Better.
He deliberates, holding my hand as I relax. “I need to see what happened to you,” he says.
“No, you don’t. It’s gross.”
He leaves me long enough to close his bedroom door, locking it with a firm click. “Let me see anyway.”
I reach for the buttons on my shirt, but my fingers only twist at the mother-of-pearl. “I can’t,” I say. “I’m Frankenstein ugly. It’s too embarrassing.”
Kyle roughs his hair. He walks to the other side of his bed. After a few moments he removes his shirt and tosses it for a chair. He grabs the back of his tee and with both hands, pulls it over his head. The small white scars peppering his shoulders glow in the lamplight, like ice crystals on a frosted window. He folds the tee flat and shoves it under his pillow.
His boots are next, followed by the clink of metal on metal, a sound soft as distant bells, as he unfastens his belt. He unbuttons his jeans and takes them off one leg at a time, revealing green plaid boxers.
“Um. What are you doing?” I ask.
He snuggles into the covers then, pulling the sheet and comforter over himself. My side twinges as my body tilts toward his weight. After a bit of wriggling, his boxers and thick gray wool socks fly for the chair. “Naked communication,” he says.
“What?”
“You and I have baggage, you know? We’ll need to talk it out at times, like we did that first night in the Jam. I’m thinkin’ I might have spared myself therapy had we stripped.”
“Are you serious?”
Kyle grins. “I’d say that’s obvious.”
“Where’d you hear about this?”
“I made it up.”
I almost laugh. “Like you’re the only guy in the world to ever get naked and talk.”
“Who says I’m not? Naked and conversation are not what I’d call compatible male traits.” Kyle arranges the covers below my chin, folding the lip of the crisp gray sheet across my body. He pats the comforter in the general area of my stomach. “There you are, girl. If you don’t want to talk, we’ll sleep. Either way I’m staying here, right next to you, buck as they day I was born.”
I stare at the pale ring of light on the ceiling. No way can I sleep now, even though I’d felt desperate for a nap only ten minutes ago. My fingers tingle and fidget. If left on their own they’d fly across the mattress, curious to touch him, interested in all the places they’ve never been.
“You sleepy yet?” he asks. He props on one elbow, staring at me.
“No.”
“You want, I’ll get the light.”
I take a deep breath and slowly let it go. I close my eyes, but they keep popping open. The longer I lie here, unmoving, the stranger it seems to be dressed next to someone who isn’t. So I finally say, “I guess you could take off my socks for me.”
Kyle disappears under the covers like a tunneling rodent. His hands creep up my left leg far enough to find the top of my sock, pushing it down my calf like the paper wrapper from a straw. When my sock is gone he plants a warm, lingering kiss on the top of my left foot before he moves on to the right.
I giggle, though it makes my side hurt.
He appears with my socks between his teeth and worries them, like a dog would shake a stubborn toy, then spits them toward the floor.
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
“Tell me what happened to you.” He rests on his stomach, his chin perched on his fists. I lay my hand on his back and trace to the small of his waist. He’s warm as fresh-baked pie.
“I told you already. At the hospital.”
“Tell me again. Not the play-by-play. Tell me how it made you feel.”
Something catches in my throat. My crisis counselor asked this, too. About a million times. But I couldn’t find the words to answer. “I . . . started to cry. They pulled my sweater over my head and I started to cry. I don’t know if I can talk about it more than that.”
“You can,” he says.
“I’m going to unbutton my pants. Will you pull them off?”
Kyle closes his eyes. When he opens them again he says, “I’ll fall for that diversion. You mind if I use my teeth?”
“No. Yes. I don’t care. Just be careful, so I don’t bend or anything. That way it won’t hurt.”
He plops beneath the covers, a human periscope diving into unknown seas. I fumble with the buttons of my jeans as his fingers close over mine, effortlessly working one button free and then the next. The zipper slides apart and I remind myself it’s Kyle, though in my thoughts I hear Em laughing like she did the day she unzipped my pants in the hall. He tugs my jeans down by the belt loops, pulling tenderly, as though I’m made of eggshell. For a moment the fabric bunches thick and cumbersome around my ankles. Then my jeans are gone.
