“Sam, wait.” Mac pulls on my arm, turning me around. “Tell me what’s going on.” She squeezes my arm. “Please.”
I shake my head. If the last three years have taught me anything, it’s that talking about things doesn’t make them better. It just makes them more real and hurtful. “I’m just . . .” I rub my forehead, wanting to be anywhere but around her and her concern right now.
“Just what, Sam? Tell me.”
“I can’t be around him—”
“Why? Because you still have feelings for him?”
“Because of everything. Bethany. Mike. Papa—Reilly left me here. He chose to leave!” I shout. I don’t really know what I’m saying or why any of it should matter—it’s all over and done and in the past. My mind is racing. I moisten my lips and try to disregard my charging emotions. I hate that now, of all times, in a damn parking lot at a bar, I’m losing control. I need to get out of here, I need to be alone. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I say more urgently.
“You have to, Sam. It’s part of moving on.”
I shake my head as my mind fills with remorse and regret. “Reilly knows.”
Mac steps closer to me. “He knows what?”
“Too much. He knew what Mike was. That night . . .” It’s like I can see the same disappointment in Reilly’s eyes, the same hurt as I saw in Papa’s. All my decisions and how much they injured everyone else seem more suffocating than ever. I hate that everything’s bubbling to the surface, that I’ve been doing so well, been so focused, but now . . . My eyes burn and I swallow a sob away.
Mac pulls me into her arms, embracing me, and I realize my body is shaking. I sniffle, knowing alcohol is to blame for this verging meltdown. I clench my jaw and hold my breath, pulling my emotions back, just below the surface and cling tighter to Mac. Silent tears stream from my eyes as I stare past her, out at the garish red truck glaring at me from the curb.
Mac’s voice is soft when she speaks again. “I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through, Sam. God, I—I can’t imagine.” She exhales and rubs my back. “But I know what it’s like to carry around guilt that you can’t possibly let go of, even though you know, in your heart of hearts, that you should.”
Even through the whirling of my mind, Mac’s confession surprises me. When I pull back and look at her, her eyes are imploring.
With a resigned sigh, Mac steps up to the building and leans against it. “I know what it feels like to blame yourself—to feel alone, and to want something you can never have.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me. “I might not know what it feels like to have both of my parents die, to blame myself for that, but I know what it feels like to have one of them leave you because they want to, to never think twice or look back.”
Although I know Mac thinks about her mom more often than she’ll ever admit, I never considered the fact that she blamed herself for any of what happened. Mac’s eyes are gleaming, illuminated by the neon flashing signs as she stares out at nothing in particular. I can tell how lonely part of her is. I hear the longing to have her mother back in her voice.
I’m a terrible, horrible friend, wrapped up in my own problems and completely ignoring hers. She holds more worries, more secrets behind her confident, offhanded façade than anyone else I know. I should’ve known better.
I lean up against the wall beside her, wipe my cheeks dry, and listen.
“If it weren’t for whatever my dad did or didn’t do to piss my mom off,” Mac continues, “she’d still be around. But how can I blame him for a choice she made?” She turns to face me. Like always, Mac has this way of staring beyond what she sees, deep down into my soul like she can uncover hidden truths and confessions no one else can. “Look,” she says more tenderly. “I know you’ve got a lot of shit you’re dealing with. God, I don’t blame you for being angry and hurt and whatever else is going on. I want you to be angry about what happened—with Alison especially. I want you to fight back and move on and finally live your life instead of just making things work.
“Seeing you stuck, grasping onto something that’s never going to come back and struggling just to keep yourself together, is breaking my heart, Sam.” She squeezes my shoulders. “I know your dad wouldn’t want you to live your life in guilt and unhappiness. And you need to get over this whole blame thing. There were a lot of factors leading up to that night, and you can’t shoulder all of it or change any of it. You have to let yourself move on, and you know what? If that means leaving the ranch and leaving Alison, then that’s what you need to do.”
