Juniper Limits (The Juniper Series Book 2)

by Lora Richardson

  He flipped on his living room light, and his chest tightened at the scene in front of him. Though he knew he should feel compassion, maybe even pick up that cloak of worry and drape it back around his shoulders, instead he sighed in frustration. He didn’t want to deal with this tonight. He had other things in mind to do.

  His mom sat on the couch in a nightgown, the box fan on the coffee table blowing right on her. Paul wasn’t sure how much it could help, as blazing hot as it was in here. A pile of used tissues sat on the couch beside her, and she dearly needed to use another one.

  He didn’t say anything to his mother, and she didn’t say anything to him, but her quiet weeping followed him into the bathroom where he pulled the tissue box out of the wicker holder on the sink.

  He hit the kitchen next, and grabbed a granola bar out of the cabinet and tucked the trash can under his arm. Back in the living room, he set the tissue box beside his mom, and then swept all the used ones into the trash. He unwrapped the granola bar and pried open her fingers and laid it on her palm.

  Next he opened both windows as wide as they would go, and moved the fan to sit in one of them. He muttered curses under his breath as he struggled with the fan, trying to get it to fit in the window frame without falling forward. After about ten tries, it was finally wedged in well enough.

  He grabbed the bottle of Xanax off the coffee table and tucked it in his pocket. He didn’t want her reaching for it again tonight. She’d been taking it for anxiety for years now. There was a doctor in Bakerstown who kept prescribing higher and higher doses for her, and all she had to do was ask.

  “How many did you take tonight, Mom?”

  Another whimper slithered up her throat and out her mouth. “I’m fine, Paulie.” Her voice was sleepy and dim. “I’m fine, now that you’re home.” She reached out to touch his arm, but her reach didn’t come far enough, and her hand thumped down on the couch beside her. She curled her fingers into the pilled, rough surface.

  Paul sighed and sank down beside her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Have you eaten lately?”

  She took a tiny nibble of the granola bar. “You’re such a good boy. I’m very lucky to have you, I hope you know.”

  He swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. It wasn’t going away. It took him a minute until he could speak. “How many pills, Mom?”

  She sniffled and swiped at her face with a fresh tissue, finally. “Just the one. I’m sure of it, this time.”

  “Why were you just sitting here in the dark? Didn’t you go to work today?” He already knew the answer, but he hoped maybe she’d gone to work before coming home and falling apart.

  “I couldn’t work today. I just couldn’t. But I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  He stared straight ahead as she cleaned her face with the tissue. She only got ten paid sick days a year. She’d used those up after her first two months at this job. Now she lost a day’s pay every time she called in sick. It wouldn’t be long before she lost more than that.

  The old cuckoo clock on the wall was broken, stuck at 4:17. It had been that way as long as Paul could remember. Every now and then he wondered why they didn’t fix it or take it down. The clock was stuck in the past, his mom was stuck in the past, and he was stuck right along with them.

  The couch felt too hot where he leaned back against it, and the lump under his left thigh was making his leg fall asleep. But in a familiar way, it was comfortable. Same as his mom’s crying, same as the pile of tissues that was growing again on the coffee table. It was all familiar. The rest of the night played out in his mind, and he knew just how it would go—the same as countless other nights. His breathing sped up, and the comfortable feeling fled as resentment tried to get a foothold. He took a deep breath, not letting it. “Mom, you think you’re about ready for bed?”

  She looked up at the broken clock, as if it was going to tell her the time—tell her that she was ready for bed. “I am tired. But then, I’m always so tired.”

  “I know, Mom. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

  She reached up and patted his face with her damp hand. “And you won’t leave?”

  His gut twisted with guilt, because that’s exactly what he was going to do. He was going to get her in bed, make sure she was asleep, and then he was going to get the hell out of there. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  Closing the front door, slowly and with a light hand, Paul steadied himself for an onslaught of guilt. It didn’t come. He had helped his mom to bed, letting her lean nearly all her weight against him, and shielded her head from hitting the headboard as she dropped down onto the mattress. He pulled the sheet up over her because she was unable to do it herself. The sight of her hands fumbling around and grasping only air, as though she couldn’t even locate the sheet, played on repeat in his thoughts. He sat on the corner of her bed until her breathing was steady, and his earlier anger and frustration wilted.

  He turned and looked out at his front yard. The bushes were neatly trimmed, and there wasn’t a weed anywhere in sight. He even had some red geraniums blooming by the steps. He was doing okay.

  He swiped his clean, damp hair away from his forehead and took a deep breath. His body was exhausted, but his mind didn’t want to rest. He shuffled down the steps and turned left, having decided to take the long way in order to give his heavy mood time to disappear by the time he saw Celia.

  The August evening still held an oppressive heat, though the air wasn’t as thick as it had been earlier in the day. After his mom fell asleep, he showered and then boiled half a box of pasta. He ate all of it, plain, and was still hungry, but didn’t want to cook anything else.

  After about ten minutes, he could see the windows of Celia’s house glowing with yellow light. Hers was the first house on her street, and it shone like a beacon, drawing him near. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the yard and then the porch, and rapped a steady three times on the door.

