Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  I take the last sip of my beer and stare out at the overgrown, dead grass that needs to be mowed, then at the old man’s beat-up 1967 electric-blue El Camino covered in cobwebs and bird shit. Two of the tires are flat, the windshield is cracked, and by the looks of it, the car hasn’t been driven in ages. For the dozenth time, I wonder how sick the old man was and for how long. Although I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d died of liver failure, I hadn’t known he was sick.

  Without thought, I dial Nick.

  It only rings twice before he answers. “You’ve barely been home a day and you already miss me,” Nick says, his breathing laborious. I wonder what I’ve interrupted.

  “What can I say, I missed your beautiful smile.”

  Nick chuckles and sighs dramatically. “They all do, my friend. They all do. But we can whisper sweet nothings later. What’s up?”

  Stepping back into the doorway, I peer around the living room, taking stock of all that needs to be done. “I need a drink and the name of a recommended hauling company, to start with.”

  “Oh shit, that bad, huh? You clearing out the house?”

  “Yep. It’s too much for a few dump runs. It needs to be gutted.”

  “Demolition? Alright, I’ll call Steve, a regular at Lick’s. I’ll see if he’s got any guys available this week.”

  “Perfect. As soon as possible would be great.” I lean against the doorframe and run my hand over my hair. “I was originally thinking a month, but this—I’m going to need a lot of extra hands to make this place even remotely saleable.”

  “You got it.”

  Knowing I still have a friend in all the chaos and uncertainty brings a warmth to my heart, and an emotion I don’t want to think too much about tightens my chest. “Thanks, my man.”

  “Anything else?”

  I stare at the walls that box the house up, making it small and dingy. “I can find a dumpster company, but if you know any contractors that you trust, I could use their names.”

  “I know a few people. I’ll talk to them and see if anyone’s available.”

  “Great. I think that’s it for now, unless you want to swing a sledgehammer with me. I’m going to start the demo as soon as I get the garbage out of here.”

  “Smashing things? I love that shit. I’m at Lick’s tomorrow, but I’m free Sunday to help with whatever.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You should stop by the bar tonight, see some of the old crew.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “It will be.”

  I chuckle. “Alright, it’s a date. I’ll shower and head into town. Stay out of trouble,” I say.

  “No guarantees.”

  “Later.”

  It’s heartening to talk to someone from that other part of my life, but everything still feels off. It’s like I don’t belong here anymore. I realize how much I miss my brothers-in-arms back in Japan. I had thought I’d missed the comfortable clothes and ability to plan out my own day, but now that I’m here, I miss having a purpose, a rigid schedule to adhere to, and my brothers to work with and shoot the shit every day. Although I know coming home was the right decision, I’m already counting down the days until I can go back.

  After another hour passes and all the garbage cans I have are filled to near busting, I decide it’s time to get cleaned up and head into town. When I turn on the shower, my plans change.

  “Great.” The water barely dribbles out of the showerhead. Sweaty, hungry, and beyond irritated, I shut the faucet off, stomp through the house, grab a crusty rag off the floor, and head out the front door and up the slight incline, toward the water pump. Silently, I pray the pump is simply corroded or covered in grime, an easy fix to getting it up and working again. I might not have a decent place to stay, but I’m convinced that everything else will be easier if I can at least be clean.

  Unlatching the pump house door, I stare in at the small pump covered in cobwebs and ant trails. I crouch down, unsurprised to find ants and debris covering the connections. I dust the pump off with the rag, making sure I wipe every dead bug, web, and speck of dirt off the connections, hoping I’m saving myself from having to come back up. I’m about to call it good when I hear a muffled voice outside and I still, listening.

  “ ... my girl.”

  I stand up and peer through the open door, out at a white and gray horse with a petite, blonde angel sitting in the saddle a couple dozen yards away. She stares down the hill at my house, her expression curious and assessing. One hand holds the reins, the other rests on her thigh, tapping it anxiously, a telling quirk of hers I remember from before.

