He stopped, his shoulders rolled under his backpack, his hands shoved deep into jeans pockets. He didn’t turn to face me, just waited for me to catch up.
I broke into a jog, moving around him with my arm outstretched with the pasta and lemonade. “A peace offering.”
The second I caught sight of his face, the sunshine—that had been pretty a heartbeat ago—became absolutely breath-taking. The gorgeous weather was no longer just sun and sky; it was utterly sublime. Everything seemed brighter, sharper, more real now he was back.
A five o’clock shadow covered his throat and jaw, a leaf clung to his dirty blond strands, and a smudge of earth contoured his cheekbone.
He looked wild and rugged and full of warning like any forest creature that didn’t do well with humans. The hardened edges he kept sharp and shiny were somewhat duller, though—as if he’d found what he needed in the trees, and exhaustion had found him in return.
“Hi,” I whispered again, unashamedly drinking him in from his dirt-stained T-shirt, faded well-used boots and everything in between.
I had the privilege of witnessing his jaded, weary eyes flare as I blocked his path. No doubt he’d expected me to be in clothes and not a bikini. Thanks to my jog over here, the towel had slipped to my waist, revealing the lycra-covered breasts Dad tried to deny his young daughter had and the curves that would make me a perfect double for some 1920s pin-up.
“Why are you mostly naked?” His voice was charcoal and ash as if he hadn’t spoken in days, which was probably true from camping in the woods on his own.
Unless he talked to owls and mice.
Or ghosts.
“I’ve been swimming.” I grinned, squinting in the brightness, thankful for the beads of water trickling from my hair. The droplets kept me cool while Jacob’s face shone with sweat. I had so many questions. So many worries. So many everythings.
But I swallowed them all back, reminding myself for the millionth time since I’d found him missing that I wouldn’t push so hard. That I’d be kinder in my approach and not rise to his anger. I would be soft and understanding, and if he got mad at me, so be it.
I wouldn’t enter another argument.
Or at least…I hope I won’t.
Smiling as if we were best friends, I offered the pasta again. “You must be hungry.”
His tongue darted between his lips, leaving them wet. I did my best to ignore the answering squeeze deep in my belly. His gaze fought to stay on my face, but he lost the battle—just like I lost whenever I saw him shirtless—his dark eyes hooded and turned smoky, trailing down my water-speckled skin.
I breathed harder as his stare burned me like a candle held too close, flickering over the triangles hiding my breasts and the towel hanging precariously low on my hips.
His jaw tightened, his body tensed, and he stepped away as if I’d done something wrong.
Keeping my smile genuine and wide, I sank into the thick grass with its pink, purple, and yellow flowers, looking up at the tall boy who carried such pain.
Pain he thought he masked with temper and rage, but pain I glimpsed regardless. Whether it was a moment in a fight or this moment in quietness, he couldn’t hide from me, and he knew that.
He sensed that.
He felt what I did and that made me a threat.
And in a way, I liked that I threatened him. It meant I made him feel. He couldn’t look at me with the same barriers in place. He couldn’t talk to me with walls firm and firearms ready. I forced him to come out from behind those shields, and I had to remember that with that power came a huge responsibility of care.
Dad taught me that.
He’d been at the brunt of Mom’s disappointment and constantly craving nature for years. Her unhappiness at having all her dreams come true didn’t make sense, but she was empty inside, eaten away to a rotten core, unable to be grateful for even the simplest things.
She didn’t care we had more than most.
She didn’t sit in awe at what she and Dad had created.
She just set her goals higher, strove for bigger, fought for better, slowly killing herself with the impossible.
Dad would just stand and weather her violent mood swings, never once shouting back or striking her when she struck him. He stayed calm and cuddled her close when the storm had passed, and Mom was herself again.
He’d caught me spying on a massive fight the night after some red carpet party. I’d dashed to my bed and hidden beneath the covers still in my pretty lemon dress. But he’d pulled back the blankets and explained that Mom didn’t mean what she said. She loved us really. She just couldn’t see how lucky she was.
I’d asked Dad why he put up with abuse—because it was emotional and physical abuse. And he’d said it was our job to be the carers of those who carry the pain. Pain could manifest in many ways, and it wasn’t up to us to point out how hurtful and cruel such pain could be.
We had to be brave and show the hurting that they could share their agony or deliver their agony. Either way, there would be no judgment or condemnation.
Only love.
For the longest minute, I feared Jacob would just continue walking to his home and leave me sitting in the field alone. But then the clouds in his eyes dispersed and the tiredness in his body increased, and he all but collapsed beside me.
As he reached up to shrug out of his backpack, a gentle hiss escaped his lips, tugging on my desire to help him be free of the equipment but knowing better than to touch him.
I waited for him to shove the bag aside, then smiled in triumph as he fell backward into lush green grass. He groaned long and low as his hands spread to the sides and his eyes closed and a look of almost-peace softened his handsome face.
There was still pain—so, so much pain—but at least his exhaustion took the edge off and gave him a small reprieve.