Cotton sheeting settles onto my skin, as light as parachute silk. My legs seem free enough to fly, so refreshed I’d swear they’ve just evolved lungs. I feel suddenly brave. “You may as well take my underwear too,” I say.
His warm hands slide up the back of my thighs, following the curve of my butt. He takes my underwear off as smoothly as a ripple traveling across still water. I pout. “Have you done this before?”
“This time’s my first.” Kyle kisses my abdomen. “But I’m guilty of dreamin’ it, pretty much every night since we made out in the Jam. You define beautiful, by the way.”
When he surfaces this time his eyes are dilated, like he’s been given drops for an exam. “Talk to me, girl,” he whispers. “I might go stark howlin’ mad, otherwise.”
But I still can’t find the words. Salty tears dribble along my temples, tickling as they creep into my hair. The corners of my mouth freeze into an involuntary frown. It terrifies me, but I take a wobbling breath and start on my shirt buttons. “You might help . . .” I say.
Kyle unclasps Mom’s necklace and sets it on his nightstand. He gently pulls the earring from my left ear, and my right. He unbuttons my shirt then rolls me toward him, holding my body against the shaking warmth of his chest while he works my arm free of my sleeve. As he tugs my shirt from under me I flood with whimpering panic, remembering how people gripped my wrists and ankles.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you now.” He lowers me to the mattress until I’m resting on my back. Then my shirt is gone.
Quietly, he studies my body, his pupils tight as a camera’s lens as they memorize the bruise gnawing my side like a hungry shadow. His fingers trace the bristled line of stitches in my flesh. “God, Aspen. I . . . I didn’t think—” His eyes glitter. With lips as light as snowflakes, he kisses the border of my wound. Then he lays his forehead to the mattress and breaks with sobs.
I stroke his hair, feeling the first true calm I’ve known since Em attacked me, wondering why Kyle’s emotion has the power to wash me clean. I can’t explain it, but I guess it doesn’t matter. The heaviness I’ve felt for days is gone.
He lifts his head, then touches my face with his hand. His tears draw tickling snail-trails along my bare shoulder. “What can I do?” he asks. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“When you’re ready,” I say, “help me take off my bra. I want you to see it all.”
21
I WAKE IN silvery gray, my surroundings at first unfamiliar and dream-like. Kyle’s curled by my side, warm beneath the covers and breathing the slow, shallow rhythm of sleep. I run my hand along the curve of his waist and the bare smoothness of his hip. He doesn’t budge.
We talked last night for hours, until our eyes refused to focus. Kyle turned out the light, then, but I don’t remember which one of us fell asleep first. For a while we mumbled in the dark, lying side by side and holding hands, our words drunk with exhaustion. Toward the end I couldn’t tell if I’d even said what I thought I’d said out loud.
I roll to my left side and in a practiced motion, push against the bed with my hands until I’m sitting. Doing this takes my breath away so I rest, gulping air in short quick bursts until I’m no longer seeing
stars. Then I stand up.
I don’t remember Kyle opening the bedroom door but it’s open wide, resting against the wall. A rogue shiver wracks my body. My ribs twinge. Hugging my arms across my naked chest, I stumble over the jeans lying at my feet. In this light they’re colorless, just a lump, and I don’t know if they’re mine or Kyle’s. His closet door is ajar so I walk into it, flip a switch and find a cotton long-sleeved tee. It fits over my head easily, reaching mid-way down my thighs. From a wicker basket on a shelf I choose a pair of fresh boxers. In his room, I spy his thick wool socks resting on the seat cushion of his chair. I grab them and wander for a door I hope leads into a bathroom.
When I’m ready, I retrace last night’s path through the softly lit hall. I stop when I reach the slate-stone entryway, listening to the quiet conversation up ahead. I swallow once. Twice. Then, stocking-footed, I walk across the cold rock and into the kitchen.
Dad and the Thackers are seated round the window table, drinking coffee. Their eyes seem appraising and strangely adult as they shift to greet me. “Hello,” I say. My voice rattles like it’s surfacing through gravel. I comb my fingers through my hair.
“Morning,” Dad says.
“Where’s Jesse?” I ask.
Dad pauses, fixed on my clothes. “She’s long gone home, honey.”
