by Jewel E. Ann
“I left my jacket in the tree house last week, so I rode my bike over there yesterday afternoon to get it.”
I frowned. “I thought we agreed never to go alone.”
“I was careful. I didn’t even get near the lake, and I made my way up and down the ladder slooowly.”
“You should have at least told me you were going.”
She kicked my leg. “Are you going to let me finish my story?”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”
“Anyway … on my way out of the gate a car pulled in the driveway—an old silver station wagon with a rattling motor and chipped gray paint with almost as much rust on it as Georgia.”
I bared my teeth, ready to snarl at her for poking fun of my car.
“Scared the living daylights out of me at first. The guy got out and he had this creepy child-molester look.”
“I don’t know if child molesters have an actual look.”
“I think they do. Chubby belly. Smelly. Clothes that have not been washed for weeks. You know … when jeans get that oily sheen to them? Bad dandruff. Crooked teeth with really red gums. And a mustache that’s thin and cheesy.” She shivered. “Creeps me out.”
“Again … none of that means he’s a child molester, but your parents would ground you for life if they knew you were there at all, but definitely if they knew you went there alone. Did you get out of there as fast as possible? I hope so.”
“Not exactly.”
“Morgan.” If I called her Morgan then the situation was serious.
“I kept a good distance. It was still light outside. And I didn’t get off my bike. But he asked me what I was doing there. Before I could answer, he smiled and said, ‘Ah, let me guess … the tree house.’ I nodded. It’s all I could do. Stranger danger and all that. But then he started telling me about him and his dad building the tree house together. I’m not saying he’s not still creepy, but—”
“No. Don’t say ‘but’ anything. You need to stay away. We’re done. Tell everyone else too. We’ve been trespassing.”
“I told him.” Her nose wrinkled. “He wasn’t mad at all. He thought it was cool that someone was getting some good out of the tree house and the lake. His mom died a few years ago and his dad recently died of a heart attack. He’s staying at the house for a while to figure out what to do with their stuff. Then he’s going to sell the place, but he said we can still play in the woods or swim in the lake until it sells.”
“No.”
“Nate, don’t be such a party pooper.”
“Promise me you won’t go back there.”
“Nate—”
“Just promise me.”
“Ugh! Fine. I’m going home. I have to clean my room or else I can’t spend the night at Danielle’s house this weekend.”
“Slumber party, huh? A long night of talking about boys?”
“Maybe.” She stood, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
“What do you say about me?” I held open the back door for her, and we set our empty cans on the counter.
“I don’t talk about you. We only talk about real boyfriends.” Dang, she loved to put me in my place.
“That’s fair. When I hang out with my friends we only talk about girls with big tits.”
She whipped around, clutching my shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. What do you think it means?”
“I think you’re saying I have small tits.”
“If the training bra fits …”
“Take it back.”
“No way.” I laughed as she attempted to shake me, but I was twice her size. She wasn’t going to budge me. “Oh, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy …” I hugged her to me as she tried and failed to wriggle out of my hold. “I hope you love me this much in another five years.”
“Let go of me, you big jerk! I’m not going to love you in another five seconds.” She punched my gut until I released her. “You’re on your own for food. I’m done feeling sorry for you.”
My smile didn’t waver, but that truth sucked the air from my lungs. She deserved a boyfriend who could buy her things. Real boyfriends didn’t need handouts.
“You should be done feeling sorry for me. It’s a waste of your time. Especially when your room is a mess.”
“You know what I mean.”
I turned, grabbing some trash from the counter and tossing it in the garbage.
“Yeah, I know. Better get going.”
“Are you mad?” She grabbed my arm.
I tugged it away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Just look at me.” She grabbed my arm with both hands.
I stilled, looking at the floor.
“Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it.”
“I’m not mad. But …” I looked at her. “You’re probably right. You should get a real boyfriend.”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
I didn’t know if I was breaking up with her. My young age prevented me from understanding the dangerous part of my brain called the ego. That ego flipped some switch. We went from making out in the back of Georgia to joking about tits to the sobering thought that Morgan deserved someone better than me.
“We can be friends.”
Her head jerked back. “Friends. I see.” She nodded. “So we’ll hang out, but I can find another boyfriend and you’ll find a new girlfriend?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I wasn’t going to get another girlfriend until I had a job, until I could not seem so needy, until I could take a girl to a movie that wasn’t at the dollar cinema.
“Wow …” She backed away. “So I guess I’ll see you around.”
“I guess so.” I was such an idiot, a stubborn, hardheaded idiot on the verge of losing the best thing ever.
She left. I strapped on my Walkman and went for a run. I lost the girl.
*
Swayze doesn’t blink. I don’t know if she realizes my story is over. How is it possible for her to not remember Daisy? My childhood revolved around the sassy little blonde. If she’s channeling my thoughts from over twenty years ago, then she has to see that they were all about Daisy.
