Dark Touch

by Aimee L. Salter

  Ms. Pine gives a tight smile. “Then, hopefully, next time you have a fall, you’ll call me so Chris doesn’t have to. Okay? Do we have a deal?”

  I hesitate. “I’ll tell you next time I hurt myself,” I say carefully. “If you promise me that you won’t take any action that I don’t agree with.”

  Her face tightens, but she nods. “I agree.”

  “Great.” I get to my feet and pick up my bag. “Can you sign me out for the day? My dad’s at work.” She fixes me with a look, but all she says is, “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” I head for the door, then I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, Ms. Pine,” I say roughly.

  There’s a beat, then, “I assure you, it’s all turned out well for me in the end.”

  Heavy silence, then I turn the knob, step out the door, and close it tightly behind me.

  Chapter 25

  I walk out of Ms. Pine’s office, eyes on the floor, hurrying along the main hallway. There are only five minutes until the lunch bell. I imagine running into Rudy and his oily jabs and walk faster, so focused on the exit at the end of the hall that I almost don’t catch the voice hissing my name.

  “Tully. Tully!”

  I stop midstep. Chris stands in the doorway to a janitor’s closet to my right, doorknob in hand, peering around it to make sure no one else is coming. Then he grips my wrist and gently pulls me in with him, closing the door slowly.

  “How did it go with Ms. Pine?” he asks. In the dark of the closet I can barely see him, but I’ve got my hand on his arm and I can feel the tension in it.

  “Are you okay?”

  He snorts. “I can’t believe you’re asking about me. Tell me . . . how bad does it hurt?” His finger traces my cheek so gently.

  “I’m fine, unless you punch me in the face.”

  Chris freezes, no doubt battling the urge to tell me my joke is not in good taste, but he resists. “Okay . . . because we have plans and I want you to be able to enjoy them.”

  “Plans?”

  In the dim light I can see his cheeks pull up. “The bell will ring in about five minutes, then we’re making a run for it.”

  “Run for what?”

  “We’re ditching.” He says this like it’s the height of scandal. I have to bite back the urge to mock him.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “Where are we going?”

  He grins wickedly. “On a date.”

  ~

  An hour later, buzzed on too much sugar from the doughnuts Chris bought us on the way out of town, we’re bouncing down a long and winding dirt driveway in his Jeep.

  “So, clearly we’re almost wherever we’re going. Can you please fill me in now?” I say, holding on to the handle on the roof as we shudder across another hole in the road.

  Chris grins and glances at me without answering.

  I shoot him a look, but he shrugs, drawing my attention to those rolling planes of muscle where his neck meets his shoulder. I turn away, watching the twisted trees and bushes out the window, filled with want and also with fear. Sometimes this relationship makes me feel as if I’m hanging off a cliff by my fingernails. But I don’t want to let go.

  I let my head fall against the window, suddenly exhausted.

  “You okay?” His voice is quiet, but heavy with concern.

  “Sure.” We jostle around a corner and the driveway opens to a massive field covered in large, green leaves, with flashes of orange peppered throughout. Chris pulls off the rutted driveway and brings the Jeep to a splattering halt in a puddle. In front of us is a large sign that reads HARVEST HOUSE PUMPKIN PATCH, OPENING OCTOBER 12TH.

  It’s October ninth. Also, pumpkins?

  I look at Chris, who’s pressing his lips together with the effort not to smile. “What the hell is going on?”

  He glances at me from the corner of his eye and the mischief on his face is so freaking adorable I want to kiss him.

  “We’re picking pumpkins,” he reveals. “This place belongs to my cousin. He said we could.” He tips his chin at the field.

  “Pumpkins? Why would we pick pumpkins?”

  He turns his head then and our eyes snag. “That’s the fun part. You’ll have to wait and see.” Then he pushes out of the Jeep and darts into the field, scanning the rows as he walks between the leaves. Suddenly he kneels, pulling something out of his pocket to saw at the vine. When he stands up, he staggers backward, then laughs at himself for almost losing his balance. He walks back toward me, prize in hand. He arrives at my side and drops the pumpkin next to the back wheel. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head and start into the field.

