by Amber Hart
He mumbles something about giving him more credit than that.
My eyes droop, and I reach for the door to steady myself. He holds me against his chest and exhales deeply.
“I’ll walk you to your room, mostly to make sure you get there all right, but that’s it. Try to be quiet. The last thing I need is for Old Lady Bell to spot me in her house.”
I laugh as he follows me inside, up the stairs, and to my bedroom door.
He pulls me in once more for a hug. I memorize the beat of his heart. It pounds me a lullaby even after he turns to leave, and I lie down and fall asleep.
20
Beau
After school, we decide to walk the swamp trails. Willow is two paces in front of me. Her button-up shirt is loose, and her jeans are tight. Boots reach her knees, protecting her from snakes. Somehow she makes clunky knee-high boots look sexy.
“You’re really planning on capturing frogs to eat?” I ask.
That’s what we’re doing out here. Frog hunting.
She throws me a backward glance, grinning to the sky and back. “Sure am.”
“You’ve eaten frog legs before?”
Don’t ask me why I’m grilling her on it. Guess I don’t exactly see her as a frog leg type of girl.
“Sure have. Plenty of times. Boy, don’t you know my gran?”
“’Course I do,” I say. The trail here is narrow, and so I keep pace a step behind Willow. “Her I could see eating them, sure. But not you.”
“Well, I do, and they’re delicious,” she says proudly.
When the path widens and mud slurps at our boots, I move beside her. A sack drapes over one of her shoulders, held there by a strap.
“How many frogs can you fit in there?” I ask.
“As many as I can find, I suppose,” she says.
“I’ve never had frog legs,” I tell her.
Her arm brushes mine, and I wonder if she wishes she could keep touching me like I wish I could keep touching her.
“You’re welcome to come over and have dinner with us.” She tries hard not to laugh, but it’s no use because one pours out anyway. I imagine the horror that must be painted on my face.
“And put myself within five feet of Old Lady Bell? Never.”
“How about I bring you some frog legs afterward, and you show me that cabin of yours?”
The fact that Willow just invited herself over doesn’t escape me. She must know what she’s boldly asking to walk into. She’s already had a small dose of Charlotte, and she didn’t like it then. She won’t like it now, either, especially in Charlotte’s domain.
“That sounds like a perfect plan.”
We walk a faint path through bushes, across a spot where the ground begins to dry, and down a trail that has worn itself into the earth. Pebbles stick into the soles of our boots. The water sits so still that you’d think it was green ground. Willow and I know the difference, though. Throw a rock at it and the flat surface shatters, only to re-stitch itself again in seconds.
“There!” Willow dives at a frog, catching it with her bare hands.
She startles the frog next to it into hopping at me. I pin it down with my boot, and Willow throws it in the sack, too.
“More come out at night,” she says.
But there’s no way I’m walking through the swamp at night. Even Willow won’t risk it.
An eerie wind creeps around the trees, howling. The branches groan and bend like creaking bones. The sky overhead darkens, and Willow smiles. Sometimes I wonder if the girl has any fear at all, but then I remember the night we saw the man in the woods, and I know for sure that she does, rare as it may be.
“We’ve got another hour, at most, before the swamp floods,” I warn her.
I kind of like that she’s smiling, as though I’m issuing her a challenge, when most people would have called it quits right then and there.
She moves through the forest ahead of the storm, catching frogs and demanding that I do the same. The waters sweep out into what looks like a lake. Over it, where the trees are sparse, I can see the gale clearly. We’re running out of time. Blackness bites at the sky.
We push it until the last minute. Until we get twenty-three frogs. Until the wind whips Willow’s hair around her head in a crazed frenzy and we’re running for the property dividing line. Rain pelts us, warning us to get inside.
“Meet me here tonight,” she says.
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “See you then.”
Excitement punctures my every thought, and my heartbeat matches the patter of the now falling rain.
…
The rain never lets up. Willow meets me as promised with a bowl in one hand and an umbrella in the other. For a moment we stand under an anemic silver moon, watching lightning tear open the sky.
“Come on, then,” I tell her, leading the way.
Tonight is quiet and cool in the swamp, save the rain that drains all noise. No stars can be seen. It’s as though they’ve fallen from the sky.
Our raincoats and exposed skin are completely soaked by the time we make it to my front porch, but neither of us mind. Willow’s hair is plastered to her face, and her eyes are wide as I open the cabin door.
“Wow,” she whispers.
I stand stock-still as she takes in everything. The living room and kitchen, the den and fireplace. A hallway splits off to the side, where three rooms and a bathroom can be found.
She walks into the entryway and takes off her boots and socks. Her bare feet leave wet footprints on the wooden floor.
“Willow,” I say in her ear. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Do you have tea?” she asks.
“I do.” I take her raincoat from her and hang it on the rack.
Her purple dress, only slightly wet, hugs her in all the right places. I cannot tear my attention away. I feel my body’s reaction to her bubbling to the surface, and I have to forcibly shove it down, to look somewhere else, anywhere else, besides her hypnotic eyes, her unbelievably intoxicating dress.
