The last word is barely out of his mouth before my lips are on his, hungry for him. I’ve kissed Hale what feels like a thousand times since that afternoon under the tree – soft and slow, fast and raw and every which way in between – but never like this. I’ve never needed to before now. Because even though I know I’ve loved him since the first time I ever spoke with him, on that lazy day down by the lake, this is the first time I’ve really known. Known what it felt like. Known it was welcomed. Known what the word really means.
I love you, Hale Fischer, I say with my kiss. I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you bruised and battered and broken, and I love you fighting-strong. I love you quiet and I love you confident. I love you here and now and always. I love you.
But I don’t say it out loud. I can’t. Even though I will myself to phrase it properly, to package my feelings into a neat little box with a neat little bow, the words just don’t come when they’re summoned.
And so I show him with my body, in a way that words could never hope to match.
Chapter Eleven
Pete’s truck makes a hell of a ruckus on the way to Hale’s trailer, but it gets me there in one piece, just about. ‘Sometimes she’s a little temperamental with the gas,’ he said as he handed over the keys that morning. ‘And a little sticky with the brakes.’
‘Are you saying the brakes don’t work?’
He shrugged. ‘They work for me. You’ve just got to know how to treat them right. Romance them a little bit.’
Romance the brakes, I kept thinking as I drove the long, straight road out to the Grove. That’ll help me if a car in the next lane steers out into my way, or if something runs out of the undergrowth. I’ll just romance myself to a standstill and hope for the best.
But I’d made it, eventually, and only ten minutes later than I said I’d be there – which, given how slowly I was driving, is nothing short of a miracle.
I park the truck outside Hale’s trailer and make double sure that it’s locked up and there’s nothing worth stealing inside it before I leave. I take a quick look in the mirror before I head out: I’m not what you’d call dressed up, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t make at least a little effort to look presentable in a dressed-down, ready-for-work sort of way. I mean, sure, I know it’s not a date no matter what I might have said last night, but that doesn’t mean I want Hale to see me looking like a total schlub. I don’t need to worry on that score, thankfully. My hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail, my makeup just subtle enough to hide the occasional blemish without looking like I put any effort in whatsoever. I even picked out my best-worst clothes: the kind of shirt that I’m not scared about getting dirty and dusty, but also that’s light on stains and manages to at least allow me to maintain some shape. The low cut, I’ve managed to convince myself, is mostly for the heat, and not for Hale’s benefit.
Obviously. Obviously. Who could ever think otherwise?
Still, for someone who’s there to spend a day shifting boxes, I’m pretty happy with the way I’m presenting. One final glance in the rear view, a check to make sure that there’s nothing between my teeth, and I head off to his trailer.
I get just about as far as closing the truck door behind me before I hear Hale arguing with someone on his front porch.
‘I’m just saying, it’s not exactly photogenic, that’s all.’
‘It’s not a movie set, Merry. It’s where I grew up.’
‘I know, I know,’ she sighs. ‘I mean, I knew you grew up poor and everything. I was just hoping it might be something a little more… rustic. Rather than rusty.’
‘You mean, like a log cabin?’ Hale can barely keep the scorn out of his voice.
‘Well I don’t know, do I? We don’t have trailer parks in England. This is all a brave new world as far as I’m concerned. It’s like Epcot for poor people.’
From the way she glances around, it’s not a world she thinks very much of. I’ve never seen someone look at so much land with the same expression you’d use if you stepped in something a dog left behind before, but Meredith seems to manage it like a pro.
‘Well, the next time I have a shitty childhood, I’ll do my best to make sure it happens in the pages of Backwoods Monthly,’ Hale says. ‘How about that?’
Meredith rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, very glib, Hale. Very droll. Do I really need to remind you that I’m doing you a favour by being here? You know, you could be a touch more appreciative of all the work I put into making you look good to the outside world. If you can survive growing up in this tetanus-hole, I’m sure a little civility wouldn’t kill you.’
‘I know, Merry. And I am grateful. Really. See?’ He flashes her that winning Hale Fischer smile, and suddenly all is forgiven. Mostly, anyway. I sure as hell remember what that feels like.
‘Hmm,’ she grumbles, her lips tightly pursed in that peculiar British symbol for dissatisfaction. ‘I’ll need a couple of pictures from you later, then. Somewhere in town. Maybe that kitsch little diner from earlier? Seemed to go down well with the fans. You should just see the retweets.’
She starts telling him all the various successes of her latest social media push, but Hale is barely listening. He’s caught sight of me over her shoulder, standing by the truck with an amused expression on my face. Sorry, his eyes seem to say. I’m almost done.
‘Whatever you want, Merry. But later, OK? I’ve got an appointment to keep first.’
‘With who?’
She turns around just in time to see me making my way towards Hale’s trailer, following his gaze. I can see her running through a mental contacts list, trying to figure out if I’m someone she’s met before – and if she has, if I was someone worth remembering. It takes her a while.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says eventually, with a smile that’s all teeth, no eyes. ‘From that charming little diner. Cassie.’
‘Carrie.’
‘Right, right. Carrie. Nice to see you again.’
