and the fiery need for physical pain cries so loud I don’t know if I can deny it. It’s a gnawing, thirsty sensation that has only one reprieve—release.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring into my closet, its contents in disarray from last night’s dress-up session. I eye my robe, or rather the metal hanger it’s draped on, glinting and taunting me. I consider the relief one unrelenting drag against my skin will bring me.
Without another second’s thought, I’m up, taking one step—two—and reaching for it. I tear the robe off, tossing it aside, and grab the hanger. Then I freeze. I stare at my fingers, white and trembling with need and fury around the wire. The fingers that Reilly kissed only hours ago. I don’t want to do this anymore. I know I shouldn’t.
Dropping the hanger like hot iron burning my flesh, I take two steps backward, bumping into the mattress. Tearing my gaze from my shaking hands, I lie back on my bed and stare up at the vaulted ceiling. My chest rises and fall, rises and falls, and I bite the inside of my cheek as hard as I can until I taste blood. I let out a deep breath, expelling the tension, the anger and fear. I focus on my breathing and shut my eyes, willing the tightness inside me away.
The Explorer pulls up the drive, the sound of the engine as familiar as my F-250, but instead of quickly changing to go down and help Nick with the daily chores, I lie still and sprawled out on my bed, unable to move. I open my eyes and stare at the imperfection in the crossbeams, notice the high corners missing cream-colored paint and the cobweb across from it. I contemplate how disheveled my life has become, how messy and broken and delicate. I know that I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t live under this roof with Alison. I can’t lose myself here, especially now that I realize part of me is already gone.
The longer I lie here, the harder it is to force myself to move. I think about Reilly, the adoration in his voice, the way it felt to be wrapped in his arms—to laugh with him and feel normal for a little while. I want that again, more than anything else I can think of at this moment. I want my life back.
The warm morning sunshine pries through my open blinds, bathing the room in a golden glow. I watch the dust motes dance through the rays of sunlight, wondering how far they travel and what happens to them after they land.
An incessant vibration rouses me from sleep. My eyelids flit open to find the morning shadows are gone and my bedroom is radiant with high afternoon sun, and I’m baking in its heat.
Lethargy makes it difficult to process the sound of my phone. It’s still buzzing. Fina
lly managing to move, I unfurl myself from the fetal position on my bed and roll over to grab my clutch that had fallen onto the rug. I pull out my phone to find I have three missed calls from Mac and that it’s half past noon.
My phone begins buzzing again in my hand. It’s Mac, calling me for the fourth time, and I answer.
“Hey,” I say groggily and clear my throat.
“Finally!” Mac shrieks. “I’m getting some crazy-ass stories about last night. What happened? And why haven’t you been answering my calls? I even called the house but not even Alison answered. I was starting to worry.”
I lean back against my pillow, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “I fell asleep and my phone was on silent. Sorry.”
“Fell asleep, huh? Was last night that fun?” There’s an unmistakable smirk in Mac’s tone.
“Last night was . . .” I think about Reilly, of my breakdown in his arms and what followed after. Then I rewind back to Adam. “Last night was full of surprises.” I can hear Nick outside, talking with someone. “Hold on a sec, someone’s here.” Ankle still aching a tad, I walk over to my bedroom window and peek through the blinds. Nick’s in the stable, I can hear his voice, but I can’t see him. When I spot Petey rolling around in the dirt, excitement awakens what little of my mind is still sleeping.
“Reilly’s here,” I say.
“Okay, is that bad or good? What happened, Sam? When I couldn’t get ahold of you this morning, I called Nick and he told me the date was a total bust and he sent Reilly to pick you up.”
“Yeah, a total bust, you could say that,” I say. “About that. You made this big deal about me calling you and then you didn’t answer.” I plop back down on my bed and stretch. “What were you doing last night?” I tsk into the phone.
Mac groans. “Nothing remotely exciting, I promise you. I’m on phone number four now. I dropped it in the damn toilet last night when I burned myself with that damn wax. I had to get a new cell this morning when the store finally opened.”
I smirk, not at all surprised, but amused nonetheless. “At least you have insurance.”
“Nope, not anymore.” She groans again. “I’ve maxed it out. I know, I’m ridiculous. But I don’t want to talk about that crap. Tell me what happened on your date. I’m dying here.”
As I lie in bed, recapping my catastrophic date with Adam, I wonder what Reilly’s doing downstairs—if he’s helping Nick or if he’s here for another reason.
“I knew that seemed too good to be true. A flipping wife, though? The guy has balls, I’ll give him that. What an asshole.”
“I’m just worried about the aftermath,” I say. “He made it seem like nothing would change as far as Target is concerned, but . . . I don’t know.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, and he rarely comes to the ranch. Hopefully you can both just move on and pretend it never happened.” Mac sighs. “But you stayed at Reilly’s? That’s a curveball I didn’t see coming.” Although I know Mac has been trying to help us mend our broken fences since he got back, she doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as I would’ve expected to learn what happened.
“I thought you’d be a little more intrigued,” I say honestly. “You’ve been encouraging this for weeks.”
“I . . .” Mac sighs again. “I think it’s great that you guys are getting along now. It’s just strange that you’ve basically hated him for the last four years and after one night, you’re all starry-eyed. I don’t want you to get hurt again, Sam. Or him, for that matter.”
“Starry-eyed?” I laugh, swerving around the truth behind her words. “We talked about some things. And, honestly, I’m trying not to read too much into this. I just want to be happy, even if it’s only for a little while.”
