by Lila Felix
Not knowing what else to say, I hedged, “You were at college?”
He nodded. Ok, not the most responsive of answers. Let’s try that again.
“You weren’t into the whole blacksmith thing? Afraid of the oddly super-sized arm?”
His lips twitched as he tried not to laugh and then he let out an exasperated sigh. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to follow my dad’s path. I did. I’ve known smithing would be in my future since I was little. But I wanted to do more with it. You’re not the only one that thinks this town is a dead end. And my dad was good, real good. He could have taken his trade and turned it into a business, an empire if he wanted. But he wasn’t concerned in all that. He’d always tell me, ‘Anybody can have money. But not everyone gets to come home to a family that loves them and a peace about themselves.’ I got what he was saying, but I didn’t understand why he couldn’t have both. I knew one day I’d be taking over and I planned on doing more with this, making it more than what it was. It was foolish. And in the end, my dad was right. While I was off trying to make money, I lost the family that loved me and any kind of peace I had about myself.”
My heart and soul were shattered with his words. I swallowed against the thick lump in my throat but it was no use. The silent tears began to fall and I hated each one of them because they were my own kind of selfish. In that moment all I wanted to do was offer Stockton some of the peace he lost when his parents died, but I was as lost as the next person. What did I have to offer him? Nothing but a misdemeanor record and a distorted view of love and faith.
I did know one thing for certain though, one thing that I had only recently learned.
“Stockton, it’s not your fault,” I whispered through the tears. “Nothing that happened to your parents or your family is your fault.”
He didn’t say anything, or respond in any way. His hands wiped nervous lines down his jeans and his eyes darted in every direction but at me. This wasn’t fair for him to hold onto all this guilt and pain. He deserved so much better than the life he was forcing himself to live.
“You’re better than how you see yourself,” I promised him in a stronger voice. I thought about the letter I had found when I used the restroom at his house earlier today. I was curious by nature, and having a few moments alone gave me some time to snoop. There was a letter addressed to him from a company that sounded big enough to turn his trade into an empire. They wanted his work, Stockton’s work, not his fathers. I realized in that moment that the letter was Stockton’s dream-a dream he didn’t think he deserved anymore because of what happened to his family and his misplaced guilt; a dream he’d shoved into the bottom of his desk drawer because I imagined it caused him all kinds of traumatic pain.
His eyes flashed up to meet mine and I forced myself to connect with the intense vulnerability that stared back at me. “Maybe,” he finally agreed. “What about you? Do you believe that about yourself too?”
I shook my head, not able to form the words to argue with that. It wasn’t the same with me. I’d actually done bad things, destroyed property, hurt people. It wasn’t fair to hold us up to the same standard because Stockton was actually a good person.
I was a bad girl trying to reform.
On a sheep farm no less.
We were worlds apart. Maybe we would always be worlds apart.
“It’s not the same thing,” I finally said.
“Cami, we all make mistakes. If you’re taking away my guilt, I sure as hell am going to take away yours too.”
I smiled faintly at his sudden determination. “But I deserve my guilt. That’s the difference between me and you.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said firmly.
“Then you’re the only one. Sorry, Stockton, the majority rules here. Arguments have been made, evidence laid out, I have been condemned.”
“By a judge?” he asked oh so innocently.
If I had a collar, this would have been the point I started tugging on it. “Oh, no. The guy’s car I stole was trying to date rape me so he wasn’t all that ready to press charges and my parents handed me the get out of jail free card too since it was only their store that suffered damage. My family’s the one who sees the real me, babe. They’re the ones who play judge and jury in my life.”
“Why didn’t they intervene before you hit rock bottom?” He leaned farther forward on his barstool so that the only thing separating us was the screen and two inches of cool spring air.
“I didn’t listen, or they didn’t try. I can’t really remember now. But you have to remember that my family is different than yours. My parents didn’t read the same parenting book yours did. Their motto in life is more, ‘If anybody can have money, then I want some and a lot of it. And I’ll find time for my family later.’” I shrugged helplessly, waiting for Stockton to brand me with “daddy issues” right before he walked out of my life for good.
Instead of doing that though, he just stared at me-powerfully. It was like he was slowly pulling me into him, drinking me in, consuming me. He looked like a light bulb went off in his head and the parts of a thousand piece puzzle finally started to fall into place. I shivered against a full-body kind of nausea that sent warning flags soaring through my system.
He was finally seeing me for who I really was-the broken girl that nobody loved. I was pathetically nervous for him to come to all his conclusions and at any minute feared I would have to run out of the room and puke from all the tension rolling through me.
“Good thing you don’t believe them,” Stockton eventually said.
“What do you mean?” I asked in a shaky voice.
“That you’re not worth their time.” His voice was confident and controlled and there was so much conviction behind his words I almost believed them myself.
“Well, obviously.” I tried to smirk but it fell flat.