  Someone on a front porch down the street laughed loudly. The bugs were loud tonight too, but Celia’s porch felt like an entire world of its own. Paul raised his hand to knock again, but lowered it when footfalls sounded behind the door.

  He looked to the window to see if he could see who was coming, suddenly nervous it would be her dad. The window on the right was boarded over. He leaned to the left to look in the other window when the door inched partway open.

  Celia looked up at him, surprise on her face. “Paul…”

  “Hey.” He leaned against the door frame. “Feel like going on a walk?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then further narrowed the opening of the door. She didn’t step out, but spoke through a six-inch gap. “I probably shouldn’t.” She closed the door another few inches. “Bye, Paul,” she whispered.

  Before she could close the door fully, Paul curled his fingers around the edge of it, and leaned in close, his face a breath away from hers. “I’m going to the park in the center of town, if you change your mind and want to meet me there later. I’ll wait by the pond.”

  She didn’t shut the door. “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to go out tonight.” She was quiet a moment. “But, maybe.”

  Paul headed straight there, as fast as his feet could take him.

  He sat on the grass near the water’s edge, watching the reflection of fireflies in the small public fishing pond. It was late, and he hadn’t seen another soul since he arrived. He’d been waiting for more than an hour, enjoying the quiet and letting his thoughts come and go at will.

  “You’re still here.” Celia spoke from behind him.

  He stood quickly, slipping and nearly falling down. He laughed at his clumsiness, and turned to her. “I would have waited all night. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to sleep.”

  “You’re that desperate to spend a little time with me?” She took a step closer.

  He loved it when she teased him. “I’d try to deny it, but you’d see right through me.”

  She smiled, and looked around
the park. It was empty except for the two of them and the fish in the pond.

  “So. Apparently I’m worth sneaking out for,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Sneaking out is its own reward.”

  “True.” He gestured toward the pond. “Want to put your feet in? I know how you love sticking your feet into questionable liquids.” She didn’t move. He sat back down and patted the spot beside him. “The grass is dry.”

  Eventually she walked to the edge of the water and sat. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body on his arm.

  He glanced at her. The moonlight made her black hair look silver at the crown. “Want to swim?”

  “Nah.”

  “School starts next week.”

  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  “Celia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you still upset about Ronan?” He asked about Ronan because he didn’t want to ask about the boys he’d seen her with this afternoon. He’d decided he wasn’t going to bring it up. Even though it still made him feel a little green, he’d talked himself down. If it was something he should know about, she would tell him.

  “Oh, please.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sitting here heartbroken, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s been weeks, and I was the one who broke up with him.”

  “Okay, but just because you broke up with him doesn’t mean—”

  “Paul,” she interrupted, “it’s not like that at all. I’m not hung up on him. He’s a jerk. Apparently I’m more over it than you are. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. I didn’t plan on arguing with you tonight.”

  “We’re not arguing.”

  “We are so arguing. We argue every time we’re together.” She sat, looking out at the water.

  “Celia, will you look at me?”

  Nothing. Maybe they were arguing.

  The din of crickets and frogs filled the silence. “Hey, look.” He pointed across the water, where the grass was tall at the edge and a small dock stood, lichen covered and rotting. There was a fishing boat. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  He stood up and held out his hand to help her to her feet. She looked at him skeptically. “Whose boat is that?”

  “Nobody who’s using it right now.”

  She stood without taking his hand, and started walking around the edge of the pond. “It’s really annoying that this was your idea, Paulie. I’m the one who thinks of things like this.”

  He followed after her, pleased. They arrived at the dock, to see that the small fishing boat wasn’t tied to it. It rested about eight feet out in the water—too far to reach without getting wet. They stood behind the cattails, watching it gently bob.

  Paul looked at her with a crooked grin on his face. “Should we flip a coin to see who has to go get it?”

  “Nope.”

  Before he could tell her he was only joking, she stepped out of her flip flops, parted the weeds and cattails with her arms, and walked right into the water. She gripped the edge of the boat with her hands and walked it toward the shore.

  Paul, mesmerized by the surface of the water skimming her thighs just below her shorts, blinked hard to avert his gaze and walked through the weeds, his boots squelching on the wet ground. “I was going to do that.”

  “You snooze, you lose.” She pushed the boat as close to the edge as it would go, and held it steady as he stepped in. He then held his hand out to her, but once again, she managed on her own. She climbed into the boat, and sat down at one end.

  He sat down facing her. The boat rocked and drifted a bit away from the cattails. He stretched his long arm down into the water, until he found purchase on the muddy bottom. The boat lurched as he gave it a shove, and they drifted out into the water. “This is upsetting. I wanted to bring you the boat and then sit back and let you pile on the praise,” he said.

  “Because I have a tendency to gush?” She asked, and they both smiled. “Anyway, my legs will be dry in a minute, and you’re some sort of strange creature who wears jeans and boots year-round. Don’t you get hot?”

  “I’m willing to suffer for fashion,” he joked. The truth was, his work boots were the only pair of shoes he owned, and he thought they’d look stupid if he wore them with shorts.