  Chris is still frowning, but he falls into step next to me, the backs of our hands brushing as we walk. “I want you to have fun,” he says quietly. “If this is hurting you, or—”

  “I’m fine,” I say to Chris carefully. But how do I explain this feeling, like the ground is crumbling out from under my feet? And he wants me to pick pumpkins?

  He stops and tugs at my sleeve so I stop next to him. I turn and without preamble he’s cupping the back of my neck.

  “You aren’t fine,” he says softly. “But no one would be. It’s okay.”

  Then he kisses me softly. His kiss is different. Careful. Like I’m breakable. I cling to him, surprised to find I’m fighting tears. I lean in closer, my breath already speeding up. His hand slides down my waist and I’m hit with a bolt of desire. My pulse thrums in my ears. I tangle my fingers into his hair and pull him closer.

  Eventually he pulls back, but doesn’t let go.

  “Thank you,” I say. Then I step out of his arms and clap my hands together with more enthusiasm than I feel. “Let’s pick some pumpkins!”

  Together, we pick a ton of pumpkins, hacking and sawing them off the vines until the sun starts to sink in the sky. My mood lightens being with Chris, but there’s still something sick rolling in my chest. I left home unexpectedly this morning. I’ll have to go back tonight and face Dad. Probably watch him stare at my bruise, but never mention it. Or watch him turn into a blubbering, apologetic mess. A lying mess. Or worse, he’ll make an encore performance of last night’s shit storm. I push the thoughts away. I’ll sleep in Nigel tonight if I have to.

  After we gather our bounty, I half expect Chris to try to take me home to make jack-o’-lanterns, or something, so I’m surprised when he turns down the highway on the edge of town and out into the hills on the other side.

  “Where are we going now?” I’m not sure I have the energy for anything else, frankly.

  Chris rubs my thigh and I shiver. “The quarry. The old water tower.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it . . . stress release.”

  I look at him, but he doesn’t elaborate.

  Ten minutes later, we get out of the Jeep at the foot of the old water tower. The last of the daylight is fading behind the hills, turning all the gravel and dirt into fuzzy shadows. Chris appears behind me and throws a hoodie over my shoulders. I’m grateful for it and immediately pull it over my head. It smells like him. “What are we doing?”

  “You’ll see.” He winks at me, then opens the back of the Jeep. He fills my arms with two or three smaller pumpkins, then loads some of the big ones into a sports duffel bag. Then he throws that over one shoulder and tips his head toward the winding metal stairs that circle the water tower.

  “Come on. This is the best part!”

  Hesitantly, I follow him, feet clanging on each step, higher and higher and higher, until I’m panting. When I get to the top and crawl awkwardly through the square hole onto the walkway around the outside of the water tank itself, I sigh with relief, shift to the side to let Chris through on his way back down, then stop cold.

  From up here, the edge of the sun is still visible, dipping below the level of the distant trees on r
olling hilltops. It gilds everything it touches, throwing the rest of the world into a dark mass of shadows. Wisps of clouds turn golden, then orange, then pink, until they finally edge into purple and blend into the rapidly encroaching dark.

  “It’s beautiful.” It’s so peaceful. There are deeper shadows in the valley where I can see the lights from town shimmering. But most of it is hills and trees, and that ever-diminishing sun. I exhale slowly, let go of some of the weight.

  Suddenly, three lights flicker and pop, then shine bright in the deepening dark. One is directly over our heads, another lights the ground beneath us, and the last illuminates the area where we parked, reflecting off the Jeep.

  There’s clunking and rustles, then Chris mutters something I can’t make out before calling, “Okay, I think we’re ready!”

  “Ready for what?” I finally turn from the view and head toward him.

  “Target practice,” he says with a wicked grin.

  I get close enough to see dozens of pumpkins, big and small, in neat lines at his feet. He’s hanging over the guardrail, looking down. I join him, leaning over to examine the ground below. There are three patches of dirt roughly outlined in rocks, each with a large, jagged rock in the middle.