  What Sam is doing here, I have no idea, but I’m curious to say the least. I have questions I want answered, things I want to say to her, but right now, watching her seems to be all I can do.

  Sam wipes a loose strand of hair from her face and gives her horse the reins as it pulls for room to nip at the weeds.

  I don’t like how the line of my sight follows the bronzed curve of her legs resting in the stirrups. Or the way her tank top hugs her chest in the breeze. Her hair floats around her face, under her chin, and rides the current out behind her. If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being in control, and around Sam, I’m confused and angry and hopeful, like I’m grasping for it instead.

  I’m about to step outside and ask her why she’s staring down at my house, but then she clicks, Shasta turns around, and they ride off, like they were never even here.

  Eight

  Sam

  Four years ago...

  The sun is lowering in the sky and the breeze turns fierce and cold. I move to sit closer to the bonfire and wrap my jacket tighter around me. It was dumb of me not to bring pants, or at least something warmer to shrug into. Even the sand has cooled beneath me, no longer heated by the sun. How Mac can run around in a tank top and shorts right now I have no idea, but I smile as she attempts to throw a Frisbee to a group of friends, only to have it jet downward and lodge itself in the sand a yard or so in front of her. I laugh out loud and hold my hands to the flames for warmth, thoroughly entertained. It’s nice to have these weekend beach parties. It helps me keep my mind off of Reilly and gets me out of the house, away from Papa and Alison.

  “Here.” A male voice drifts down from above me. I peer up to see Mike standing there, offering me a blanket. “Please,” he says, “use this.”

  I smile, shivering at the mere thought of being warmer. “That’s really nice of you,” I say, “but aren’t you going to use it?”

  Mike shrugs and plops down in the sand beside me. “I’m okay right now.” He holds the blanket out again. “Here.”

  “Well, thank you,” I say. “I should’ve brought one. I knew better.”

  He shrugs again. “I always have one in my car, it’s no big deal.”

  I can feel Mike’s eyes on me as I wrap his blanket around my shoulders. This is the first time he’s tried to talk to me since we were introduced earlier. I shiver again, my teeth chattering.

  “What’s your name again?” he asks, and his gaze narrows on me, then flicks from my eyes down to my mouth and back.

  I blush. “Sam.”

  “Well, Sam, I’m—”

  “Mike,” I finish for him. “I remember.”

  He smiles. “So, Sam, you’re not into Frisbee?” He puts another log on the fire.

  I shake my head. “Not today. It’s getting too cold.”

  “Lucky me, then,” he says. When I look at him, he’s still smiling. I instantly look away, unsure if he’s just being nice or if he’s flirting with me.

  “You don’t play?” I ask, and I watch as Mac laughs and gives Nick a victorious high-five.

  “Nah. Not really, and especially not when there’s a pretty girl sitting all by herself—and I don’t mean that in a creepy way. You looked a little lonely is all.”

  My defenses rise a bit, and I wonder if he’s kidding or if he can really tell how alone I feel.

  He must see something
in my expression that worries him. “I didn’t mean anything by that, sorry. I was just making conversation.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair and looks away, a little embarrassed, I think.

  I shrug his apology away. “It’s okay. You’re right, actually. I’m feeling a little down today.” I’m not sure why I bother saying anything to this guy who’s mostly a stranger, but the fact that he’s talking to me, showing an iota of concern when he could be out having fun with the others, warms my heart a little. Not even Mac has seemed to notice that I’ve been struggling lately.

  “So,” I continue, not wanting to talk about me. “You’re here with Bethany?”

  Mike lifts a shoulder. “I’m new in town, so I’m sort of clinging to people.” It’s a joke, and it makes me smile because I know what it feels like to have to cling and hold on.

  “Are you actually moving here or just passing through?”

  Mike lets a handful of sand fall between his fingers, and I notice how different his hands are than Reilly’s—softer looking, even more than mine. “I’m not really sure yet. My parents just had a house built here. I’m from the east coast, but my mom’s trying to get me into the family business—property development stuff. She wants to expand the business around the area.”