“Cami, you’re worth so much more than their time. You’re worth their love, and devotion and trust. They need to have faith in you. I’m not saying what you did is right, but they didn’t do what was right either. And I’m guessing their bad behavior started a lot earlier than yours did.”
I was quiet. The boy had stunned me into silence.
Slowly I nodded my head, agreeing with him.
Stockton wasn’t finished, “You’re not the broken girl you think you are. I see a strength in you that scares me a little, a fire that can’t be put out or diminished. Your parents are lucky to have you in their lives. Hell, anyone is. I for damn sure am.”
I couldn’t help the watery smile at his show of enthusiasm. “Well, aren’t we an Oprah special?”
Stockton smiled at me, it was real and authentic and freaking heart-stopping. “Thank you. For saying everything you did, thank you.”
“Back at ya, big guy,” I laughed at him and winked. I meant it though, I meant it with all of me, with every single piece of me that was trying to put itself back together. He was right, I wasn’t a broken girl-not anymore. And I needed to stop acting like one. “So did you have a reason for coming here tonight? Or were you just hoping to see me cry? I know I look super sexy with no makeup on, my eyes all bloodshot and puffy. This is how I get all the boys, so you better watch out Stockton, or you’re going to fall under my spell.”
“I think I already have,” he whispered.
Totally ruining the whole sarcasm thing I had going on and stealing my heart at the same time. Bastard. Now I was having trouble breathing and it was all his fault.
“But to answer your question,” he continued as if he hadn’t just taken my breath and put a thousand butterflies in my stomach, “we’re doing what I came here to do. I just wanted to talk to you, spend time with you.”
“I like this,” I admitted and gestured toward his barstool. “I like talking to you.”
“Then maybe we could do more of this? Maybe tomorrow night?” he asked, anxiety flashing across his face.
Was he nervous I would say no?
“I could probably fit you in,” I
shrugged. “You might have to stand in line behind all the other boys trying to talk to me at my bedroom window, but if you’re patient I’ll give you some face time.”
“That so?” he laughed at me. “Then I better get here early. I want to get a good spot and all.”
“Probably a good idea,” I replied breathlessly, loving how important he made me feel-even when we were just joking around.
“And I probably better let you go to bed, since you have to get up and work in the morning.”
“Also a good idea,” I agreed, but my insides were screaming at me to make him stay.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Cami,” Stockton stood from his barstool and picked it up with his strong, talented hand.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I nodded, not capable of saying much more.
“Be careful, Cami,” he whispered before he turned around and disappeared in the darkness of the night a few yards away.
I shut my window soundlessly and crawled into bed. I closed my eyes but couldn’t fall asleep or even lay their peacefully. Too many words were running through my head-all the things I’d admitted to Stockton, and all the things he’d said in response, his admissions and secrets he, for some reason, trusted me with…. But most of all, those last few words kept looping through my mind like a CD on repeat.
Be careful.
Because even though the words were pretty easy to understand, they didn’t really sound literal. When Stockton told me to “be careful,” it sounded like so much more than that.
So much more like something to be prized, to be valued, to be remembered forever.
Be careful didn’t sound like be careful at all.
Be careful sounded and felt very much like “I love you.”
Which couldn’t have been right. We barely knew each other and were maybe the most mismatched idea of a couple ever. But there it was all the same. And eventually, hours later, I stopped fighting it. I just let myself fall into those words and get wrapped up in their feel and secret meaning.
If Stockton, could see past all the bad parts of me and find something worthwhile, I was going to let him. I was going to let him get to know me and trust him with the results. I was tired of feeling unworthy and I was exhausted from trying to earn people’s affections and attention.
And next time I saw Stockton, I was going to tell him to “be careful” right back.
Chapter Fourteen
Stockton
I looked around frantically¸ shocked awake from a dream that I was drowning, reaching for someone that I could see standing on the bank—but they wouldn’t save me.
They just kept their arms folded in defiance and smugness.
My head dripped wet, salty stress, and it poured down my neck. Sheets and comforter, flung about the room, pajama pants tornadoed around my legs. And I had no idea where my pillow was. It was the same dream I’d had for years, but this time there was a slight difference. I now knew who the bastard at the bank was. The son of a bitch just stood there, arms folded, stance wide, shaking his head negatively—like he was ashamed to be around me—like I could save myself but I just wasn’t trying. I was trying—if trying meant flailing my arms and plunging my feet downward, desperately searching for the bottom of the cesspool.
The bastard on the bank of the muddy river was me.
I was unwilling to save myself.
Asshole.
I gathered up my blankets and sheets after twisting my pants in all directions trying to straighten them out. I found my pillow on the other side of the room behind a rocking chair and brought them all to the laundry room to wash since they were all soaked with my fear.
