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

by Lindsey Pogue

  He glances at me quickly, then refocuses on the road.

  “I don’t want to go home yet,” I say. A sense of longing and uncertainty fills me as I consider his reaction.

  But he has none. His expression gives nothing away.

  I clear my throat. “You wouldn’t want any company for a little while, would you? I can walk home later when my ankle’s better.” I’m one-hundred-percent clear on how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to go home, and being with Reilly, even if he’s mad at me, is better than being alone with my thoughts and temptation.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says.

  I know he’s right, so I nod.

  We’re quiet a few more seconds before he says, “Are you sure you want to?” He glances between me and the road. The look on my face must convince him, because as we round the last bend, he turns onto his dirt driveway. Excitement or apprehension buzzes through me, and when the tension leaves my body, I know that this is right. It feels right.

  Finally, we pull up in front of his house. The motion sensor turns on, illuminating the front porch, newly painted. There’s a small glow coming from the kitchen window, but other than that, Reilly’s house looks dark.

  Petey’s already barking in his kennel.

  “Quiet,” Reilly says, his voice stern. The dog whimpers, but his barking ceases. “Good boy.”

  I open my door, and Reilly walks around to help me out, but I hold up my hand. “It’s okay, I got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “But I think I should try to move it around a bit, so that it doesn’t stiffen up.” After a quick, contemplative moment, Reilly relents and steps back. He turns and heads toward the porch and up the steps as I clumsily jump down from the truck, purse and shoes in hand.

  Reilly unlocks the front door, lets it swing open, and waits for me to hobble over. Holding out his hand, he helps me up the first step, then the second, and then he leads me into the house.

  The moment I stop in the living room, it’s clear how much he’s done to the place just since I was here last week. The walls are freshly painted a taupe, no more peeling wallpaper I remember from when his dad lived here. I can smell the remnants of the paint fumes, but I don’t mind. The kitchen is the only area that looks like the Reilly house I remember. Everything else looks presentable, almost complete. “The house looks great,” I say and take a step forward. “You’ve done so much, so fast. I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sort of on a time crunch,” he says and tosses his keys on the coffee table.

  There are neatly folded clothes on his ottoman, his mail stacked in perfect piles—opened and unopened—on his kitchen counter. The small dining room is missing a table, but the hardwood is dark, rich, and beautiful. His Titans baseball cap sits on the back of what appears to be a new couch, his shoes in a neat row by the front door—a pair of house slippers, flip-flops still dusty from our camping trip, a pair of running shoes . . . I’m in Reilly’s private space, his home, and it’s neat and tidy, nothing like the teenager’s room I remember from before. An adult lives here, a man. Being here this time feels different. It almost feels momentous.

  My eyes widen when I notice the restored day bed in the bay window, and my heart hurts. It was my favorite part of his old house, and here it is. I step toward it, ignoring my aching foot. I run my fingertips over the sage-green cushion, and I can’t help but wonder if he remembers it’s my favorite color.

  “You put it back in,” I whisper. Like a veil has been lifted, my heart starts racing. We’re alone in Reilly’s house.

  I look back at his broad frame in the doorway as he shuts the door, pulling one boot off and then the other before placing them in line with the others. Other than the hints of him, everything looks staged, and I remember he’s leaving soon.

  “I thought this was a good idea, but . . .” I turn around and take a step toward the door only to find Reilly’s still standing in front of it, blocking my exit.

  He takes a step toward me, watching me—waiting.

  I want to close my eyes, to prevent him from seeing the panic and confusion I know they reflect, but I can’t look away from the concern and warmth that illuminates his gaze or the way he searches my face in earnest.

  “Why are you always running away from me?” he asks.

  I let out a ragged breath and give in to the truth. “Because how I feel around you scares the shit out of me,” I say quietly.

  Reilly’s mouth twitches at the corner, and he gestures toward the brown couch set up against the wall. “I think you should sit down. Take some weight off your foot. You’re not walking home with a bum ankle.” He scrubs his head and lets out a deep breath. “And I desperately need a shower. So if you want me to take you home, you’re going to have to wait a minute.”