Mac leans into me and wraps her arms around my shoulders again. “I love you, Sam. I want you to be happy and free from all of this.”
“Love you,” I say, and I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. I can’t leave Alison—I won’t—and I need the ranch. It’s all I have left, no one seems to understand that. I exhale when Mac takes a step back and blinks a few times, happy when the tears are more or less under control again.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod and wipe my cheeks dry. “I will be, thanks.”
Mac pauses and scours my face again, seeing too much. “Do you want to go back inside?”
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s probably not a good idea. I’ll talk to Reilly tomorrow.” The urge to cry lingers, nestled in the back of my throat, in my chest, gnawing to be let out, but I can’t allow it. Deep down I know it’s because I’m afraid I would never be able to stop if I truly began to cry. I need to be alone, to release the crippling tightness around my heart the only way I know how.
“I’d actually like to be alone for a minute. I’m going to walk back to your place.” I smile as reassuringly as I can manage. I hope that she can’t see through me, through the alcohol that flushes her cheeks.
Mac’s gaze is shrewd and fixed, though, and for a moment I worry I’m wrong, she can see through her intoxication. She sees something in my expression that shadows her own features with concern, but then they brighten and she smiles. “Let’s go together,” she says. “What’s a girl’s night without the girls—as in more than one.” She steps toward the door. “Let me tell Nick and Reilly we’re leaving.”
I reach out for her as she turns away. “You should stay and have fun. I’ll walk back by myself. It’s fine, really.”
“No way,” she says quickly and shakes her head. “I forced you down here, I’ll take you home.” She smiles, and I feel like the smile means more than reassurance. “I’ll be right back.”
I grab my hip, pressing my fingernails into the raw flesh, letting it burn. I need to be alone . . .
I silently scream when she disappears inside.
Eleven
Reilly
When the sun rises, I’m already awake, a routine I’ve had difficultly breaking since I got back to the States. It doesn’t help that my list of to-dos grows longer by the day while my desire to stay wilts away.
Determined to get the gutters down and demolish the porch roof before the morning grows too hot, I grab a cup of coffee and head out the back door toward the work shed. Though the property is expansive, there’s little on it other than the house, save for a few dilapidated outbuildings cluttered with garbage and intermittent troves of tools worth using.
I need another project around this place like I need a hole in the head, but I can’t ignore the outbuildings, not if I’m going to make any money on this place when it sells. I make a mental note to figure out what I’m going to do with the toolshed later.
Grabbing my tool belt draped over the warped back porch railing, I head around to the side of the house to Petey’s newly constructed kennel. He whimpers anxiously as I approach, hungry for his morning breakfast, but he doesn’t bark—I can tell he wants to, but he refrains.
I stop in front of the gate and reach for the latch. “Sit,” I say, low and commanding. Petey’s tail still wags violently, but he sits nonetheless. I can’t help but beam a little bit with pride at how well he’s starting to liste
n. Slowly but surely . . .
Sam used to tell me I have a lot of patience, having to deal with the old man and all. I never really saw it like that, I was just what I had to be, but I’m starting to think she might be right where Petey’s concerned, at least.
The mutt licks his lips, barely able to contain his excitement, and I clip a long rope leash to his collar.
“Good boy,” I say and walk him toward the front of the house. Tying him up to an oak tree flanking the front porch, I reach for his empty food and water dishes shoved back in the bushes and head back inside the house to fill them up.
Petey yips but doesn’t bark as he prances in place, impatiently waiting for his breakfast. “Lucky dog,” I say as I step back out into the brightening sun. “You’re eating before me now, too.” His muzzle’s shoved in his food dish before I can set it down all the way.
I take a swig of coffee, briefly wondering if Sam’s up yet, and try not to think about what she said to me last night, or at least not let it bother me. I could tell she’d been drinking a little, but I know from experience that’s when the truth comes out. In this case, the truth stung more than I wanted it to. I didn’t expect us to be best friends, but I figured we could at least be cordial.
