by K. A. Tucker
“I am.”
Her face softens. “I’m glad to meet you. My name is Hildy. Ginny and I used to be best friends.”
“Really?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. Ginny had a best friend?
She chuckles. “Yes, for most of grade school and into high school. We were going to move to Seattle together, the summer after we finished our senior year.”
“Were going to” obviously means that they didn’t.
Hildy doesn’t elaborate on the reasons why, but she doesn’t need to. “I went anyway, and then met my husband, and got married. Then I had children and we just . . . we lost touch.” Her brow pulls together in a way that tells me she genuinely feels bad about that. “I’ve thought about her over the years, but you know how it is. Well, I suppose you’re still too young to lose touch with people, but you’ll understand one day.”
I stifle my derisive snort. Lady, you have no idea how out of touch I am.
“Well, didn’t my granddaughter go on about the amazing ranch where she just brought her horse, Lulu, for boarding. I didn’t put two-and-two together until she started describing the barn and the corral. I realized I had been there before. Plenty of times, actually.”
“You’re Zoe’s grandmother?”
Her head bobs up and down. “She’s a good girl, that Zoe. Too bad she has a schmuck for a father.” She pauses. “I would like to come visit Ginny when Zoe and Teresa go again. Do you think Ginny’d be okay with that? I’d love to see her. Talk to her again.”
“I’m sure I can talk her into it.” Ginny could use a friend. One that doesn’t walk on all fours and harbor fleas.
“Thank you so much.” She reaches out to pat my forearm, and my chest instantly fills with warmth. “My daughter said you were a kind girl. Ginny’s lucky to have you.”
I watch Hildy leave Poppa’s, her words clinging to me. Ginny’s lucky to have me. I’ve always thought of it as the other way around.
I finally dare take a sip of my coffee.
I don’t believe it.
Jesse was right. I am a two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener.
Or maybe I just want to be?
“What are you drawing now?” I lean over Dakota’s shoulder to peek at her sketchbook, watching her black pen fill in a frog’s belly with steady strokes.
“Tina wants to get this on the back of her neck for her eighteenth birthday, to symbolize her transformation,” she explains, leaning against the counter on an elbow, her chin propped in her palm.
Tina is Lauren’s daughter, and Poppa’s granddaughter. I’m guessing by “transformation,” she means Tina’s extreme weight loss. The high school senior has apparently lost eighty-five pounds in the last year through diet and exercise. “How’s Poppa going to feel about that?” Tina serves at the diner on weekends. I’ve only said hello to him in passing once or twice, but he doesn’t rub me as the kind of guy who wants his staff displaying neck tattoos.
“Well, rumor has it Lauren got knocked up at eighteen and they had trouble identifying who Tina’s father is, so I would think a tattoo won’t be a big deal to Poppa. But Tina can deal with that. Or Lauren.”
Another few months and I probably won’t be able to look at a single person in this town without having to push their dirty laundry out of my line of sight. Dakota doesn’t gossip with malicious intent, the way Amber’s friends seemed to. She simply has an archive of information that she shares liberally with me.
“They’ll know who enabled her, though.” My eyes drift to the dream-catcher tattoo that stretches across the top of Dakota’s back from shoulder to shoulder, on display thanks to a black tube top and a sleek ponytail. She has several more on her body, all similar in style and all designed by her. Dakota’s sketches are distinctive—curvy pen strokes, with tribal undertones. Most depict what she calls “spirit animals,” something Dakota seems very into. I thought this was a tie to her own native heritage but apparently she’s been studying spirit animals and their meanings for years, adopting other tribal beliefs and traditions and adding her own unique flare.
“Do you want to annoy the woman who makes our coffee every morning?” I remind her.
She smiles, her teeth all the more white against her dark complexion. “She’ll still love me.”
I chuckle on my way over to the old cedar chest that’s serving as a table and begin tidying the stack of blankets. Dakota’s laissez-faire attitude is a refreshing change from what I deal with from Ginny. Nothing seems to ruffle her. Not even the fact that we haven’t had one customer step in in the last hour and she probably doesn’t need to be paying me to stand here. “It’s a weekday. Everything’s slow on a weekday,” is her only response.
“You know that you could charge people money for those designs,” I suggest.
“I know.” She hums softly as her hand slides over the paper. “Hey, do you have any tattoos?”
“I do. A small water symbol, right here.” I pat the right side of my pelvis, silently wondering what I was wearing—or not wearing—when I had that done.
There’s a long pause. “You should let me design one for you.” The end of her black pen is tapping rhythmically on the counter.
“What did you have in mind?”
She frowns. “I’m not sure yet. Frogs are tied deeply with water, but it doesn’t feel right for you. Your aura,” her fingers swirl with her words, “says resilience and agility.”
Resilience. There’s that word that Jesse wrote in my journal. Every time I hear it, I smile.
“But your spirit hasn’t spoken clearly to me just yet. I’ve heard mere whispers.”
“And what do the whispers say?”
She continues working away at her frog sketch. “That your soul is scarred but it will survive, once it finds what it is searching for. There’s great inner conflict. I see that, too.”
