by Leigh, Tara
Moving back and forth between these two worlds—somebody to nobody, nobody to somebody—just amplifies the best and worst of them both.
Lately, I’ve wondered if my mom ever experienced this kind of elation. If she’d ever felt the way Gavin makes me feel.
Because if she had, and then been forced to live without the one person who makes her feel happy and welcomed and interesting… Well, maybe then I’d understand her need to dull the sharp edge of loss with a bottle of wine every night.
Even thinking about living without Gavin makes pressure build up inside my chest, constricting my airway and blood vessels. To distract myself from the sudden rush of fear clawing at my neck, I return my attention on the pages in Gavin’s hands.
Unlike Gavin’s dream of becoming an FBI agent, I don’t know exactly what I want to do. But I do know who I want to be.
Someone who is invited to glamorous parties.
Someone who fills her home with beautiful things.
Someone who drinks coffee—not wine—out of an unchipped mug.
Someone who builds a life with a man who loves her. A man who will never abandon her.
I hesitate, trying to put my feelings into words. “It’s more than just the apartment. Look at the expressions on their faces. Look at how he’s holding her, as if he’ll never let her go. And the way she has one of her hands on his chest, right over his heart. They just,” I pause for a moment, sighing at the photograph. “They look so… perfect. Meant to be, you know. Like nothing bad has ever happened to them. Like nothing bad ever will.”
He frowns. “Bad things happen to everyone.”
“Not everyone.” I shake my head stiffly, the movement conveying my absolute certainty. “Some people were born to live charmed lives. I mean, do you think that couple would ever have their kids taken away from them, or voluntarily give them up?”
Gavin considers what I’ve said for a minute, then shrugs. “That’s the thing about pictures. They capture one moment in time, and only what’s within the frame. That couple—in that moment, in that picture—they may look like they lead perfect lives. But it’s just an image. It’s what they want us to see. We have no idea what really happened before the photographer got there or after he left.”
I blink back the unexpected sting of tears. There are times, like now, when the worry I’ll never escape the cycle of my past—abandonment and fear and a constant yearning for things I’ll never have, a life I’ll never lead—weighs on me like a boulder, the pressure slowly crushing me.
I need to believe that not all images are illusions. Some are true snapshots of the kind of life I can have—if I want it badly enough, if I work hard enough. One day.
“Well, you might not believe in them,” I say, looking back down at the couple in the photograph, “but I do.”
Gavin sets the torn pages aside and gently sweeps a lock of hair behind my ear. “I believe in you, Poppy. And I believe in us, too. We all have… stuff we keep hidden from view. If you didn’t have yours and I didn’t have mine—maybe we wouldn’t be here, together. But you do, and I do, and we are.
“I want to get the fuck out of this town, too. I want to get my diploma, do whatever it takes to get to Quantico, and go wherever the FBI sends me. I want to solve crimes the bad guys think they’ve gotten away with. But our past is an engine, not an anchor. It’s what will drive us forward, not what holds us back.”
Gavin’s arm encircles my waist as he positions my palm over his chest, just like the couple in the picture. “You are strong, Poppy. Stronger than you think you are.” The steady thrum of his heart is both reassuring and terrifying.
A heart can ache. A heart can break. A heart can harden.
A heart can stop beating, stop loving.
In an instant.
“I don’t feel strong,” I admit in a choked rasp, doubt crashing over me. What if my mom once had the same dreams as I do right now? What if I’m just a bad breakup away from a life of alcohol and addiction?
Gavin presses a kiss to my forehead. “You are,” he assures me. “It’s what I love most about you. Well, besides your laugh. And your smile that shines from your entire face, not just your mouth. I love that you don’t just walk through the woods, you’re always looking around, noticing birds’ nests and blooming flowers and trees with the perfect amount of shade.”
My breath catches in the back of my throat as I study Gavin’s face, wanting so badly to believe what he’s saying. “You love me?”
His eyes twinkle at my question. “I do. I have for a while now.”
Why? My doubts are like dry leaves on a blustery day, swirling around with no apparent order or reason. “But—”
“You don’t have to say you love me back. Not if you don’t.”
I might not understand why Gavin loves me, but I understand what he needs. Hope is threaded through his voice and shining from his eyes. Love me back.
And there’s an unspoken plea etched into the tiny creases bracketing his lips. But don’t lie to me.
No lies are necessary. I love Gavin with every breath in my body.
“I do. I love you so much.” Tears streak down my cheeks as I say the words, the salt only adding to the sweetness of the moment.
Chapter 6
Sackett, Connecticut
Summer between Sophomore and Junior Year, High School
“Thanks, Jim.” I smile appreciatively at the bus driver and give a last wave to the kids crowded into each row before stepping back outside into the summer heat. We take a field trip every other Friday and when I realized we’d be driving right past the gas station Gavin’s foster dad manages, I asked if I could end my shift a little early and be dropped off on our way back to the community center. I’ve never visited Gavin at work before, but he said his foster dad had been splitting time between this station and one in another town so he’s often alone in the afternoons. I decided to take a chance and surprise him.