“Kyle and I didn’t sleep together,” I say, giving into a sudden, irritating urge to explain myself. The adults look at each other, from the corners of their eyes. “I mean, we slept in the same bed, but we didn’t you know, do anything. We just talked.”
Dad says, “And I was so looking forward to stepping outside with Kyle.”
Angella Thacker clears her throat.
The coffee pot seems miles away, like the end of the counter is Antarctica. My legs move mechanically as I walk for it. Once I’m there, I take a mug from a cupboard near the sink then set it too loudly on the granite counter surface.
“Sorry,” I say.
Ray Thacker’s eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch toward his hairline. Angella seems suspended, almost in a trance or something. Her gaze is glued to the blue rim of Kyle’s boxers showing below the hem of his shirt. Her eyes shift slightly. I swear she’s analyzing his socks, big and floppy, on my feet.
I focus on what I’m doing.
Cupping my hands round my warm mug, I wander to the table. Dad scoots a bit and pats the cushion, like he’s forgotten it would take a healing miracle for me to flop down and inch around the bench seat to where he is. So instead I choose a chair, lowering myself into a sitting position like I’m a stop-motion animation character, saying, “Ah, ah, ah,” as I adjust to the pressure in my side. I exhale, surprised by how good I feel. Dad pushes the sugar and cream toward me.
“Thanks,” I say.
He studies me for a moment. “I’ve got to go back to work,” he says.
I dump a heaping teaspoon of raw sugar into my coffee and stir, adding enough cream to turn the brew the color of caramel. Then I take a long, slow sip, tracking the hot liquid as it flows down my throat and into my stomach. Snowflakes thump against the window like angry bees, propelled by furious wind. “You’re going today?” I ask. “I mean, it’s a snow war-zone out there.”
“I should, but no.” Dad glances at the weather. “I’ll go in tomorrow, though.” The house shudders. I can’t see the barn, or the garage or Dad’s Jeep, for that matter.
I take another long draw of coffee. “So, um, what day is this?”
Ray Thacker bursts out laughing.
Dad says, “You nut,” and almost smiles, shaking his head. “It’s Friday, honey. Thanksgiving was yesterday.”
“Oh no! Did you guys eat all the cobbler?”
The Thackers and Dad glance at each other, again. Angella stands up and walks for the fridge.
“What?” I ask. “I love cobbler for breakfast.”
“Angie and Ray have invited you to stay here,” Dad says, “until your stitches come out next week. They both work from home. They’ll look after you.”
“I don’t need baby-sitting.”
Angella places a plate-full of cobbler into the microwave. “We have a lovely guest room,” she says.
“Where you are required to sleep alone,” Dad adds.
“Hello? I’m injured? All we did was talk.” I sound annoyed and I check myself. I mean, knowing I’m welcome has me desperate to make sure I’m always welcome. I don’t want to wreck it.
Sipping coffee, I stare from Dad to Ray Thacker. When Angella places the steaming hot cobbler in front of me I say “Thanks,” then ask, “Does the deal include access to Kyle’s clothes? They’re easy to get into. And way comfortable.”
Ray Thacker laughs again, the silent kind that has tears squeezing from his eyes.
From somewhere behind me Kyle says, “You mean all I’ve had to do, all along, is agree to share my clothes?” He walks to where I’m sitting and kisses the top of my head. “Mornin’, girl,” he whispers.
Dad’s eyes pop wide, like he’s being squeezed too hard. Kyle shrugs. “Just testing. I mean, a guy’s gotta know he’s awake. This would have been a right cruel dream, otherwise.”
22
A RED BULL jolt of country music shoves me from my dreams. I swear my heart spasms. I’m in total panic before I remember that I’m sleeping in the guestroom, tucked between Kyle’s parents’ master suite and his father’s office. Kyle told me that on school days he’s up at four. I glance at the bedside clock. Three fifty-nine. He could have warned me I’d hear his alarm from half-a-house away.
I sit up slowly, wincing at the unforgiving stitches in my side and the dull, awakening throb of my bruised ribs. Then I pull on an old Yellowstone sweatshirt and stumble into the guest bathroom, not bothering with the light.