  I’m barely able to nod before Reilly steps past me. “You want a drink? Some water? Coffee? Soda?”

  “Water, please. That would be nice.”

  “Coming right up.” Reilly hands me the television remote off the arm of the couch before he heads into the kitchen. His clothes are covered in paint again, and it’s clear my rescue from town interrupted one of his projects.

  As he moves from the cupboard to the fridge in silence, his body tense, I can’t help but wonder . . . “What are you thinking?” I whisper.

  From a filtered pitcher, Reilly pours me a glass of water, then returns the container to the fridge.

  “Please tell me.” I don’t take my eyes off of him. I know he doesn’t have to tell me—doesn’t even really owe me the courtesy—but I need to know.

  Reilly walks toward me, his gaze level and thoughtful, then he crouches in front of me, handing me my water. “At first I was frustrated, but now . . .” He squints, and I wonder if he’s really thinking or if he’s purposefully making me squirm. “Now, I’m just happy you’re here.” Despite his words, he doesn’t look happy, he looks exhausted. But then his jaw twitches and he lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Do us both a favor,” he says as he stands up. “Stop trying to figure me out. You always get it wrong.”

  Reilly pulls a blanket off the back of the matching recliner and tosses it onto the couch beside me. “In case you get cold,” he says. “Watch whatever you want. If you’re still feeling chatty when I’m out of the shower, we can talk. Otherwise,” he pauses, “I can take you home.”

  Weight lifts from my chest and I let out a breath. “Thank you.”

  “Hmm.” He disappears into his father’s old bedroom, switches on the light, and shuts the door.

  It takes me a few minutes to get comfortable, but only because I’m in a dress that’s too tight and my ankle is beginning to swell. I lie back against one of the microsuede cushions and lift my leg, using the coffee table to elevate my ankle. I rarely watch TV, but I turn it on to drown out the sound of the shower.

  After flipping through a few infomercials and talk show reruns on the small box TV that might be the only part of Mr. Reilly that’s left in this place, I decide the Walking Dead marathon is a good enough distraction for now.