“I remember the car.” Her eyes shift to meet mine.
“I wish you remembered us.”
“Us?” Her voice trembles and all color leaves her face.
I let it hang in the air for a few moments. She saw the book on reincarnation in my nightstand drawer. I replayed that feed over and over, but the camera was at her back. I couldn’t see her face. Every time I think of mentioning it to her, I lose my nerve. She has to know that I suspect she’s Daisy. But I won’t bring it up. I want her to make the connection. I need her to be curious and open to the possibility. But I won’t force it.
“Daisy and me.” I save her from the awkwardness.
She blows out a slow breath and smiles. “Me too. So you broke up.”
I nod.
“And you’re just going to leave me hanging? Did you get back together?”
“I need to pack for my trip. My flight is at six a.m. There are two guest rooms. Take whichever one you’d like. Towels are in the bathroom.”
“Want me to put Morgan to bed?”
I stand. “Nope. I want to do it.”
Her lips press together, failing to hide her grin.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head.
“Tell me.” My arms cross over my chest. This girl rattles my curiosity.
“Just thinking about the Don’t Hold the Baby rule you had when I started working for you. Now you hold her, cuddle her, and want to put her to bed even when you have stuff to do. You’ve come into your own and it’s…” she shrugs “…nice.”
I nod. From any other twenty-one-year-old girl, that would feel like a condescending compliment. Swayze’s known me longer than she realizes, so it means the whole damn world to me that she thinks I’m doing okay at what is unequivocally the biggest challenge of my life.
“Thank you.
It was a rough start. I read too many books on parenting, setting schedules, and self-soothing. I think I forgot to use my intuition. This bossy nanny helped me see the error of my ways.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t fire her.”
“She has a lot of dirt on me.”
Swayze’s smile grows. “Do you think they’ll take away your PhD if I tell them you cheated on that Spanish test?”
“Not likely.” I chuckle. “Especially when they realize you weren’t alive when that happened.”
Her lips twist to the side as her gaze shifts to Morgan. “Hmm … that would be hard to explain, especially when I can’t explain it to myself.”
“I have a theory.”
She fidgets with the hem of her shirt while a nervous laugh comes out as a soft cough. “I’m sure there are lots of theories, but none of them make perfect sense. I’m not sure we’ll ever know. But … I’d better let you get Morgan to bed so you can pack for your trip.”
“Do you want to hear my theory?” Dr. Albright’s warnings go unheeded in my head as my need to connect with the girl I knew grows stronger every day.
Swayze picks up her overnight bag, leaving her back to me. “I don’t think I do.”
“Why?”
“Just a feeling,” she says, looking down at her feet.
“Are you scared?”
“Every day.”
I hold in the words I’m dying to say as she fades into the shadows of the hallway, taking a right at the guest bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’m a hostage in Nate’s guest bedroom. He wants to talk about reincarnation. I’m not ready to shatter his hopes of reconnecting with his childhood friend. I know nothing of her except what he’s told me. She doesn’t exist in my head the way he does. If we make the journey back to another life, surely we remember ourselves more than anyone else from our previous life. What happens when he realizes I’m not her? Will the stories end? Will I become nothing more than an imposter in his already stressful life?
I slip on a pair of pajama pants and a camisole top, grab my phone, and plunk down on the bed to call Griffin.
“Hey, I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Likely story.” I grin.
“True story. We arrived about an hour ago. It’s insane.”
“Apparently. I can barely hear you.” I cringe. There’s no need for me to yell and wake Morgan. I’m not the one trying to speak over a party of people mixed with revving motorcycles.
“Sorry …” His voice muffles a bit. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
“I stepped into the bathroom. Well … porta potty.”
“Ew …”
“Yes. It smells fucking awesome in here.”
“Then I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say goodnight. I’m staying at the professor’s place tonight because he leaves so early in the morning.”
“In your own room, I hope.”
I laugh. “I should be offended that you feel the need for confirmation, but I want you thinking about me while you’re gone—while women parade their naked bodies around you, while the booze flows a little too much.”
“Is that a yes that you’re sleeping in your own room?”
“Really, Griff? Do you really think I’m spooning with the professor tonight?”
“I’m not worried about the professor. He’s old, Swayz. Probably needs a pill to get it up. But I’d be lying if I said the thought of you spending the night with Nate doesn’t give me a few moments pause. I told you … he’s been thinking about your mouth around his dick ever since you sent him my text.”
“He’s thinking about someone, but it’s not me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you when you get home.”
“Dude! You got the shits?” A man’s voice fills the background.
“Fuck off!” Griffin grumbles.
“Have fun.” I giggle, but my grin falls sober. “But not too much fun.”
“I’ll do my best. I’d better go.”
“Griff?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we good?” Insecurities suck. But they make you fight to keep the important things in life. They’re a solemn reminder that emotions are not a choice; they’re a toxic mix of chemicals running amuck in our bodies, playing roulette with our relationships.