Herding my group of eight, eight-year-old girls through lines and rides, sunscreen applications, and bathroom breaks, all while not losing any of them, was exhausting. My skin is sticky and sunburned—because I didn’t have a chance to reapply my sunscreen—and my hair is a wind-blown mess, but I fully intend to wrap my arms around Gavin’s neck and kiss him until my coconut lip balm is gone.
The two pumps outside are empty and I walk past them, toward the small convenience store with a pickup truck parked in front.
I have one hand outstretched toward the door when I see Gavin through the window. He’s behind the cash register… but he’s not alone.
From the mix of defiance and aggravation coloring Gavin’s expression, I’m certain the rough-looking guy with the bushy eyebrows, snub nose, and backward-facing baseball cap is Doug, Gavin’s foster dad’s son.
I yank at the door handle just as Doug’s fist bangs the cash register, open hostility rising between them like a mushroom cloud. Two heads swivel my way and Doug’s leer makes me entirely too aware of the sheer cover-up clinging to my still damp bathing suit. “Well now, how can I help—”
“Poppy.” Gavin’s voice is thick with strain. “What are you doing here?”
Doug’s eyes widen for a brief second, then narrow into slits. “Little orphan Gavin, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”
Gavin is neither little, even compared to the stockier Doug, nor an orphan, but nausea roils in my stomach at this small taste of what Gavin deals with in order to continue living with his foster parents.
“Don’t talk to her,” Gavin growls.
“Or what? Don’t forget—one word from me and I’ll have you kicked back to wherever you came from.”
“Say all the words you want.” Gavin points at a security camera positioned in the wall. “They won’t mean anything when I have proof you’re trying to steal money from the register.”
Doug scoffs, unconcerned. “Shows how much you know, that thing hasn’t worked in years.”
“Really?” Keeping his eye on Do
ug, Gavin enters a command into the monitor sitting just to the left of the cash register. I can’t see the screen, but whatever’s on it makes Doug go pale.
“Son of a bitch.” His hands clench into fists as he spins around, stopping just short of slamming one of them into Gavin’s face.
Gavin doesn’t even flinch. “Do it,” he spits, moving even closer to Doug. I’ve never seen him like this, aggressive and angry. “We’re on camera. Hit me now, so I can finally hit you back.”
Their tense standoff continues for one beat, then two. My feet are glued to the ground, the breath still in my chest. Finally, Doug barrels out from behind the register.
His expression is mutinous as he hurls the door open, yelling, “This isn’t over!”
But for now, it is. And I have to resist the urge to applaud as a blast of sultry summer air rushes through the gap, sending the edges of my cover-up dancing over my thighs.
I run over to Gavin, throwing myself into his arms. “Are you okay?” he whispers against my neck, holding me tightly.
“Yeah.” The squeal of Doug’s tires as he peels out of the parking lot makes me wince, even as proof that he’s gone sends a tidal wave of relief through me. “Are you okay? How long was he here?”
“Just a few minutes. I’m fine.”
“What a lucky break with the camera—when did it start working again?”
“When I replaced the lens and rewired it. I knew it was only a matter of time before Doug showed up when he knew I was here alone. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to take precautions.”
I pull away, staring into the deep, inky blue of Gavin’s gaze that’s still the exact same as the day I met him. He’s taller now, his muscles lean but strong. And the almost cocky confidence I glimpsed when he stood up to Doug—a little bit brash, a little bit disdainful—wasn’t just an act.
My beautiful, broken boy isn’t so broken anymore.
He’s not really a boy anymore, either. But still beautiful.
And definitely mine.
I interlock my fingers behind Gavin’s shoulders, my thumbs stroking his neck. “So, not luck then. You outsmarted him.”
“For now.” He shrugs. “I know how to fight battles with my fists, I learned from the best. But, as much as I’d like to break every bone in Doug’s face, I’m better off doing things this way.”
Any lingering thoughts of Doug are chased away by the promise of Gavin’s kiss, but his lips have barely grazed mine when a bell from outside lets out a sharp ring. Gavin’s groan of disappointment sends a shiver down my spine, his forehead resting against mine for a moment before we turn to look through the window.
A Jeep has pulled up to the pump labeled: FULL SERVICE. Before Gavin lets go of me, the car doors open.
I recognize the five girls who get out. We’ve gone to school together for the past three years, although they’re in the grade ahead of me. They’ll be seniors when school starts again in a month.
Clarissa, the queen bee of East Sackett High, struts inside wearing jean cutoffs and a bikini top, her long blond hair perfectly tousled as it falls down her back. “Hi, Gavin,” she coos, taking her Ray-Bans off and making a show of suspending them from the tiny string connecting the two triangles barely covering her breasts.
Her syrupy-sweet Hi, Gavin is echoed four more times as the other girls file in behind her.
“Hey.” Gavin acknowledges them all, though his eyes quickly return to Clarissa. I note with pleasure that they don’t drop below her face. “You use up a whole tank already?”
She frowns briefly at me, a flicker of irritation creasing her forehead. “Not quite. But you know me, I feel safer driving around with a full tank.”
Really? I roll my eyes, though Clarissa doesn’t notice. I’d have thought she had better game than that.