  “Yeah? That’s good.”

  He nods toward Bethany, who’s prancing around in the sand, playfully running away from another guy I’ve only just met today. “I met Bethany the other day, and she invited me to the bonfire.” As he says this, she looks over at us and her gaze narrows.

  “She doesn’t look very happy that you’re talking to me,” I say, amused. “Are you two dating or something?”

  Mike balks. “No, we’re not dating.”

  “I see. Not attached. Noted.”

  Mike tosses a splinter of wood into the fire and looks at me. “You are though, aren’t you?”

  I meet his gaze.

  “Rumor has it that your boyfriend left, went overseas.”

  I nod, and I feel my features fall a little. “He didn’t just leave, well, not really.” I frown as I catch myself hesitating. “But yes, he’s in the Army.”

  Mike pulls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them. “I don’t get it—why he’d leave when he has you here.”

  “He has his reasons for leaving,” I say, defensive, though at the moment I can’t think of any that justify the distance and silence that’s been spanning from days into weeks lately.

  Mike shakes his head. “I should really learn to keep my mouth shut. I know it’s none of my business.” He smiles regretfully and my tension eases a little bit.

  It’s my turn to shrug this time. “It’s fine, it just sucks, you know. I didn’t realize it would be this hard.” Mike sits there quietly, listening, and for whatever reason, I can’t stop the months’ worth of thoughts from pouring out of my mouth. “I don’t know why, but I thought it would be easier, you know? I thought that if you loved someone so much it would work itself out. But it feels like it’s getting harder every day, and I don’t know what to do about it. The thoughts that run through my mind when I don’t hear from him . . .” I let out a much-needed breath. “Sorry, I’m over-sharing, aren’t I?” I groan.

  Mike’s face lights up in a half smile. “You’re pretty cute,” he says, but then his expression changes. He just watches me with what looks like sympathy shadowing his eyes, and his brow creases.

  “I didn’t mean to make it awkward,” I say and wrap my arms around me a little tighter.

  “It’s not that. I just . . . it seems like you’re really struggling with this, and even though I don’t really know you, I can’t help but ask why you do this to yourself.”

  I look at him askance. “Do what?”

  Mike shakes his head. “After what Bethany’s told me, I’d be worried about him being over there too. Why are you putting yourself through that—the worrying, the heartache . . .”

  My heart’s already pounding as all my fears boom and shriek inside my head. I dread the answer, but I ask the question anyway. “What did Bethany tell you?” Part of me knows she’s sneaky and she’d probably lie, so I shouldn’t take anything she’s said to heart, but I need to know.

  Mike’s eyes widen, and he lifts a shoulder. “Ah, she mentioned he’s a flirt, I guess you could call it, and something that happened between them a while back, probably before you guys were together, but . . . it’s just weird. On top of the fact that he left you.” He pauses a beat. “And I’m getting the impression I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says as he watches my expression change, my features probably twisting into something grotesque. “I assumed you knew and that’s why you and Bethany didn’t like each other—why you were struggling so much—”

  “She told you all of that?” I almost can’t breathe, even though I’m sure half of it’s not true. But some of it could be. They could’ve been together before I came into the picture, and that makes me feel sick to my stomach because I hate to imagine him with anyone else, least of all her. If it is true, I doubt Reilly would’ve told me. Why would he? I never asked him about it.

  All the images of them flirting come to mind and it all starts clicking into place.

  My chest is tight and my cheeks are damp. I sit up in bed and peer around my room. It’s cast in shadows, but I can tell it’s a nearly full moon by how bright it is. I try to focus on something to control my thudding heartbeat.

  Scrubbing the remnants of the memories from my face, I take a shaky breath, breathing out everything that feels suddenly raw and exposed. The window’s open, and I can feel the brink of morning against my skin. The air is brisk and smells of damp earth and hay, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the sun comes up.