“We’re good. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He disconnects the call, but I keep the phone to my ear. I want to hug it—hug him. When I’m convinced he’s no longer on the phone, my attention shifts to the stolen picture. It’s bowed and curling at the edges. I shouldn’t carry it around in my pocket, but I have this sane and well-thought-out idea that twenty-something Nate in my pocket might tell me all of his stories. That’s how it works.
Photo Nate talks.
My ass listens.
An undiscovered way of ass-to-brain communication relays the information to my mind.
I chuckle. Stranded on an island by myself? No problem. I’m one hundred percent self-entertained.
Had I found this photo as a teenager, I would have blown it up and pinned it to the ceiling of my room. I would have dreamed about this sexy surfer-looking guy and his contemplative look. I would have convinced my zit-faced, pigeon-toed self that he was thinking of me.
“What is wrong with you?” I toss the photo on the bed beside me and rub a hand over my face.
In need of a glass of water, I slide the photo under the pillow and slip out into the hallway. My feet root to the floor as the sight of Nate rocking Morgan to sleep replaces my thirst. One hand cradles her to his body while the other hand holds Goodnight Moon.
I’m in love.
It’s hard to explain, even to myself. Jenna’s death has brought me here. I’m certain fate played a role. I don’t know what drives fate. And I certainly don’t know what I am to learn from this. But I am in love with the story of Nathaniel Hunt. It’s so tragic, until moments like this that could not be more beautiful.
I can’t stop thinking of this.
It’s a song that loops in my head.
It’s a movie I want to watch until I have every scene—every line—memorized.
It’s my favorite book where all the words have been read and reread in search of something new, something more.
However, this isn’t a fangirl moment over a book, a song, a movie … the love I have for whatever this is goes so much deeper. I’m connected to it in a way that’s the same yet different than my love for Griffin. This love belongs to me too. I’m not merely an outsider looking in—admiring and wishing it were my life.
This is big.
I know it. I feel it. And I can’t let go.
Nate sets the book aside. I move beyond the doorway so he can’t see me.
“I love you, my sweet baby girl.”
I smile, my back flush to the wall as I crane my neck just enough to peek around at him easing her into her crib. His fingertips feather her cheek.
“I need you to be the one to stay,” he whispers.
Stay?
“I need you to live a long life, many years beyond mine.”
“Nate …” I whisper so softly that only the gods can hear me. Blinking away this sudden rush of emotion, I pad to the kitchen for my water.
“She’s asleep.”
I nod, keeping my gaze focused out the window on the halos of solar lights lining the front walkway.
He opens the freezer then shuts the door. I turn toward his narrowed eyes, halting mid step.
“I think you took something that belonged to me.”
The photo.
My back was to the camera. Maybe there’s more than one camera in his bedroom.
“I … I just wanted to look at it.”
Nate steps closer, sending my head back to keep eye contact with him. “Just look at it?” His head cocks to the side.
I nod, swallowing my tongue and some unexpected fear. Why did I take it? S
uch a stupid move.
“You didn’t want to taste it?”
“Um …” Please don’t let this be about the text. I don’t want Griffin to be right.
No blowjobs for Nate—not even a taste.
No spooning.
No pills to get his cock ready for action.
Nope. Not happening.
“What if I give it back and we just forget I ever took it. It was a curiosity thing is all. It’s eye-catching. My mom is a photographer. I … I don’t know. But—”
“Eye-catching?” He laughs. “Are we talking about the same thing? Because I’m confused as to how you plan to give me back the last ice cream sandwich.”
This is not about his cock. Thank god!
“It will be replaced with a new box by the time you arrive home Sunday night.”
“So you did eat it?”
“I did.”
“After you admired its beauty?”
I clear my throat and lift my chin. “The silver packaging with blue lettering is a great design. I notice things like that.” Someone please shoot me now and just put me out of my misery.
“Did you take a picture of it? Or did you save the wrapper for your mom to take a picture of it?”
“No. I’ll tell her the brand. That’s what she does. I told you this, right? She’s a product photographer?”
Nate nods slowly. “You said she hasn’t picked up her camera since your father died. Are ice cream sandwiches wrapped in silver with blue lettering going to inspire her to get back in the game?”
“Ya never know.”
He twists his lips, failing to completely disguise his amusement. “Well, let me know. I’m going to be on pins and needles waiting to see if my impulse buy inspired something so miraculous. In the meantime…” he jerks his head toward the hallway “…why don’t you help me pick out a tie for my trip.”
“You mean tie it before you pack it.”
“Correct.”
We stroll down the hallway. He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. I divert my eyes to the floor.
Ice cream sandwich. Gah!
“Blue or red?” He holds up the ties.
“Red. The blue one has something on it.”
He flips his wrist and frowns at the dark smudge. “Well damn. I wonder what that is. I haven’t wore this tie in a long time.”