A shiver runs down my back. Some people—Amber included—would probably roll their eyes at Dakota’s ramblings, writing them off as airy and weed-induced and borderline creepy. But I would be happy to sit here until her uncanny skill can shed some light on my spirit.
The door jangles, pulling me away from thoughts of my aura and right into the dark eyes of Jesse Welles.
My heart leaps.
I haven’t spoken to him in days, since the night of the storm. His car has been sitting in his garage, but he hasn’t come out and I haven’t had the nerve to venture over. I’m afraid that I may wear out my welcome. Instead, I’ve sat in my nest of pillows every night, staring at his words in my journal, hoping to hear his footsteps up the stairs.
“Hey.” The side of his mouth kicks up in a smile as he strolls down the aisle, coming to a stop a few feet away from me, sliding his hands into his jeans pockets.
I feel my face burst with heat at the simple word. “Hey. What are you doing here?” Jesse doesn’t seem like the kind of guy in the market for recycled art.
He juts his chin across the street. “On break and grabbing coffee.” His T-shirt reads “Hart Brothers Forestry.”
“Did you find a new job already?”
“Through a buddy I went to school with. They need help clearing after the forest fire. It’s good money. And it’s temporary.”
“No mechanics jobs available yet, I guess?”
“Nope.” He takes the folded blanket from my hand and drops it on the pile for me. Glancing behind me, he offers, “Hey, Dakota. How’s it going?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, still leaning against the counter, her chin in her palm, staring at Jesse. Almost through Jesse. And then it’s as though invisible fingers snap in front of her, because she startles. “Hi, Jesse! It’s good to see you.”
A horn honks from just outside the store. It’s a big green truck with “Hart Brothers” stamped into the side and a young guy sitting in the passenger seat, his hand slapping the side of the door as if to the beat of music.
Jesse gives my waist a light squeeze. “Gotta go. Just wanted to stop by.”
&nbs
p; “See you later?” The question’s casual enough.
“Yeah, I’m around.”
I watch him climb into the back of the truck cab. Wondering what the hell “Yeah, I’m around” means. That I’ll see him because he’s around and, by default, I may literally see him? Or should I go visit? Or maybe he’ll come visit? Or . . .
“He has feelings for you.” Dakota’s eyes have that dreamy look in them. “Deep, consuming feelings. The kind that dominate your thoughts and control your decisions. And feed your soul.”
My stomach leaps to my throat, her words sparking something inside me. Hope, that’s what that is. And it’s silly. “We barely know each other, Dakota.”
Her wide mouth spreads into a smile. “And yet you know each other. Your spirits are . . . entwined.”
“Did you smoke something while you were tossing the trash out back?” I exclaim.
That smile simply hangs there for a few seconds. And then she starts to giggle.
Lasagna—one of Ginny’s favorites—is cooling on the stove when I first hear the rumble of Jesse’s car. I practically jump out of my chair and run to the window in time to see him pull into the garage and cut the engine. The door slams and a moment later, he strolls out to the edge of the garage.
And then he turns to my window.
The lights are off in here so I doubt he can see me, and yet he stares for so long that I perhaps think he can.
“I’m around,” I mutter, repeating what he said earlier. Before I can chicken out, I grab two plates and slice into the lasagna with a spatula, heaving sizeable pieces onto them. Covering them with foil, I take the stairs down faster than I normally would, afraid that Jesse will disappear into his attic.
He’s leaning against the back wall, his arms folded over his chest, simply staring at his car when my foot hits the concrete floor. “Does it look different than it did yesterday?”
He smirks. His work clothes are dirty and I see a small scrape on his arm. I’m guessing he’s going to be getting into the shower soon, a visual I don’t need to be having right now.
I hold up the plates. “I thought you and your dad might like dinner.” Dakota’s voice rings out loud inside my head. He has feelings for you.
“Thank you.” He takes the plates and our hands touch briefly.
And that strange sense of comfort I keep feeling around him washes over me in a wave. Regardless of what my mind has decided to protect me from, my senses are telling me that Jesse is safe. That Ginny is wrong about him.
Ginny.
“Shit.” I glance up at the wall clock and see that I have exactly two minutes to get the lasagna to the table. “I’ve gotta go. See you later?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here. Or upstairs.”
I make it to the porch with exactly ten seconds to spare and Ginny’s already waiting in her seat. “Your favorite. There’s enough for a few meals here.”
She frowns. “It’s missing a quarter.”
“Yes, it is.” I load her plate and mine, and then take a seat and stab at it, starving.
“Well?” Ginny’s staring at me now. “Where did it go?
“I thought Sheriff Gabe and Jesse might like a piece, so I brought it over.”
“To Gabe?”
“Nope.” The p in the word pops out of my mouth, and then I shovel a piece of lasagna in my mouth and level her with a look.
For once, she doesn’t answer, deciding to mimic me and fill her mouth with food, either because it’s that good or she’s intentionally shutting herself up. Ginny’s answers are usually more logical and palatable with at least a seven-second delay.
That’s why I wait until she has another mouthful before I say, “I met a Hildy today.” Ginny’s eyes flash with instant recognition, so I know that her childhood best friend hasn’t been forgotten, even after almost fifty years. “She would really like to come visit you.”