Based on the way her eyebrows have knitted themselves together at the sight of me, I find that very difficult to believe, but I choose to take the high road. ‘You too,’ I say. ‘Ready, Hale?’
‘Ready when you are,’ he replies. ‘I’ll see you around, Merry?’
She hasn’t taken her eyes off me. ‘Sure,’ she says at last. ‘I’ll catch you later. You two have fun.’
But somehow, the way she says it makes me think that that’s just about the last thing she’d want us to be doing.
~~~
Once we get started, it turns out there isn’t all that much work to be done. Even since the other day, when Hale first arrived back in Eden, the trailer looks different. Piles of trash bags are mounted up ready to be thrown away, a lifetime of hoarding all wrapped in black plastic and sealed with thick knots, as if trying to resist any further inspection. There’s a small bag of clothes to be taken to the Goodwill in town, and a significantly larger bag of clothes to be taken straight to the landfill – moth-eaten, worn-out, ripped to shreds or stained beyond salvation. I couldn’t have said much to what he was like when Hale was around, but living alone it looked like Jim Fischer had given up on looking his best.
He’s used everything he can to get the items packed up: trash bags, cardboard boxes, even wooden fruit crates – the kind you’d get from a stand on the highway, filled with oranges and strawberries and lurking wasps. It takes us just about an hour of carting out boxes to the back of Pete’s truck to get the trailer emptied. It never looked like much of a home – not to me, at least; it’s a fact that makes me feel extremely guilty, but knowing what I do about Hale’s childhood I can’t help but be grateful once again for my stable upbringing – but now it’s more clear than ever that it really is nothing more than a tin box. A roof overhead, but no warmth, no kindness.
It’s hard to blame Hale for the speed with which he got everything ready to throw out.
We’ve got a nice little system going by the end: a conveyor belt, where I br
ing the boxes to the door and Hale takes them through to the truck, back and forth, back and forth. ‘Almost done?’ he asks as I hand him a large cardboard box filled with God only knows what; it’s heavy enough that I struggle to lift it, and I can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead, but once it’s in his powerful hands it might as well be light as a feather.
‘One more,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring it out.’
The last thing for the truck is a wooden fruit box filled with knick-knacks: a heavy clay ashtray, a wooden cigar box, and other assorted junk that will never be used again, none of it worth anything to anyone. If this is truly all that’s left of Jim Fischer, it’s an honour and a privilege to make sure that it all winds up cast away and forgotten. I get the feeling that Hale’s going to have an inordinate amount of pleasure watching it get thrown into the landfill. He’ll probably want to do it himself, and who could blame him for that? I’m surprised he hasn’t taken it out in front of the trailer and ritually burned it all.
I’m almost daydreaming about how satisfied Hale would be in that case when I notice the sides of the box beginning to buckle under the weight of what’s inside it. I feel it slipping, but not soon enough to do anything to stop it.
Shit.
As I lean to try and get some extra leverage, the box breaks almost in half, sending the contents crashing all over the floor; I feel the side of the box scrape across the skin of my palm and it’s suddenly clear that something is wrong. White-hot pain shoots into the fleshy part near my thumb, and instinctively I yell out and press my hands together tightly, trying to stifle the signal that is telling by brain that, somehow, my hand is on fire.
Hale is at the doorway in an instant, a look of concern on his face. His eyes are focused on me; they never even drop down to the box load of crap that is now scattered across the trailer floor. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What, you just decided to scream for no reason?’
I flash him the palm of my hand for a fraction of a second, nowhere near long enough for him to see anything significant. ‘It’s just a splinter. It’s nothing.’
It’s not nothing; that much is as obvious to Hale as it is to me. Even without looking at it, I can tell that it’s more than a thin sliver. There’s no wetness, no blood, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, and I’m doing a poor job of hiding my discomfort.
‘Let me see,’ he says.
‘I told you, it’s fine. Really.’
‘Carrie…’
‘Fine.’ I hold out my hand like a petulant child and he takes it in his, moving the fingers and stretching out the palm to see just how deep it is. When he goes a little too far, I wince and pull away, but he keeps a firm grip.
‘Hold still, would you?’ he admonishes. ‘I need to get a look at it.’
‘It hurts, you ass.’
‘It’s just a little prick.’
‘You’re just a little prick. Give me my hand back.’
‘No.’
‘Seriously, I’ve got some tweezers at the apartment. I’ll get it later.’
He grins up at me, but he lets me go nonetheless. ‘So what, you’re just going to spend the rest of the day with this chunk of wood sticking out of your hand?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come here.’
‘Why?’
‘Just come here, would you?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you think? I’m going to save you about three hours of griping and maybe an infection, that’s what.’ He reaches for my hand again, holding it up to the light. It hasn’t gone in deep, but it’s slid under a couple of layers of skin about half an inch, and there’s only a few scant millimetres sticking out – nowhere near enough to get a good grip. I’ve never been particularly squeamish, but seeing that ugly shard of wood sticking into my hand is doing a lot to change all that.
‘It’ll hurt.’
‘Only for a second. Don’t be a baby.’
‘You’re not going to be able to get it with your fingers.’