She goes straight to the den as I remove my coat and shoes.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say.
I go to the kitchen to make hot tea, and I watch Willow through the open doorway the entire time. Which is maybe why, with my eyes on her, I don’t see Charlotte in the shadows.
“Well, well, well,” she whispers.
I turn to find my sister leaning against the counter, watching me. I set down the bowl I took from Willow. I suspect it’s frog legs.
Charlotte grins slyly. “You finally invited her over.”
I grab tea from the shelf and heat a pot of water on the stove.
“She even has you doing her bidding in here,” she says.
I sigh. “It’s tea, Charlotte. Give it a rest. Besides, what happened to helping me? Willow’s finally here. Don’t be mean about it.”
“I meant I’d help you get over her.”
“I don’t want to get over her. And I think Willow might be around more in the future, so don’t mess this up for me.”
My sister steps out of the shadows, and I catch sight of her vindictive smile.
“Well, by all means, I should say hello, then, shouldn’t I?” she asks.
I step toward her as the water begins to boil and pop on the stovetop.
“If you go anywhere near her tonight, I will kill you,” I warn.
It’s an empty threat, and she knows it.
She laughs and walks to the stove to drop the tea bags in herself. “That’s not very nice of you.”
“What’s your problem with her anyway?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says, losing the grin, “my problem is with you, not her.”
I brush her aside to steep the bags several times, and then take them out and add sugar. Charlotte sets two mugs in front of me.
“You’re fixated on her. You’re reminding me too much of Mom.” And with an air of finality, she stalks out of the room.
I remind myself t
o think of Willow. Only Willow. Not my parents and the agony of their memory.
I wait for the click of Charlotte’s bedroom door before joining Willow.
Instinct tells me that my sister will leave us be for the night. But just in case, I shut the door to the den, blocking out Charlotte and Grandpa.
A barricade for Willow and me.
21
Willow
To call the room a den is an understatement. Or maybe it’s the large fireplace against the wall, making it look bigger. Two chairs sit by the empty hearth, waiting for Beau and me to fill them. I go to the next wall and examine the books, running my fingers along each built-in shelf.
“What a beautiful room,” I say.
One wall is occupied by a large bay window with a seat. Rain coats the pane like a wash of tears.
“It’s my favorite,” he replies.
He hands me a cup of tea.
“I put sugar in it.”
Like he knows I’d want sugar. Well, he’s right. I take a warming sip.
“It needs more next time,” I say, stubborn, even though it has enough sugar. I don’t want him thinking he knows me inside and out.
I sink into the chair and rest my bare feet on the edge of the fireplace. Beau watches me. More than once I see his eyes slip to my dress.
“You’ll have to try the frog legs later. Warm up the butter, they’re better that way,” I say.
Having eaten quite a few myself, my belly is full to the brim. Nothing better than a full belly and a hot tea. Well, maybe Beau’s eyes are better. Yes, maybe that.
“What happened last night?” he asks.
I’m partially glad Beau didn’t kiss me, as much as I wanted him to then. Now that I see his den, and his hungry look, I realize there are better places for a first kiss with him.
“I think we both know what nearly happened,” I reply.
“You almost kissed me,” he says. “Was that the drink or you?”
“The last one,” I admit.
He grins. “Really?”
“Well, you haven’t had any more girls here,” I retort.
“Is that why, then?” he questions.
“Might have something to do with it.”
“Might it also have something to do with the fact that you’ve been interested since the first day you saw me on the path?” he asks.
It’s a bold thing to say, but he’s not wrong.
“It could have a lot to do with a lot of things,” I answer.
He sets his tea on a side table and walks to the bookshelf, like he’s searching for something. And I’ll be damned if I don’t follow.
His impossible shock of dark hair refuses to lie any one way.
“Why do you go through so many girls, Beau?”
It looks as though he’s considering not answering me, but then he says, “I guess I don’t ever want to get close to anyone again.”
“Did you love a girl once?” I ask.
I hate the thought, but maybe that’s why he is the way he is.
“No. Not yet anyway.”
His face softens, and I think I might be hearing the truth.
“Who’d you love, then? Who did you love so much that you turned mean when you lost them?” Because there was someone, of that I’m sure.
He winces. I’m close to his demons. I risk getting closer by threading my fingers through his.
“You can tell me, you know. I won’t repeat your secrets.”
He takes a deep breath and considers me. “I lost my parents.”
So people were right about his parents’ passing.
“What happened to them?” Maybe it’s rude to ask, but I can’t help myself.
I see the slight shift in his expression, one that tells me he might trust me after all.
“One morning, same as every morning, my dad went for a daily run,” he begins. “That was the last time I ever saw him. A car turned a bend. The driver was distracted with the radio. My dad never stood a chance. His injuries were too severe, and my mom had to pull the plug.”
Beau runs a hand roughly through his hair and looks away from me.