I wanted to know what he’d done in the forest. Had he slept in a tent or open air? Did he swim in a river and cook on a cheery flame? Or had he just rested beneath a tree, allowing his body to knit itself together and his mind to quieten?
Instead of ruining the silence with my queries, I fell back and lay beside him.
He flinched a little as I sighed at the blissful sensation of springy grass beneath and blue skies above.
But he didn’t move away. He didn’t get up to run.
And we lay there, side by side, not saying a word.
And in that silence, somehow, we became friends.
* * * * *
I woke to Jacob sitting beside me, his jaw working and throat swallowing, eating the pasta his mom had made for me. The sun had slipped farther in the sky and my skin was a little tight with UV exposure as I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest.
Jacob glanced at me from the corner of his eyes, giving me a single nod before stabbing another mouthful of pasta. That nod could’ve meant anything, but I decided to interpret it as a simple hello and a peace treaty that we could do this sort of thing. This normal sort of thing—just hanging out with no agendas or arguments.
The creamy bacon and mushroom smelled good, and my stomach grumbled.
I hugged my knees tighter, doing my best to hush up my appetite. Jacob deserved it. Who knew when his last meal was?
Unfortunately, he’d heard, and a smirk danced on his lips as he finished a few more mouthfuls, then passed the mostly empty container to me. “Finish it.”
I wanted to say no, but I didn’t want to start another war. Instead, I smiled and nodded, taking the Tupperware and fork.
The same fork that’d been in his mouth.
My heart pounded as I harpooned a piece of penne and wrapped my lips around the utensil. Was it wrong to prefer his taste over the creamy mushroom? Was it immoral to have belly flutters and body flushes at the thought of having some part of him in my mouth?
He didn’t help my wayward thoughts as his eyes locked on my lips, not looking away even as I selected another bite and placed it as delicately and as prettily as I could on my tongue.
I wished I’d snuck into more actresses trailers as they prepared for sex scenes. They practiced their orgasm faces and oh-my-goodness-yes-right-there gazes in the mirror before the cameras rolled. I’d spotted Carlyn Clark practicing once, running her tongue along her bottom lip with a hazy, dreamy look on her perfect features.
I’d tried to mimic that night and ended up embarrassing myself when Dad found me flirting with my hand mirror and contemplating if I should make out with it.
There was no mirror here in the sun-dappled meadow, but there was a boy who I’d been fantasising about making out with for longer than I could remember.
Hot silence prickled with intensity the longer Jacob stared at my mouth.
The fork in my hand began to shake. My body took control, pebbling my nipples, making them visible beneath the flimsy triangles of my bikini. My tongue licked my lower lip without my permission as if these signals were ingrained in biology, not flirtation.
Jacob’s nostrils flared, he tensed, and for a second—just a micro second—he swayed toward me as if totally bewitched and unable to stop himself from claiming what I so blatantly said he could have.
But then a horse nickered in the background, and the silence became awash with insects buzzing and a breeze rustling and laughter from his family somewhere by the farmhouse.
The moment was crushed by noise and reality.
And I was no longer hungry.
Pushing the last few mouthfuls toward him, I muttered, “Here, you have it. I’m not hungry, after all.”
His hand wrapped automatically around the container, but his brow furrowed as his attention fell on the fork.
The fork we’d both tasted and sucked.
I hoped he thought the same things I had. The same deliciously naughty things about licking me instead of the pasta. Goosebumps spread over my arms as he bit his lower lip, concentration furrowing deeper tracks in his forehead.
For a second, I thought he’d toss the rest of the pasta into the grass—anything to avoid a touch of mine, but I froze as he stabbed the lone pieces of penne into one bundle and raised the fork to his mouth.
I stopped breathing.
So close.
If he used the fork, we might as well have kissed. His saliva with mine. Our tongues together. Our—
With a bone-deep sigh, he shook his head, cracked his wrist like he held a whip and shot the penne off the fork and into the greenery. Instantly, sparrows dive-bombed the unsuspecting pasta, squabbling over who got what.
So much for that stupid idea.
I slouched in my towel, plucking a long piece of grass and twirling it in my fingers. He couldn’t even bring himself to eat off the same implement as me. The chances of him ever being comfortable enough to kiss me?
Yeah, I might as well give up now.
I should’ve given up years ago—around the time I started dating boys to do exactly that—to forget about Jacob Ren Wild and find a boy who actually wanted be touched.
A wash of soul-crushing sadness filled me.
Not for me, but for him.
How awful an existence it must be to be so afraid of touch.
How terrifyingly lonely a life to prefer aloneness than company.
I sighed, stripping my long piece of grass into green noodles.
Placing the Tupperware into the bag, Jacob pulled free the homemade lemonade and swigged half back in a few gulps. Pulling the bottle away from his lips, he wiped the top with his shirt hem, then with a bashful look, he gave it to me.
I hid my pain and stupid fantasies and nodded sweetly. “Thanks.”
He flinched as if he hadn’t expected me to talk. As if the farmyard chatter was better than speaking with me.