Turning on the tape deck radio, I tune it to my favorite rock ’n’ roll station, surprised it’s still on the air after all this time. There’s something about rock ’n’ roll first thing in the morning. It gets my blood pumping on the days I don’t run or lift or train. I open up the ladder at the corner of the porch, prepared to pry the rust-rotted gutters from the trim. The disc jockey’s voice trails off as an old school anthem blares from the speakers.
Electric guitar had always been something I’d wanted to learn to play, the only instrument I ever thought was cool enough. In high school, I’d get lost in the angry, heartbroken lyrics of hair bands that beat the shit out of their drums and fell on their knees, feeling each word so strongly it resonated in my soul. I suppose the music—other than memories—was the only “old” part of me I had with me when I was moving place to place over the past four years.
I glance down at Petey, scarfing down the last of his morning meal, and start to tear the old gutters off the roof. I grab a fistful of the decaying leaves and acorns overflowing from one of them and toss a few handfuls over my shoulder so I don’t dump them all over myself. I’m not sure how none of the gutters have fallen off yet, they hang so precariously.
I rip a long piece from the trim and toss it toward a pile on the ground. I notice Petey sniffing around the debris too late, and I shout for him to move. That and the sound of the aluminum crashing to the ground sends him running toward me, through the ladder legs and under the deck.
The instant I realize his rope is tangled around the base of the ladder, it shakes beneath me, and I know I’m screwed. Without thought, I grab onto the roof as the ladder topples over.
“Oh, shit!” I quickly drop to the ground after it, barely missing the ladder legs as my feet hit the ground. I stare at the ground a moment and catch my breath.
Luckily, the house doesn’t stand too terribly high, and other than a few curses, a throbbing leg, and a racing heart, I’m okay. Petey, on the other hand, whimpers and tunnels further beneath the deck, petrified.
Exhaling some of the adrenaline rushing through my body, I crouch down, following the rope leash into the darkness as far as I can fit. “Come on out,” I say, but I can’t help how hard and uninviting my voice sounds. I clear my throat. “Come on,” I say in a higher pitch. “Come out—”
There’s a snicker behind me and I turn around. I straighten when I see Sam tying her horse up to a sapling oak just outside the pump house.
“Are you okay?” she asks. Though she’s smiling slightly, she’s also assessing me. Her eyes shift to the darkness Petey crawled into.
I inhale and rub the back of my neck, uncertain if my heart is suddenly racing faster or if it’s only my imagination. “Yeah, just a slight morning mishap.”
Sam looks at the ladder and her gaze narrows on me as she steps closer. “Are you sure?” She gives me a once-over and reaches for my hand. One of my gloves is red with blood. I hadn’t realized I’d cut myself.
Sam’s brow furrows even more, and she gently tugs my glove off. Even though it doesn’t hurt and I’m not worried about the wound, I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch her as she examines my hand. Hers is so much smaller than mine, but rougher and more calloused. Something about that makes me smile.
“At least you were wearing gloves,” she breathes and looks up at me.
“Always.” I watch her a moment longer. Her eyes scan my face as mine scan hers. Under her cowboy hat, her hair’s drawn into long pigtails that trail down around her shoulders and I can smell her shampoo; it smells so good something stirs inside me. I force myself to glance away.
“You must’ve nicked it on something,” she says and squints up at the roof.
“Probably a screw or nail. I was tearing the gutters off.”
Sam stares at the house, biting the side of her lip a moment until her attention stirs. She offers me a false smile, lets go of my hand, peers down at the dog, then back at me. “Do you have a first aid kit? We should clean it up so it doesn’t get infected.”
I nod and head for my truck.
“Are you up to date on your tetanus shot?”
“I’m up to date on everything,” I say easily. “There’s not really anything the Army lets you slack off on.” I pull the small emergency kit from beneath the bench seat of my truck and head back over to her.