  “Those are targets?”

  “Yep.” He grabs a smaller pumpkin. It suddenly dawns on me what we’re here to do. “See that one in the middle?” he says quietly. “That’s my mom when she acts like I’m five.” He holds the pumpkin in both hands, concentrating hard, then lets it go with a grunt.

  The pumpkin seems to hang in the air for a second, then it plummets to the ground and hits the dirt to the right of the middle target. With a satisfyingly deep thud, it explodes, sending chunks of pumpkin, tiny pieces of guts, and strings of pumpkin seeds for several feet in all directions.

  I laugh.

  “Your turn,” Chris says, holding out one of the bigger pumpkins.

  Suddenly thrilled to give this a try, I take it, and heft it a few times to get the feel of it. I follow his example and lean out over the guardrail, holding the pumpkin out. My arms immediately begin to tremble.

  My skin tingles as Chris puts his arms around me, his hands resting on mine. “It’s deceiving,” he murmurs into my hair. “You don’t have to push it out so far.” He pulls the pumpkin closer. “Hold it out there, decide who’s sitting on that rock in the middle and let it go.”

  I nod. Chris lets go of the pumpkin, then I do, too. I hold my breath as it slides through the air.

  A gasp leaves my throat a split second before it lands, half on the large rock I’d aimed for, glancing off and exploding with a thick sound that echoes out across the hills. Orange is everywhere, jagged chunks spinning in the air, long lines of sticky, stringy pumpkin guts flinging out and away from the point of impact.

  I clap my hands. Chris chuckles softly.

  “Give me another one,” I say. There’s darkness in my voice that I didn’t expect, but anticipation, too. Chris grabs another pumpkin, not quite as big this time, and hands it to me. Then he picks up a small one and finds a grip on it with one hand.

  “On three?” he says, grinning.

  “On three.”

  I don’t let this one drop, I hold it over my head, then put all my strength into throwing it down. My chest bounces painfully against the guardrail, but the pumpkin dives for the ground like it was shot from a cannon. It hits half a second before Chris’s, strings from both pumpkins connecting and spinning through the night air before disappearing into the shadows.

  I laugh and the knot in my chest loosens.

  I aim at Nicole’s perfect hair and Rudy’s greasy smirk. I throw pumpkins at my father—wish pain on him, and feel something loosen in my gut every time one of the pumpkins explodes. I heave one at That Man, wishing I could flatten him in my memory as easily as I destroy the pulpy fruit.

  By the end we’re in some kind of frenzy, silent until the pumpkins thunk into the earth, then whooping and clapping. When we get to the final two we’re still breathless with laughter.

  “Okay, last round. One target each. Get closest to the bull’s-eye and you win breakfast on me,” Chris says.

  “What if you win?”

  “I get to take you to breakfast.” He glances at me, hunger in his gaze that has nothing to do with breakfast.

  I stifle a laugh and heft my pumpkin. It’s larger than his, fairly heavy.

  “You ready?” I grin.

  “Let’s do this,” he says. “This is for my mother being a hypocrite!” he booms. O-crit, o-crit, o-crit . . . bounces back at us from the hills, until it’s taken over by the thunk of the pumpkin hitting home, exploding, just left of the bull’s-eye, but so close the side of the rock is coated in pumpkin entrails.

  “Wahooo!” My scream echoes out over the trees.

  Chris laughs and hangs over the rail, his biceps curled in a way that makes me want to stroke them. I laugh at his delight. Then he turns to me and sobers. “Your turn,” he says quietly.

  I look down. In my mind’s eye I can see my father superimposed over the rock. He’s got that slack, drunken glaze that always makes my stomach twist. For a second I hesitate. Then Imaginary Dad’s lip curls and he raises a fist.

  I scream, “Asshole!” and throw the pumpkin with both hands, heaving with every ounce of strength. For a second I’m at risk of falling over the guardrail. Lightning crackles across my vision and my face throbs. But Chris’s hand on my back keeps me grounded, and the pumpkin lands like an atom bomb right on target, the bull’s-eye rock piercing it from the bottom up. Pieces are flung far and wide, spinning chunks and pulsing strings.