Stomping into the kitchen, trying to rouse myself from the dream and sleep, I found my brother Bridger at the table, head in his hands, looking like he’d just been dragged from the same river. My footsteps cracked his canister of thought and he looked up, guilty about something. Bridger was the particular one of the bunch. He was a stickler for the rules and I was pretty sure that every time he walked into the house, it took everything in him not to clean the place. Nothing was ever clean enough, nothing was ever straight enough, nothing was ever antiseptic enough for Bridger. He started the clean freakiness around his sophomore year in high school. It drove my mother nuts. She always kept the place sparkling, but not in his eyes. He could find a speck of dust in a field of flowers.
“Why aren’t you at school?” I asked as I put on the coffee pot.
“Nice to see you too, Stock. Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
I sat down across from him and hefted out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Bridger. What’s up?”
“I need to make a confession. It’s eating me alive.”
I scooted up like an old woman getting her gossip fix at her weekly canasta game.
“I—I’ve been seeing someone—someone local.”
I let his words de-jumble in my head, but came up still confused. “Be more specific.”
“I’ve been dating a girl around here. I need some advice.”
Will jumped out of the hallway and grabbed Bridger’s shoulders. He must’ve been really on edge because the squeal that erupted from his mouth would rival a cheerleader, in decibels and pitch.
“Good Lord, Bridger, you scream like a girl! So tell us who you’re dating while I scramble us some eggs.”
After he came down off the ceiling, he looked at me, he needed saving from something. He stood back up and mumbled some excuse about getting back to school and studying for a test. But Bridger had always been easily jolted.
Will scrambled eggs and popped four frozen biscuits into the toaster oven. I took the first shift in the shower while the biscuits took their time. And it was there, while the cold water pierced my pores, that I remembered my night with Cami. Something in our souls had fused the night before but it had done nothing to quell my need for more of her. I craved more of her voice through that God forsaken screen. It was all I could do not to rip the damned thing from its hinges and either drag her through the window to me—or jump through it to get to her. We’d laid a layer of foundation the night before and worked through some pretty tough feelings we both harbored. But tonight I was going with a list. I needed to go back to the basics.
I got out of the shower, toweled off and got dressed. I had caught up on the old orders and today I would make knives and machetes to bring to the flea market on Saturday. We were fine with money, but I didn’t know when my next order would come in. I could put up some money for once. I thought about the letter in the kitchen drawer that called to me.
If I relented, we wouldn’t have to worry about money—ever again.
We’d be set for life.
But at what price?
I sat down at the table and piled biscuits and eggs on my plate. Will did the same and bludgeoned her biscuits with strawberry jam from Preacher Wife.
“What’s up with Bridge? He looked like a mad man.”
I shrugged, but had already planned to call him later. Bridger wasn’t one to talk about feelings or talk to me at all much, so his visit this morning warranted a follow up.
“So, am I gonna have to threaten you or are you gonna tell me what happened last night? I heard you come in after one in the morning.”
I laughed at her empty threat, “It worked. We talked for hours.”
“About what? Tell me everything.”
I shook my head negatively, “No way, Nosey Rosey.”
“You’re no fun,” she said as she stabbed the last of her yellow clouds.
“Speaking of no fun, finish your chores today. I’ve been doing them for two days straight.”
She poked her bottom lip out, “But what if Cami comes by?”
“If she does, you can do whatever with her after your work. Give her a good example.”
“Friend stealer,” she mumbled and put her dish in the sink.
I cleaned up the kitchen while Will did her morning chores and went straight to the shop to begin. With the fire stoked and my too
ls back in order, I foraged through my scrap, searching for material. I found a weathered band saw blade that would be perfect for a matching pair of hunting knives. Will stuck her head in and told me goodbye with the last biscuit stuffed in her mouth. I got to work after chuckling, thinking about Cami herding sheep and milking cows.
Actually she probably looked completely gorgeous milking a cow—my own little milk maid with braids and wooden clogs.
I needed serious help.
You’re losing touch with reality.
After hammering out seven blades, I scoped around for wood to carve into handles but couldn’t find any. I knew Henry Macon had some since he’d cleared an area for a new pasture but going over there would just look like a desperate attempt to see Cami. I thought of Preacher. I knew he’d cut down a walnut tree recently and had given most of it away. Maybe he had some left.
I jumped in my truck and reached his home in less than twenty minutes. And just my luck he was outside speaking to Henry Macon—perfect.
I killed the engine, got out and approached carefully. They were both finishing the conversation up quickly and I tried not to take it personally.
“Stockton,” Henry greeted me, neither happy nor put off by my presence. At least that was something. We all shook hands and eventually they asked the reason for my visit. I explained my need for wood, suitable to carve handles for knives. Preacher led me to the back of his house and there was a chunk of wood perfect for everything I could need for the foreseeable future.
“Can we make a trade,” I asked earnestly.
Preacher looked to Henry and they shared some kind of nod.
“Actually, I was asking Henry here if Cami could come clean my house, help Edith out, but we can’t really pay.”