Sam’s crouched on the ground, crooning at Petey in a soft, reassuring voice to come out. “It’s okay, silly. Come on. Come here.” She clicks her tongue.
“We could pull him out by the rope,” I offer, knowing that’s probably not the best idea, but Sam shakes her head anyway.
“That will frighten him more, I think.” She glances up at me. “If you rinse off your hand, I’ll doctor it up for you,” she says and turns her attention back to Petey. “Come on, sweetie. It’s okay . . .” She continues to coax Petey out, all patience and reassuring noises as I head over to the hose and rinse off my hand.
Finally, Petey slowly crawls out, licking Sam’s hands as she pets his head, telling him what a good boy he is, even though Nick says she hates him. “So she says. Sam’s a softy when it comes to animals—she’s all bark and no bite. Why do you think she’s let me keep him around the ranch all this time?” Nick winked. “And don’t even get me started on the cat.”
I can see it, especially now as I watch her fawn all over the mutt. No longer shaking and scared, Petey rolls onto his back so Sam will scratch his stomach.
“Nice,” I say and crouch down beside them. “Way to work the charm, bud.”
Sam smiles at me, but then it falters. She gives Petey one last pat, tells him he’s a good boy, and stands up. I hope she’s not running off, not yet. It’s the first time she’s been even partially conversational, and I’m not ready for her to leave.
She surprises me and takes my good hand in hers, pulling me over to the porch steps. “Sit,” she says and opens up the plastic box. Everything in the kit is no doubt expired it’s been sitting there all this time, but I don’t care and Sam doesn’t seem to either.
I do as she commands without a word.
Sam rips open a small alcohol pad and peers up at me through her lashes. “This might sting, but it will be quick.” She wipes the pad gently over the small gouge in my palm and looks back up at me.
“I’m fine,” I say, “I’ve been through worse.” I smile.
She shakes her head. “I forgot, you’re a big tough G.I. Joe now.”
I laugh, really laugh. “I wouldn’t say that.” If she only knew how confused I am when she’s around, how conflicted. Tough wouldn’t be the word I’d use to describe me—careful, perhaps but not near as careful as I know I should be. For the first time, I wonder what she really does see when she looks at me now.
/> Sam sets my hand down in her lap and pulls out a bandage. “Nick is such a baby when it comes to these things. I think he just likes the attention.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, my eyes glued to her as she gently smooths the bandage over the wound. I don’t see Sam from the bar sitting beside me, but young, protective Sam making sure I’m alright. I fight the urge to close my hand around hers.
“There you go,” she says and closes up the first aid kit. “All better. You should keep this covered up while you’re working so you don’t get dirt in it, but clean it again later and let it dry, okay?”
I love that she’s telling me how to dress a cut when I was trained to dress wounds a lot more severe than this one. I just love that she cares at all, so I simply nod.
Sam clears her throat. I can feel the air change around us, it becomes less easy and more expectant. “So,” she starts to say. “I . . . I want to apologize for last night—for what I said.” Her brow draws together again and she looks up at me. “I didn’t mean for it to come out so horrible.” She taps her index fingers on her knees. “I guess I’m just not used to you being back, and now you’re here and . . .” She stares at me. “And, I’m just sorry.”
I nod in gratitude. I can tell how hard it is for her to talk to me, and I wonder if and when an opportunity like this will come again. “We should probably talk about a few things, sort of clear the air so we can try to move past everything, since I’ll be here a while.”
Sam’s mouth quirks up in the corner, one of her false smiles, and she stands up. “Yeah, maybe later, okay?” She brushes her hands off on her shorts and takes a step back. “I’ve got a boarder coming this morning, and I should get back.”
I don’t know if she’s lying or brushing me off, but I can tell she doesn’t want to talk to me, so I don’t push her. Not now.
Sam shoves her hands in the back pockets of her cutoffs and hurries toward her horse, her cowboy boots thudding against the dried ground with each determined step.
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 12