Ignoring yet more hurt, I drank the refreshingly tart liquid. This time, I didn’t bother to save him any and drank until all the citrus drops were gone. Afterward, I passed the bottle back to him where he capped it and placed it with the empty Tupperware.
With a soft groan, he pulled up his knees and drove his fingers through his hair. The leaf that’d been tangled there fluttered to the grass, only to be scooped up by me.
Oak.
A baby leaf.
Probably miles from its family, depending on how far Jacob had travelled.
“Thanks for the lunch,” he muttered, his hands still buried in his thick, unruly blond mess.
“No problem.”
“I’m sorry I got angry with you again the other night.”
“No worries.”
“And I’m sorry for any and all future fights we’ll end up having.”
My heart skipped a beat at the thought of spending enough time with Jacob to warrant such interaction. “It’s fine.”
He huffed, his eyes still squeezed together and head bowed. His forehead pressed against his knees as if he was so exhausted, he barely had the effort to sit.
I squirmed beside him as my mind ran riot with things I shouldn’t say, promises to help him, oaths to protect him. He’d hate any sign that I cared.
I’d tried the forward game and only pushed him further away. I no longer strove for a relationship that could be considered normal with fondles and giggles and kisses.
Jacob wasn’t that type of guy, and really…I wasn’t that type of girl. I wanted to be, but death still stalked me. Blackness still crouched in my mind. Morbid questions still demanded an answer. Questions that kept me firmly in reality, and I understood why Jacob feared dying because of the very same reasons I didn’t. Death was coming for all of us—regardless of how we lived our lives.
It could tap us on the shoulder tomorrow or slam into us four decades from now.
No one could predict when.
And the thing that made it so scary wasn’t the fact that it was going to happen. But the fact that we suffered while waiting. And that suffering was caused entirely by us resisting the inevitable.
Jacob had to stop resisting.
Resisting life and love and happiness.
If he could do that, then his suffering would end.
He’d accept.
He’d relax.
He’d be free.
Twisting my knees under me so I propped myself up a little higher, I cleared my throat. “I have something to say.”
His shoulders stiffened. “What is it this time?”
“I hadn’t planned on bringing this up.” I shrugged. “Well, not until you’d had a good night’s rest and a decent shower. But…”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “But?”
“You’re tired. You’re calmer than I’ve ever seen you. Exhaustion makes you easier to deal with, so I’ll get it out now. After all, tomorrow is another day.”
He huffed. “And just because you’ve lived on my farm for a week, you’re suddenly Scarlett O’Hara?”
“Almost two weeks, actually. And wait…” My mouth popped wide. “You know Gone with the Wind?”
He rolled his eyes. “Seriously? It’s a classic. One of Mom’s favourites.”
I paused, my heart aching a little. “But…it’s not a happy ending. Rhett leaves her.”
“Just like my dad left my mom.” Jacob smiled cynically. “I think she likes the movie because Scarlett keeps going. It reminds her to be strong.”
I fell quiet for a moment.
I didn’t think that was the reason at all. “I think she likes it because it ends with the hope of them working it out,” I whispered. “As the onlooker, you believe they’ll get back together off-screen. You can’t accept anything else.”
“Yeah, but the chances of them ever seeing each other again are slim.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Kinda do. That’s just life.”
“Some people find each other again against all the odds.”
Jacob narrowed his eyes. “Are we still talking about the movie here?”
I bit my lip, looking at the grass.
I’d always felt sorry for Della losing her husband, but it hadn’t pierced my heart
as truthfully as it did sitting beside her son in that meadow. There I was, pretending I could be Jacob’s cure—that I was like him with my lack of parent and acquaintance with death—but in reality…I was an imposter.
I didn’t know such heartbreak. I couldn’t watch Gone with the Wind without clutching my chest when Rhett walked out the door. I’d always made up an alternative ending where they were together again.
Was that how Della survived each morning? Believing one day she’d see Ren again?
Wow.
The pain.
The faith in the impossible and improbable.
Blinking, I swallowed back my stupidity. I wasn’t some magical girl to put Jacob back together again. I wasn’t there to repair him or teach him that love wasn’t something to be feared because even death couldn’t sever it.
Yes, I knew loss. But I didn’t know true agony. And Jacob’s agony? I’d never understand because I wasn’t capable of understanding.
The belief and hope I’d hugged for so long suddenly vanished, and Scotland with its fake actors and scripts and make-believe seemed so much safer than here in the meadow with a boy who’d lived a far worse tragedy than me.
I’d overstayed my welcome.
I didn’t want to intrude any longer.
I want to leave.
“Hope?” The unusual softness in Jacob’s voice made me wince. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not.”
He pursed his lips, letting a couple of seconds tick past. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I shifted to stand, but he lashed out, his fingers spreading over my hand.
We froze.
Two statues locked in disbelief.
His fingers pressed into mine for the barest of moments before he ripped them away and wiped them on the grass.
My skin seared, forever branded and greedy for more.
“You’re leaving,” he stated in a detached, icy voice; the polar opposite to the softness of before.
“How did you know?” I asked, petal soft and just as fragile.
The Son & His Hope Page 24