Kyle runs for an hour, every day, though this morning he’ll run in the barn on a treadmill. That’s what he does when the weather’s too crappy to run outside. I wish I could run with him, even in a stinky barn. I miss exercise. But judging by my ribs, it will be a while. Sounds reach my ears—opening doors, soft whispers in the hall. I yawn. I need more sleep. When I’m finished I head back to bed and climb in, but I can’t relax. Last night Kyle told me this room used to be Evan’s.
I switch on the lamp.
Evan’s room is a lot like Kyle’s: pine furniture, a faux bear-skin rug, blankets on the wall. The steer horns above the windows are different, and in one corner stands a totem, though I’m not so sure it’s antique. There’s nothing personal. No books or sports stuff. The nightstand drawer is empty.
I don’t know why, but I’m desperate for evidence of the person who once lived here. I want a face to go with the name. There aren’t pictures of Evan in the Thackers’ house, at least none that I’ve seen. There’s no proof of him anywhere, even here in the room that was once his. I slip from bed and check under it, hoping for boxes. Nothing is there.
The wardrobe is basically empty—a stack of fresh towels, an extra set of sheets and a TV. The top two drawers of the dresser hold my underwear and jeans and sweaters and tees, so I skip those. The third drawer down is full of clothes Kyle wants me to wear. I pull open the bottom drawer. It has a latched lid.
Latched, but not locked.
A bubble of guilty tension grows in my stomach. I tell myself to stop snooping. I mean, even if there’s anything in the drawer, it isn’t my business. Then I decide I’ll only take one quick peek. Turning the latch feels invasive, like I’m defiling something pure. But I unlatch the lid and lift it anyway. There, tied in red-string bundles of pictures and jute-string bundles of saved homework and wire-tagged trinkets and trophies, I find Evan’s life.
Angella is well into cooking breakfast when, two hours later, I wander into the kitchen for coffee. She has a fire burning on the big hearth the kitchen and dining room share. Ray Thacker says, “Morning Miss,” turns up the collar of his duster then slurps from his steaming cup as he steps outside. By the time Kyle appears, his hair wet and combed back, his shirt ha
lf-buttoned and his boots under one arm, I’m enlisted: flipping pancakes, scrambling eggs, pouring coffee, frying bacon. The kitchen smells fabulous—like a diner. Kyle smiles at me as he settles into the breakfast nook. I laugh and say, “May I take your order?”
He says, “Just keep it comin’, girl.”
Angella and I serve him eight pancakes, four fried eggs, hash browns and bacon, toast with blackberry jam. He gulps down two glasses of milk, buttons his shirt, finishes his coffee and chases everything with a banana. I think he’s done, finally, but he opens the fridge door, his eyes foraging. He grabs a peach yogurt.
I’d never thought about how hungry boys are in the morning.
As Kyle slings his pack to his shoulder I line up next to the back door, right along with his mother. He smacks a quick kiss across my cheek without breaking stride. “I’ll bring your homework,” he says. “Bye, y’all.”
Angella and I follow him out and wave, shivering in our slippers in the early morning chill, as Kyle drives an old farm truck from the barn. Then we rush into the kitchen, slapping the cold from our clothes and stamping our feet. I’m feeling good today, still tender but more myself, so while Angella adds a log to the fire I curl into the window seat. She joins me, sitting close, like we’re old friends. We nibble on our eggs and toast while playing gin.
I see my mother in this moment, her dark hair crazy from sleep, her movements practiced as she prepped me for my day. How I must have churned her life with hurricane force! No wonder Mom preferred saving her coffee. With me at school she could drink it in peace.
“Why’s Kyle driving that old truck?” I ask, discarding the queen of hearts.
“Ray doesn’t want him obvious.” Angella takes the queen, which peeves me, though it’s too late to take it back. Her discard is the two of clubs. I don’t want it.
“Obvious to who?”
“Em Harrelson. I’m surprised he drove the Ford, to tell the truth. Ray and Kyle’ve been arguing over how to best handle things. Kyle’s got his own ideas. Ray feels himself in charge. They’ve gone at it every morning, yelling at each other in the barn—till you came.” Angella smiles. “Seems Ray knows leverage when he sees it.” She draws again, then lays her cards across the table in a neat and numbered fan, placing her discard face down. “Gin.”
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