  Eventually, the tension coiled in my neck and back eases, and exhaustion starts to creep in. I barely slept last night, a mixture of the catastrophe with Reilly and my date with Adam plaguing my thoughts. I focus on the Walkers that seem to move faster than the non-zombie cast, in spite of their missing limbs and slow movements. My eyelids begin to droop as someone’s foot smashes a zombie’s head, making it squirt all over the place.

  ~~~~~~

  Screaming. High-pitched screaming and sobbing rallies my eyelids back open in time to watch someone getting their face ripped off by an undead. It takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. I rub my eyes, feeling the heaviness of sleep thick in my mind, and I slowly remember I’m at Reilly’s house.

  With a click of a button, the TV’s off and I listen for the shower. Instead of running water, a muffled voice comes from
the bedroom. Reilly’s most likely on the phone with Nick or Mac, maybe even Alison.

  I glance down and realize I’m warm and covered in a fleece blanket. How long have I been asleep? Uncurling my legs, I stand up, careful of my swollen-but-not-quite-as-sore ankle, and limp toward his bedroom. The door is cracked open a bit, and I listen, uncertain if I should walk in.

  “. . . be fine. She twisted her ankle and is sleeping on my couch.” It’s silent a second, then he continues, “I’m not sure why, but she asked to. She drank about a bottle of wine at the restaurant, so that probably has something to do with it.” Reilly chuckles softly. “Okay.” I hear what sounds like the dull thump of him dropping his phone on the bed, and he sighs. Not wanting to get caught eavesdropping, I gently rap my knuckles on the door and push it open, peeking inside.

  Reilly looks up at me. I’m surprised to see him sitting on the edge of a wooden four-poster bed with only a pair of gray sweats on. His dad’s room looks completely different, and it’s not as strange as I would’ve thought to see Reilly so comfortable in it.

  “Hey,” I say hoarsely. “Was that Nick?”

  Reilly nods and looks down at my foot. “How’s your ankle?” He stands up, takes a few steps toward me. “It looks swollen.”

  I shake my head and lean against the doorframe. “I’m fine.”

  Reilly walks over to his dresser, situated beside me against the wall. “I was going to get you some ibuprofen, but you were asleep when I got out of the shower.” He opens the second drawer and pulls a folded white t-shirt off the top and shrugs it on. The other shirts inside are all folded to perfection.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I needed a quick nap.” I hobble into the room a bit further, peering into the bathroom where Reilly’s disappeared. I step up to the doorway, noticing that, like the bedroom, this room has been completely remodeled, all but the plywood floor.

  “You’ve gotten really far, really fast,” I say, though I’m not sure why I’m so surprised.

  “It’s easier when you can hire people to help.” He picks up a damp towel balled up on the toilet seat cover and drapes it over the sleek shower door.

  I suddenly have a lot of questions—like how he can afford all of this, why he’s rushing, and what his plan is when he’s finished—but I know most of the answers already. “How are you doing all of this? I mean, I’m sure it can’t be easy.”

  Reilly crouches down in front of the sink. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but it’s fine.”

  “Different, how? Bad?”

  He shakes his head. “Sort of therapeutic in a way, I guess.”

  Therapeutic or not, it can’t be easy for him to dive back into his past like this. I can’t help but feel sad for him, that he has to do it all alone. “Well, I know you’ve got a lot of it done already, but if you need help, someone you don’t have to pay, I’d be happy to help you. I could help you landscape or maybe paint something. And I’m good at mending fences.”

  Reilly smiles, though it’s small and probably more out of politeness, and pulls open the bottom drawer of the cabinet. “Thanks, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t offered until now.” I hadn’t wanted to try to be friends, had been too embarrassed, too bitter, but now I’m just tired of fighting it.

  “It’s fine,” he says. “You’ve got a lot going on at your place. I won’t hold it against you.” He shows me a giant bottle of anti-inflammatories.

  “Wow, that’s a big bottle of pills.”

  Unscrewing the cap, he motions for my hand. I offer him my flattened palm and he taps three pills into it. “I’m finding out that the more you renovate the more your body tends to ache,” he says. “That, or it could be old age. Either way, you can never have too much ibuprofen, which you already know.”

  Surprised by his joke and reference to our reunion in Jack’s Save Mart, I smile. “You’re funny.”

  A crooked smile curves his mouth.

  Feeling the awkward closeness of our proximity settle in, I shuffle back out into the living room for my water glass. “How long was I asleep for, anyway?”

  “Probably twenty minutes,” he says as he heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge. “Are you hungry at all? I didn’t get the impression you ate much at dinner.”

  “Oh, I had some bread, but no, nothing substantial. What about you?”

  Reilly shakes his head. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Well,” I hedge. “Are you offering?” I try not to get too excited, but my stomach gurgles and I realize that I do need to eat something.

  Reilly nods and crouches down so I can’t see him behind the refrigerator door.