“So, he’s still leaving?”
“Not right now at least,” I say, not wanting to hear anything that could plant more doubt in my mind, and wanting to hold on to this hopeful feeling. “I feel better around him. I’m not sure why, but for now, that’s good enough for me. I think that’s what I need, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know,” Mac says. “I’m glad that Reilly makes you happy, Sam. You deserve some of that every now and again.”
I stand and walk over to my dresser and pull out a pair of clean cutoffs, a black tank top, a pair of underwear, and a bra from my dresser drawers. “I need to jump in the shower and get the horses fed. Call you later?”
“Alright. Sorry again I couldn’t answer last night when you called.” I can tell she feels horrible, but I’m glad she didn’t answer. If she had, I wouldn’t have been able to share the night with Reilly. Today wouldn’t be so bright, despite what happened with Alison.
“Don’t sweat it, Mac. You’ve been more than supportive. You’re allowed to have your own problems to deal with.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’m still here if you need me.”
“I know, thank you. I really appreciate everything you do . . . all the time.”
With a few more mushy sentiments and a sniffle on Mac’s end, we end the call.
Rushing, I grab my clean clothes, unable to get showered and outside fast enough. I fling open my bedroom door, hoping I don’t run into Alison on my way out, and stop in the doorway. There’s a small bottle outside my door on the floor. I bend down. It’s a bottle of ibuprofen with a note.
For your ankle. Let’s do something tonight. Oh, and toothless Jack says hi.
Thirty-One
Sam
The sun sets over the ridge, sending beams of gold and pink through the sky, and with it the breeze picks up. I ride the horses in these back hills all the time, but I can’t remember the last time I just lounged out here like this in the back of Reilly’s truck, wrapped up in his arms. It’s an ideal, if cool, ending to a crazy, work-filled day, and I’m happy to be away from the ranch, watching the sunset. The last few days have been insane, with a double workload, but I try to let all thoughts of Alison and the ranch go.
Wrapping my sweater tighter around me, I snuggle closer to him.
“You already getting cold?” he asks, peering down at me.
“A little. I brought warmer clothes though, plus we have the blanket. I’ll be fine.” I wiggle even closer.
“Well, I’ll just have to warm you up, then.” He tightens his arms around me, grinning.
I smile back and bat my eyelashes. “That was my plan.”
Reilly winks and kisses my lips. “Have you realized that you smile when I smile?” he asks, a smirk on his face.
My smile widens. “Yeah?” I shrug, like I didn’t already know this. But I do. Every time his face lights up, I can’t help that mine does the same. “Your smile must be contagious.”
“Good.” He wraps his legs around mine, squeezing me and kissing the top of my head. Together, we sit in silence, listening to the sounds of dusk.
The crickets are already out, their nocturnal symphony welcoming nightfall, and I can hear the distant bellow of the frogs at the lake just over the hill. There’s movement in the grass beneath his truck, and I assume Petey is resituating himself in a moment of semiconsciousness after an exhausting afternoon of swimming in the lake. If there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s that he loves to swim—hence his excitement when he stumbled upon me naked in the lake—and a swim session is all it takes to tucker him out.
The oak trees surrounding us rustle with critters searching for shelter for the night. That, and the rise and fall of Reilly’s chest against my back, is all the comfort I need as my mind unwinds for the evening.
In the silence, my stomach rumbles. I peer up at Reilly. He’s almost smiling, an intrigued eyebrow raised.
“Well,” I breathe. “I guess it’s time for food.” The truck shifts beneath me as I sit up. Unfolding the flannel blanket I brought from home, I drape it over my bare legs, instantly warmer, and twist around to open the cooler.
“Look what I brought for you,” I sing, and pull out a container of fried chicken. “Thighs and legs, fresh outta the frying pan. Well”—I wave
in dismissal—“fresh as in yesterday, at least.” Pulling the top off, I waft it under Reilly’s nose and he groans.
“Good lord, that smells amazing.” He licks his lips and sits up, leaning against the cab glass and watching me as I pull out our dinner. “I can’t remember the last time I had a real, home-cooked meal,” he says. “And breakfast doesn’t count. Home cooking is one of the few things I missed while I was gone.”
I set the chicken down and pull out a pint of pasta salad. “Do you miss it?” I ask. “The Army, I mean.” I stick a spoon in the noodle pint and set it down on the blanket next to the chicken.
Reilly smiles. “There’s a lot of things that I miss about it, yeah.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs and holds up a bottle of wine.
“Ooh, yes please.”
He surprises me by pulling out a bottle opener from a secret bag shoved in the corner of the truck bed. I try to peer around him. “A corkscrew, wine . . . what else do you have in that fancy bag of yours?”
“Don’t you worry about it,” he says. “It’s bad enough that I ask you out for dinner, you wanted a picnic, and you’re providing the food.”
“In all fairness, I insisted. Besides, I had all this food at home that needs to be eaten.” I pull out a container of baked beans. “Um, I didn’t really think this through. Do you like cold baked beans?”
Reilly tilts his head, and the cork comes out of the wine bottle with a final twist and a pop. “I’m the kind of guy who brings plastic cups to drink wine in on a date. Do I seem like I’m picky about cold beans or warm beans?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, not really.”
“Good.” Reilly hands me a cup of wine and pours one for himself. “Cheers.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 29