When Gavin doesn’t comment, she adds, “We just got back from the beach—you should really come with us next time.”
“Thanks.” His lips tug upward in a grin, his hand squeezing mine. “But I’m more of a hiking kind of guy.”
“Hiking, huh?” Clarissa’s high-pitched giggle makes me cringe, although I have to admire her persistence when she adds, “You’ll have to show me the best spots around here.”
“Actually, Poppy’s the expert.” His face lights up as he turns to me and makes the connection between us. “You must know each other already since you’re both at East Sackett.”
Five sets of eyes immediately turn my way, and despite the coolness of the air-conditioned store, I flush bright red.
Clarissa isn’t the type to admit when she doesn’t know something. Instead, she drags her gaze up and down my body, trying to place me. “Of course,” she says, just before pivoting away from us, the ends of her hair slapping my upper arm as she heads for the refrigerated section.
After they buy an impressive amount of drinks and junk food, Gavin follows them outside to gas up Clarissa’s jeep while I pretend to be engrossed in a tabloid. When he returns, he plants his feet behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, nuzzling the sensitive patch of skin behind my ear. “So, where were we?”
“Would you really rather hike than go to the beach?” I’ve only been to the ocean a few times, and there’s something unsettling about it. Like it’s just a vast, yawning mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
He lifts his head, settling his chin on my shoulder. “I don’t know. I like both, I guess. So long as it’s not with them.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “I think most guys would be pretty happy to get in that car.”
If I’m being honest, I would too. Not because I like Clarissa or any of the other girls who walked in here—I don’t even know them. But I envy their easy banter, their shared history, their cohesive group. I’ve never had that.
Gavin moves his hands to my hips and gently turns me to face him. “I’m not most guys… And why would I be interested in anyone but you?”
Chapter 7
Sackett, Connecticut
Spring, Junior Year, High School
“You’re late.”
Today, instead of saying you’re early, I just agree. “I know. I couldn’t help it. My mom was in a real mood.”
Gavin throws his arm around my shoulders as I sit down beside him, still panting after nearly sprinting all the way here. “What’s wrong—anything serious? Did she…”
The concern on his face has my chest cracking open just a little bit wider, my heart filling up with even more love than I thought possible. “No, she didn’t do anything. Or take anything.” Yet.
Like always, I silently tack that word onto any response concerning my mom’s addiction. I don’t think she’s used drugs since we’ve lived in Sackett, but the first thirteen years of my life are impossible to forget. She hasn’t left us yet. She hasn’t relapsed yet.
It’s like there’s a ticking clock inside my head that only I can hear. It’s just a matter of time.
“She was fired up about a letter that went around to all the parents.” Two towns over, a girl was found unconscious behind the bleachers of the football field. One of the players, a high school senior, was arrested and everyone is saying something different, except for the girl herself, who was so drunk she doesn’t remember anything. But apparently there are pictures and texts confirming that something happened.
Gavin merely nods. “The incident with the football player?”
I pull back to meet his eyes. “You’ve heard already?”
“We had a school assembly about it today.”
“We’ll probably have one tomorrow then.”
“It’s too bad the douchebag isn’t eighteen.” Gavin’s shoulders are tense, his tone dripping with disgust. “If he did do it, he should get more than just a year or two in juvie.”
“From the way my mom was talking, it’s the girl’s fault for getting drunk.”
I shake my head, wishing it was possible to dislodge my mom’s voice from inside my ears.
I didn’t raise my girls to be so stupid.
If you lose control, you’d better be prepared for what happens. Never trust anyone but each other.
Gavin scoffs as he grabs a nearby twig and snaps it in two, then throws the pieces back into the woods. “Nothing against your mom, but that’s bullshit. The only thing you deserve for drinking too much is a hangover.”
I hesitate, analyzing my feelings about something I haven’t faced and can barely even imagine. I don’t know any of the people involved. I’ve never had a drink in my life. And I’ve never had sex.
When my mom gets drunk, I blame her for the things she does, the things she says. I blame her for unscrewing the bottle, for every splash of wine into her damned mug, and for every time she lifts it to her mouth. I blame her.
I blame her for the years Sadie and I spent in foster care, the situations she put us in when she was doing drugs. Sometimes I even blame her for my reluctance to talk to strangers, and for Sadie preferring fictional worlds to our real one. As far as I know, no one has ever made my mom swallow a pill or smoke a pipe or take a drink.
“You don’t think it’s the girl’s fault?” I ask, wincing at the tentativeness of my question, at my lack of conviction regarding what’s right and what’s wrong when a situation is distorted through an alcoholic lens.
“You mean for getting attacked while she was unconscious? No, I don’t. Poison ivy from puking in the bushes, grounded by her parents for missing curfew, losing her phone—any of those, yeah. But assaulted, no. Definitely not her fault.”
I let his words sink in. If someone took advantage of my mom when she was drunk or high, hurt her while she was vulnerable—even if she was in that state because of her own actions—I wouldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t say, she was asking for it.
But that’s what my mom is saying about a high school girl she’s never even met. That’s what a lot of people are saying about her.
I nudge him softly. “You’re a good guy, Gavin Cross.”