‘I’m not going to try.’
‘You’re not cutting it out. It’s unsanitary.’
‘I know I’m not. Just trust me, would you? I used to get splinters like this all the time when I was working in the yard.’ He holds up his hands. ‘See? Not a scratch. I know what I’m talking about.’
That’s good enough for me. I give him a quick nod. ‘Make it quick, then.’
‘Always.’ He takes my hand in his, and for a moment it’s easy to forget the pain. His fingers are so soft, so gentle, it’s not difficult to imagine that in another life he could have been a surgeon instead of a musician. But it’s more than that, somehow: it’s the way he’s touching me, like I’m something precious he doesn’t want to break, an injured bird he’s nursing back to health. That’s what drives the breath from my lungs, makes the rest of the world blur into nothingness. I haven’t been touched like that in far too long. Not since… well, probably not since the last time Hale did it. No one else has even come close.
‘OK, you ready?’ he asks. ‘Count of three?’
‘No.’
‘Tough. Three… two…’
He presses his lips against the palm of my hand, and I feel a pinch as he grasps the splinter between his teeth. He doesn’t wait to count down to one before he pulls away, jerking his head away from my hand at just the same angle that the splinter went in. I give a quick involuntary yelp, but once it’s all done an instant later I’m surprised by how little it hurt. There’s a tiny spot of blood on the palm of my hand, but other than that you’d barely know that there had been anything there.
‘There,’ he says, picking the splinter out from between his teeth and showing it to me. ‘Done. Ugly little son of a bitch, isn’t he?’
‘Not that little.’
Hale smiles at me. ‘You know, I remember you being a lot less squeamish when we were kids. Remember that night at the Stop ‘n’ Shop?’
‘How could I forget?’ The first time you said you loved me. It’s the kind of thing that sticks out.
‘You popped my shoulder back into place like it wasn’t even a thing, and you’re antsy about a little splinter in your hand?’
‘You’re forgetting a crucial little detail there, Hale,’ I say.
‘And what’s that?’
‘It was your shoulder. It was my hand.’
He grins. ‘Oh, I see. Much easier to be a martyr when it’s someone else doing the bleeding?’
‘Infinitely easier.’ I move to start picking up the items that are scattered across the trailer from the broken box, but Hale puts out a hand to stop me.
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘You sit down. I’ll get these.’
‘Don’t be a dope.’
‘I’m not. It’s the last box. You sit down.’
‘Hale…’
‘Carrie. Do as you’re told.’
‘Nurse Hale’s orders?’
‘Something like that.’
I flop down onto the couch while he scrambles around on the floor, picking up the shards of the cracked ashtray and dumping them into one last garbage bag.
‘There we go,’ he says once he comes back in. ‘All done and ready for the landfill. Ready when you are.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yeah, I reckon so.’
‘Did you keep anything? No little mementos? No keepsakes?’
He shrugs. ‘Why would I want to remember this place? I spent a decade trying to forget it.’
‘Are you going to be sorry to leave it?’
‘Honestly?’ he asks. ‘No. Not even a little bit.’
‘Serious?’
He nods. ‘I really figured that when I came back here I’d feel something, you know? I mean, that was why I came back at all. I just felt this huge pull to come back to Eden before I started the tour
. I can’t really explain it better than that. It was like a magnet, always pointing north – part of me was always pointing right back here. Or maybe as far away from here as you can get. It’s hard to say.’
‘So you don’t feel anything? Nothing at all?’
‘About this trailer?’ He shakes his head. ‘Not a thing. I hated it here, Carrie. I can’t tell you how much I hated it. I couldn’t even back when we were dating. It was his, you see. All of it. I never had a place of my own until I left. Even my room… he’d come barging in whenever he wanted to, usually drunk as shit and looking for a fight. I was always waiting for it, always on edge. Did I tell you I spent a couple of weeks homeless?’
‘No?’
‘Out in Dallas. That night I ran away, I didn’t have much money on me, and that was the furthest I could hitchhike. I wasn’t really thinking straight. After we fought, I just wanted to get the hell out of Eden no matter what. Until I managed to find a job, I spent a couple of weeks sleeping rough. Just me and my guitar.’
‘So you ended up in Dallas?’
‘Only for a couple of weeks. It was better, but it still wasn’t far enough from Eden as far as I was concerned.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I worked there for a couple of months. Got a job waiting tables, spent a little time busking. Made a couple of friends and crashed with them for a while. Just until I could save up enough money for a bus ticket to New York.’
A couple of months. Just about the length of time I spent a complete mess after he left, not knowing where he was – and he was just a couple of hours away. If I’d known, perhaps I could have got Kitty Ellis to drive me there one weekend without Mom and Dad knowing. Perhaps I could have seen him, got an answer to the questions I wanted to ask, got some closure so I wouldn’t have spent ten long years wondering what had happened to him, or if he was even still alive. Would I, though? Would I have gone, even if I’d known he was there? Maybe not. It was agony not knowing, but perhaps the thought of rejection would have been even worse.
Maybe it’s not always better to know.
Reckless: A Bad Boy Musicians Romance Page 13