She chews slowly, her hazel eyes looking past me, to the fields, to the mountains, to years ago, when things were different for her. Finally, she swallows and says softly, “That’d be nice.”
Ginny is surprisingly chatty for the rest of our meal. She tells me about the time she and Hildy went to the rodeo and saw the sheriff at the time fall off his horse walking down Main Street, an empty flask of whiskey in his hand, the contents already poured down his gullet.
I catch myself smiling, and not because of the story.
Maybe we’re both lucky to have found each other.
“Jesse?”
I fold my arms against the chill. The big storm brought with it milder weather, but the evenings are still on the cool side. He’s not in the garage, so I knock on the door in the back. He did tell me to come by. Kind of. And he did tell me that he might be upstairs.
So I try the handle. The door pops open. A familiar smell fills my nostrils immediately, but I can’t place it.
“Jesse?” I call into the open space. I get no response, but I hear the low voices from a television. Climbing the stairs, I find Jesse sprawled out on his back, in bed. Asleep.
I should feel like I’m intruding, but I don’t. It’s a cozy space, made entirely of wood, and almost as sparse as my attic. The only light comes from the TV, save for a night light plugged into the wall near the stairs. The floor creaks loudly as I step across it to turn it off.
“Hey,” comes a groggy voice from the bed, and my heart swells instantly.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.”
He groans out loud. “I just drifted. Cutting down trees all day sucks ass.”
He hasn’t moved and doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so. “Okay, get some sleep, then.” I shut the TV off and move to pull his bedspread over him.
I freeze when a hand skates up my forearm, gently, slowly, his calluses scratching over my skin as his fingers slip up the sleeve of my sweater. But they stop at my elbow, waiting. For my permission, maybe? I give it to him by sitting down on the bed.
“Stay.”
My stomach tightens. What does he want from me? Or expect? Because I don’t know if I can give it to him.
But I also know that I don’t want to leave. “Like last time?”
“Just like last time,” he assures me.
My heart is pounding as I lie down. His hand slips out from my sleeve and then his arm lifts beneath my back, pulling me closer to him, until I can’t help but curl into his chest. To hear his quick, shallow breaths.
I catch movement from his hand in the sparse light only a second before a finger grazes my hair, my neck, my chin.
The edge of my scar.
My right side is lying against his chest but he gently prods my head up, until I’m facing the ceiling and he has access. I swallow hard as he trails a finger up and down the length of it.
“I read what you wrote in my journal,” I finally offer into the silence.
He doesn’t answer, making two more passes along the scar with his finger, as if memorizing the feel of it. And then his hand settles gently on my neck as he leans in, until wet heat from his mouth skates across my skin.
He kisses my scar.
I close my eyes, the sensation stirring a ball of emotions deep within my stomach that I don’t understand but are raw and crippling in their intensity. The tears begin to spill from my eyes.
Jesse stops but he doesn’t pull away, simply pressing his forehead against my scar, his thumb stroking back and forth against my neck soothingly as the tears continue to fall.
Until I drift off.
I’m faintly aware of an alarm going off somewhere nearby, and then I feel someone leaning over me, the scent familiar and warm. Cracking my eyes open a sliver, I see the ridges of Jesse’s chest. I automatically reach for him, curling my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into me . . .
Kissing his throat like it’s the most instinctual thing in the world for me to do.
It isn’t until he slaps the alarm clock that I fully wake up and realize what I’m doing. I pu
ll back with a gasp. “I’m sorry.”
He props himself up, his elbows on either side of my head, cradling me. His dark eyes are twinkling.
“It just felt so . . .” I feel myself frown, searching for the right word. “Natural.”
“In general? Or with me?”
“Not in general.” I pause, hesitating. “Why do things feel so natural with you?”
He shifts to run the backs of his fingers over my cheek, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Do they?”
“Yeah. You must remind me of someone. I feel like I know you.”
He smiles. A sad smile. “Maybe you just want to know me.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes, his thumb drifting over my bottom lip, first over the faint scar left by the attack, and then over the full length, each sweep dragging an exhale from my lungs until my breathing is ragged and my body starts to ache in a familiar way, a way I know I’ve experienced before. I just don’t remember when.
I’m about three seconds from begging him to kiss me when he leans down and closes his mouth over mine.
And the alarm goes off again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dipping his face into my neck. “I have to go.”
Checking the clock, I see that it’s ten minutes after eight. “So do I. The horses need to be let out.”
His mouth closes over my throat to kiss it gently, and I can’t help the moan that slips out.
“You’re killing me,” he whispers—so soft that I barely hear it—and then he lifts himself up. I stand and watch as he peels his shirt off for a clean work shirt from his dresser. It gives me a chance to see the muscular curves in his shoulders and back. And the tattoo stretched from shoulder to shoulder, which I recognize right away as his car. “What came first, the car or the tattoo?”
I hear his smile as he answers, “Tattoo. I got it when I was sixteen.”
“Your parents allowed it?”
“Fake ID.”
Of course. Stepping closer, I dare reach up to run a finger around a tire. “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”