  The alarm clock displays 5:04, almost wake-up time. But given the dreams and the distant echo of what sounded like a hammer long into the night, it feels like I barely got any sleep. Regardless, I refuse to lie in bed waiting for the sun or my alarm, whichever comes first. I need to get out of the house, away from the memories I wish I could forget, the memories that tether me to the past.

  Running my fingers through my hair with one hand, I peel the sheets off me with the other. I fling my legs over the side of the bed and let the rug beneath my feet tickle my toes, helping to ground me to the present.

  In only boxers and a white tank top, I slip on a pair of pink flip-flops and creep down the stairs. I head quietly out the back door, trying not to let the screen slam shut behind me as I walk toward the stable. The lake will wash the night away. I shiver with anticipation and hurry to Shasta’s paddock, determined to feel it—the wind, the bone-chilling water.

  The horizon is glowing in predawn light, the ranch cast in a blue haze. The stable itself is lit only by the faint glow of the night lights buzzing, one at each end of the building. The horses stand in their stalls, mostly unmoving and asleep at first, but they rouse as I hurry by. Their heads pop up, first in concern, then curiosity.

  When I reach Shasta’s stall, I slide her door open and squeeze inside with my hand held out for her to scent. She’s no doubt confused by my presence before the sun is even up, but I have little time to ease her into an early morning ride. I brush the backs of my fingers against her velvety nose. “Let’s get some air.”

  Her big brown eyes meet mine and for a split second, I think she can sense or hear my desperation. Her head bobs in acquiescence, so I halter her and use the step stool Papa made for me to mount her, foregoing a saddle. Then, with the most energy she’s had all week, we trot—not nearly fast enough—out of the stable and past the chicken coops and break into a run. When I hear barking, my desperation turns to annoyance. I push Shasta to run faster and we devour the hillside, leaving Petey somewhere behind.

  The breeze, already warming, hits my face and whips through my hair, and I start to feel lighter. Shasta’s girth expands against my thighs as I grip onto her with each galloping step. It’s here and now, while I’m suspended between flight and life-sucking
asphyxiation, that I want to last forever, an existence where everything’s behind me, and all I have are the possibilities of the unknown ahead. But as Shasta slows, it’s clear I can’t outrun my life forever. I guess I already know this; it’s why I’ve found other ways to alleviate some of the pain.

  I pull Shasta back to a walk and we circle the lake. The steel-blue, rippling water peeks through the sporadic tree trunks that surround it. The crickets are long gone and the frogs’ croaking calls silence as we walk closer. One splash followed by another makes me smile, and I imagine how the cool water will feel against my flushed skin.

  After I tie Shasta’s lead rope loosely around the trunk of a tree, I hike down toward the water. The sky begins to brighten as the first rays of sun crest the surrounding hills. My feet are unsteady as my flip-flops struggle to find even ground, but I barely notice. The water’s calling to me, and I want nothing but to feel its briskness against my skin, to feel alive and buzzing instead of lost and full of unwanted emotions.

  When I get to the dock, I kick off my flip-flops, step out of my shorts, and pull my tank top over my head, leaving them in a pile as I step off the dock and onto the muddy shore. The mud and rocks and reeds are squishy between my toes, but I take one assured step and then another until my feet are submerged. Before I know it, I’m covered in chills and knee-deep in the brisk water. The sound of it sloshing around me with each determined step echoes over the lake. I step deeper. And deeper. Then, I dunk my head.

  When I resurface for air, my body sings as warm and cool accost my skin, sending another ripple of chills over my naked body. I’m alive for the moment, shed of the night’s—no, my life’s—shames and regrets. Right now, I’m just me, swimming in the lake, awakened and stirred back to life.

  I duck under the water again and swim toward the middle of the lake. The water sifts through my fingers with each stroke. Bubbles tickle my skin, and for the first time in months, maybe even years, I am weightless.

  A muffled voice booms above the water.