“It was a death sentence for my mom, as well. She died a year later of a broken heart, though the official report states pneumonia. She was too lost to grief to ever recover. She didn’t sleep right, eat right, and she got sick. It went to her lungs, and by the time she entered the hospital, it was too late,” he continues, as though determined to get it all out now and then not talk about it again. “She died a few days after being admitted. My mom couldn’t stand a world without my dad, and I suppose I never want to love someone that badly. I never want to lose someone like I lost my parents, because I don’t think I could handle it a third time.”
He rubs the roughened pad of his thumb over my palm in a slow trance, not bothering to hide the sadness that gets trapped in the corners of his eyes.
“So you won’t get close to girls now?” I ask.
“To anyone, really. I can’t let people in.”
“You’ve let me in.”
His gaze narrows. “Have I?”
I’d like to think so. He did just share his parents’ story with me. No one in town or at our school knows what happened, as much as they speculate, but Beau trusted me, to my astonishment and delight. That says something.
“Then there’s Charlotte. She’s the same as me, scared to feel again. But don’t ever tell her I told you.”
Suddenly, I see Beau and his sister differently. I think of my parents, of what it’d be like to lose them, and I can hardly stand the thought.
“No wonder you’re scared,” I whisper.
“I’m not scared,” he says. But he’s lying.
“Are too. That’s why you’ve never invited me over yourself. Bringing me here is different than bringing the other girls, isn’t it?”
He’s quiet, maybe even shocked. Finally, he finds his voice.
“You’re right. You’re so close now, too close. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you since the day I saw you through the kitchen window. And then you went off with Brody.”
He reaches for the nape of my neck and cups it gently.
“I can’t promise to give you myself, the real me. And I can’t promise to give you what you need or deserve, but I also can’t stop wanting you.”
All I can think about is his hand on my neck and his breath on my face.
“Promise me you’ll try. That’s all I ask.”
My stomach feels as though it’s been filled with moths beating their wings in sync with the pounding of my heart. I can taste the excitement in the air, his confession hanging between us.
Beau places his other hand on the shelf beside my head, clenching it tightly.
“Can’t you see that I’m trying to hold up a wall all on my own?” His eyes convey the warning he speaks. “This is my defense, Willow. This is all I have left. If I let it down…what then?”
I take a deep breath and exhale each word slowly. “Then you have a chance to feel something real.”
“Pain is real. Grief, too.” His jaw clenches with the effort to hold himself together.
I wonder how heavy the wall must be and how long he’s been holding it alone.
I nod. “You’re right. But sometimes letting go is the best feeling of all.”
“I’m not ready.” He removes his hand from the shelf and runs his fingers through my hair.
I inhale sharply.
“Then at least create a crack big enough for me to slip through,” I whisper. “Try to let me see the real you. I think…I think I have already…in pieces. Let me have more. Try, Beau. Promise you’ll give it a shot. There’s nothing here for me if you refuse to let me in.”
“Fine,” he agrees. “I swear.”
And then, finally, his lips press onto mine. Softly at first, giving me time to change my mind. But that’s not going to happen.
I drown in Beau’s taste and kiss him back, harder than I intend, but I can’t help it.
I run my fingers down his arms. His skin is hot, hot, hot, so hot. His hands travel to my hips. I break away for a moment, just to see his eyes. There is something dangerous about them. A wild abandon. Part happiness, part dragging me back. He kisses me again.
I can’t think. I ache where his fingers make contact, like a scorching blueprint of his touch.
“Don’t stop kissing me,” he says. “Don’t ever stop kissing me.”
So I don’t.
Maybe I’ve gone mad because it almost feels like too much. Way too much. He kisses me to the depths of the sea. He reaches into my soul, I swear he does. And maybe that’s what Gran meant all along, but I don’t care. I really don’t.
I kiss him more. His hands slip to my legs, to the hem of my dress. His fingers are on a course to a place where no one has been, and that’s what finally snaps me out of it.
“Beau,” I say, half dazed. “I have to go.”
Even though I want nothing more than to stay here.
“You have to—” He pulls back, looking incredulous. As though he can’t be persuaded to believe what I’ve just said. “You have to what?”
“I have to go,” I whisper. “It’s late.”
I kiss him one more time. Okay, three more times. And then I walk away on wobbly legs, back to the property dividing line and into the house across from the boy who finally let down his defenses.
22
Beau
I don’t worry the next day at school when I find Willow leaning against a locker, talking to Brody. Because I did what she asked: I tore down my walls for her. We have something good. And besides, Brody could never kiss her like I do. She could never want him like she wants me. So, with no doubt on my mind, I slink up to her side and wrap an arm around her waist. I kiss her right on the lips. In front of the school. In front of Brody. In front of my sister, no less. Willow kisses me back.
I pull away a moment later.
“Beau Cadwell,” she says, flustered.
“Later.” I wink and walk down the hall.
…
“Grandpa, are you all right?” I ask, watching the way he limps to the chair. He never used to limp, did he?
“Just my hip,” he says, shooing off my unease.