  Chris watches, openmouthed, as the pumpkin explodes up and out like a sticky, orange wave. One string slaps wetly against the side of the water tower. When the shrapnel has settled, it’s spread across all three targets.

  Chris whistles. “Nice job.”

  My hands are shaking. I grip the guardrail to hide it. The adrenalin still pumping under my skin makes my eye tingle and throb.

  “No less than he deserves.”

  Chris steps over to wrap his arms around me and drop his chin next to my ear.

  “I guess that means I owe you breakfast.”

  I turn so my lips are within reach of his. “Promise?” I am asking a completely different question. But he catches it.

  He kisses me softly. “Soon. I promise.”

  I shiver and lean into his arms, his lips. Into my hope that one day I’ll get all of him.

  Chapter 26

  A week later, bruises fading, I’m walking the back route from the school parking lot to the main building when Rudy appears in front of me. His hair hangs in his eyes and his backpack dangles from one shoulder. I’m immediately hit with a wave of nausea.

  “Hey, Tulip,” he says with a smile that glints like a knife.

  “Don’t talk to me.” I twist slightly to pass him on the narrow walkway, but he takes my elbow and pulls me to a stop. I whirl on him and yank my arm out of his grip. I expect him to grab me again, to have to fight my way out of here, but instead he puts his hands up, like he’s trying to soothe me.

  “What do you want, Rudy?” I snap.

  “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

  “So?”

  He rakes a hand through his hair. “I want to hook up like we used to,” he says quietly.

  “You’re insane.”

  I turn and stalk away, but he’s on my heels. “Hear me out, Tully. I know you’ve got this thing with Chris now, and that’s . . . well, anyway, I won’t tell him. And I won’t screw it up again. I hear you, okay? I was an asshole for calling Jake that night. I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s right you won’t, because I’m never touching you again.”

  “Tully—”

  “Find another way to get high, Rudy.”

  He takes a couple of
quick steps to get in front of me, and I jerk to a halt before I can run into him. There’s steel in his eyes, but his voice is whiny, pleading.

  “You must miss it, cutting loose like that. Right? And your boyfriend probably has a quilting class on Fridays or something—”

  “You’re not helping your cause,” I shoot back.

  Rudy looks away, buries his hands deep in his pockets. “I’m just saying I won’t screw things up for you with Golden Boy, okay? I miss . . .” For a second I think he’s going to say “you,” but he hesitates, then says “. . . our thing. And I know you do, too. All this running around with Mr. Straight Edge has to be boring as hell. So come out with me on Friday. I’ll get you something awesome, and we’ll . . . you know, have a good time.”

  For the briefest second I remember what it’s like to float, to drift from my life and leave it all behind. My dad. This town. That Man. But then I think of Chris, of what I feel when he touches me. The deep gray of his eyes when I touch him.

  And no. Just no.

  My pause has given Rudy hope, though. He steps closer—too close—and touches the back of my hand. He’s the only one who knows my boundaries. Knows it has to be my hands if you want to feel what I’m feeling. Knows he can touch my skin anywhere else, and it’s just a touch. Nothing dark.

  I’m reminded of what he’s given me in the past, and how much I needed him. And a little part of me is sad that he’s such a screw-up. Because I think Rudy needs friends and a life as much as I do. But then his eyes drop to my mouth. He licks his lips and my empathy vanishes.

  “Too little, too late, Rudy.” I elbow him aside and walk away.

  Rudy throws his words at my back. “Think you’re better than me now that you’ve got a rich boyfriend? You’ll see, Tulip. You’ll come running back to me when he dumps you for someone less fucked up, and then see where you are! All alone! You’re gonna be alone because I’m walking, you hear me?”

  One step. For one step, I falter. Because he’s giving voice to the thing I fear most. That Chris will wake up one morning and see who I really am. That he’ll walk away and never look back.