  Celia leaned forward and tugged on the laces of his boots. He sat stiffly, not moving a muscle, feeling the muted press of her fingertips through the leather, his eyes on her shiny legs. “What are you doing?”

  She gave him a mischievous look. “You never know when a boat might capsize. We have to protect your fabulous boots.”

  She had them both untied and was working to loosen the laces, but that was almost too much for Paul to take. His whole body buzzed with her attention. He pulled his feet toward himself, tugged a boot off, and heaved it onto the shore. He did the same with his other boot. “Satisfied now?”

  “Almost. Here, why don’t you put your legs on the outside, and I’ll take the middle?” The boat was small. Paul took up most of it, his long legs bent up to make room for hers.

  At her urging, he straightened his legs so they bracketed the sides of the boat. Celia, legs still bent, placed her bare feet together on the bottom of the boat, between his knees. He studied her feet, a little too restless to look at her face. Her toenails were painted purple, and she had a tiny little ring around one of her toes. He thought that must be terribly uncomfortable.

  Suddenly, she started laughing. She leaned over, cackling into her knees.

  “What is it?” he asked, chuckling. He always laughed when someone else did, even if he didn’t know what was funny yet.

  She lifted her head, still howling with laughter, and wiped underneath her eyes with her fingers. “Paulie, there aren’t any oars in this boat.”

  6

  I must have lost my mind. I couldn’t stop laughing. But it felt so good, and every time I tried to stop, I started back up again, harder. It didn’t help that Paul was laughing too. When I finally regained my composure, I sat back and smiled at him. “Well, it’s too late to worry about it now.”

  He dipped his fingers into the water, daring to flick some on my legs. I ignored it because it didn’t mean anything—he didn’t even say hello when he saw me in town today. I took a deep breath and tilted my head up to look at the moon. “This is just what I needed.”

  “You’ve had a hard week.”

  It wasn’t a question. “What do you know about my week?” I asked lightly. I hadn’t talked to him much, which had been the plan going forward, seeing as how I had decided not to allow myself to get attached to him—attached to anything or anyone in Juniper. I’d already learned that spending time with Paul meant getting attached. Then he had to go and knock on my door and look at me with those blue eyes of his.

  “I know it was terrible because you didn’t spend it with me. That must have really sucked.”

  A surprised laugh burst out of my mouth.

  “But it’s okay, I understand. I’m pretty intimidating. You’re afraid I’ll make a move and you won’t be able to resist.”

  I propped my arms on my knees, and raised my eyebrows, refusing to let him make me smile again. “Oh, really?”

  “Really. And also? I’m grateful for the miniature size of this boat.” He waggled his eyebrows and stretched his legs. His right foot brushed against the outside of my thigh.

  I allowed a smile to break free. “You must have amnesia. You make moves all the time, and I’ve never had any trouble saying no to you.”

  He leaned back and rested his arms on the sides of the boat. “You haven’t seen the real thing yet. Anyway, you’re not ready for me, Celia. You can’t handle all this.” He gestured to his body, and smiled when it made me laugh.

  He joked about his body a lot, but the truth was, while he was tall and slender, he was a far cry from the beanpole he’d been a couple years ago. I forced my gaze to the trees. I rested my hands on the edge
of the boat, realizing a second too late that our hands were now only an inch apart. A wild feeling sat under the surface of my skin, pushing to get out. I let it lead me.

  One look at the mischief written on his face told me he was only playing. So I played back. “Give it a try, ask me on a real date,” I said, serious as could be.

  The boat rocked as he readjusted his legs and leaned toward me. “Celia, will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “No.”

  The grin dropped from his face, then found its way back, along with some laughter, which mixed with mine. He stood up, bracing his sock feet against the sides of the boat. “It was you who mentioned this boat might capsize, wasn’t it?”

  I stood up, too. “First one to fall out loses.” I spread my arms wide for balance and shifted my weight to one side, tilting the boat the tiniest bit.

  He shook his head and laughed at my pathetic efforts. It wasn’t my fault I was so much smaller than he was, and at least a foot shorter. He had quite a large advantage.

  Paul gently pushed on the other side of the boat with his foot.

  I gave him a fierce look, annoyed that he was going easy on me, and then lifted both feet in the air in a high jump, and threw all my weight into the landing. The boat shuddered and he did sway a little, but the sound of wood groaning and cracking under my feet made me straighten cautiously.

  We both held perfectly still, and our eyes met—full of the thrill of having borrowed a boat that might break at any moment, of knowing we were about to get drenched, of being here under the moon together. It was that last one I didn’t want to think too much about. “Okay, this boat is made of toothpicks.”

  Paul shifted his weight from foot to foot, rocking the boat in an increasing rhythm. It was hard not to grab onto him for balance. I watched his feet, getting an idea of his plan. Just when he pressed down on one side of the boat, I reached out and gave him a gentle shove, using his size against him.

  He pinwheeled his arms, trying to stay upright, but he went over the side, splashing into the warm water. Victory was short-lived as I bent over and held on to the edge of the boat to catch my balance. But it was no use, and I toppled over the side, head first.