  “Lucky me, I guess. Whatcha thinkin’?” Feebly, I walk toward the kitchen, leaning against the fridge as he peers inside, appraising its contents.

  “Breakfast?”

  It’s like I’m floating back to Sunday mornings with Papa cooking in the kitchen at home with bacon sizzling on the stove. I can’t help but smile. “That sounds perfect.”

  Looking satisfied, Reilly pulls out an onion, then a small square of cheese and half a pound of bacon.

  My stomach growls just imagining it all piled on a plate in front of me. “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s a basket of potatoes under the sink. Grab a few of them, would you?”

  “Fried potatoes? Yummy. You sure know the way to a girl’s heart,” I say absently, then clarify, “I mean, stomach, or . . . whatever.”

  “How many eggs do you want? One?” He straightens when I don’t answer and looks at me over his shoulder.

  Flashing him a sickly sweet smile and fluttering my eyelashes, I ask, “Would it be too gluttonous of me to request two eggs with my fourth meal, or . . .”

  With a smirk, Reilly pulls out a carton of eggs and sets it on the old Formica countertop. “Two eggs it is.”

  He insists I elevate my foot while he warms the skillet for the potatoes. So I sit on the counter, out of his way, prop my foot on the back of the only hardback chair in the house, and start chopping, first a couple potatoes, which I hand over to him for the skillet, then the onions.

  “I haven’t cooked breakfast since before Papa died,” I say, a little bit wistful, though I’m not sure why I’m compelled to say anything at all. “I’m not sure the burnt bacon on our camping trip counts.”

  Reilly looks at me, listening.

  “It was sort of his thing, you know?” I wipe the onion-induced-tears dripping down my cheeks. “It’s the one thing I haven’t even thought about making at home. Why do you think that is?”

  Reilly stirs the potatoes in the frying pan and sprinkles some salt and pepper over them before he turns the heat down. “Honestly?” He pivots to face me.

  I eye him a moment, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want any more unsaid things between us, whatever us is. “Yes, honestly.”

  “Because it’s like you’ve been ignoring everything that happened, the things that are painful. That’s why you run from everything.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to be angry with him. He has no idea how much I’ve been trying to embrace the way things are, how hard I’m trying to make it all work now. “Really? And you think I’m ignoring everything because . . .”

  Reilly crosses his arms over his chest, assessing me. “You run from your feelings, from taking any chances that don’t have a predictable outcome, you ignore your relationship with Alison . . .”

  Each example is a jab, and an unfair one at that. “I take chances,” I say. “I try. I jumped off that cliff, I went out on that horrible date tonight . . .”

  He nods. “But neither of them are tied to your past, there’s no emotional risk. You’re closed-off and stuck—”

  I hold up my hand. “Let me get this straight,” I say, my voice a little thready. I drop the knife in my hand onto the countertop. “You think, after everything that’s happened, that I should risk more than I already have? I guess I should still b
e the same Sam then, too, huh? Still act the way I did three years ago—the naïve little Sam—after everything I’ve done? After everything that’s changed?”

  Reilly’s brow furrows. “Everything you’ve done?”

  I glare at him.

  “Sam, I don’t expect you to be the same—no one could be—but you should be healing—”

  “—Who says that, Mac? Nick?”

  “No, I am. It’s the way things are supposed to work. The way they have to . . . You should be trying to move on with your life, at least attempting to, and you’re not.”

  “Move on? What, like move away and leave the ranch behind? Leave Alison? You think I should have forgotten everything by now, and I should be married with kids or . . . what? Everyone has an opinion, so please tell me, Josh, what’s yours?” I jump down from the counter, ignoring the pain in my ankle. “Tell me what I should be doing with my life, because guess what, I have no idea how to do it any other way.”

  Although the look in his eyes is wary, it’s determined and severe and it frightens me. “Sam, I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to have gone through what you have, but I do know that you’re not dealing with it in a healthy way. That”—he points to my hip—“and your relationship with Alison is not healthy.”

  My teeth ache as my jaw clenches. I’m not sure if I’m still trying to control my anger or something more dangerous. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything, and I’m tired of everyone thinking that they do.

  Reilly steps closer until he’s towering over me. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Sam,” he says, his voice softer. “I’m trying to be honest with you, to help you.”

  I ignore his concern, the pain in his eyes. He knows nothing about pain. “You’re right, you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I might not be dealing with things the right way, but I’m doing the best I can.” I push past him, into the living room. “I’m so tired of everyone judging me—”

  “I’m not going to tiptoe around your feelings like Nick and Mac do. You’re not okay, Sam. You and Alison, you need help. You need to talk to someone.”

  I wheel around. “Talk to who? Mac, who has enough on her plate taking care of her own broken family? Nick, who’s done more than enough for us already? Or should I be talking to you? Your family was just as fucked up as mine is, so how can you help me?”