Carrie picks up a napkin ring and rolls it between her hands before setting it back down. Her anxiety twists the coil within me.
“Let me forward you the email. They say...” She trails off, and her cheeks puff out when she exhales. “They say that when we contacted them two years ago about adopting Jacob and Tyler, they thought we were asking to adopt you, too. There’s been a misunderstanding. They thought we were taking care of you.”
Fuck. Me.
Echo
Noah sits inside, and I sit outside. It’s not unusual for me to give him space while he talks with his brothers, but what is unusual is the silence between us before he went in. I’ve got nothing to say to him, and he obviously has nothing to say to me.
My hand flies over the page and what typically erases the unease and melts the apprehension doesn’t smooth away anything. My grip tightens on the chalk, and each swipe across the paper becomes more clipped and less thought out until the markings represent disoriented lines on a page and not an image or a picture or anything.
I toss the sketch pad and the chalk onto the table and rub at the wetness forming in my eyes. Freak. The guy called me a freak, and that’s what I am.
Noah and I are heading back home, and the nightmares I thought I was running from lurk behind every corner and coffee shop in America. In less than a month, Noah and I will start college, and I’ll have a roommate in the dorms and new classes, and a ball of dread knots in my stomach. This summer was supposed to change me, and nothing has changed.
Noah
Back at the parking lot of the campsite, Echo sets her sketchbook into the passenger side of the car and riffles through her duffel bag of clothes. She hasn’t spoken to me since the incident at the café. It’s not the first time Echo’s been pissed at me, but somehow this anger feels different—weighted.
I drop the packed tent next to the open trunk and lean my hip against the car, praying Echo will at least make fleeting eye contact. It’s not like her to go this long without acknowledging me. I’ve been hoping she’d talk—give me an idea of what direction to take.
If she said, “I hate you,” then I can say, “I’m an asshole, so you should, but I love you.” If she said that she’s mad at me then I can respond that she should be, but it doesn’t matter because I love her. But she gives me nothing. Silence.
Echo tosses the duffel bag in the backseat and rummages through another. With her clothes stacked to the side, Echo withdraws a light white button-up sweater. She jams the clothes back in and closes the car door.
Fuck. Plain and simple fuck.
It’s nine in the morning and close to eighty degrees. She’s covering her scars again.
As Echo walks down a trail leading to the campground and the dunes, she slips the sweater over her arms and draws the sleeves over her fingers. I haven’t seen her do that since March. And Echo wonders why I don’t think she should talk to her psychotic mother. One phone call along with the wrong words from a stupid-ass bastard and she spirals.
The memory of the way her face paled out when I told the bastard to apologize circles my brain. Echo has a habit of making me feel like a dick, and this is one of those moments, but damn it, I went after that guy for her.
Screw it. We’ll get on the road, and she’ll calm down after some distance. I pick the tent up and try to cram it into the small space I left for it in the trunk. When it won’t fit, I push harder, and the sound of material ripping causes a rip within me. Possibly my sanity. “Shit!”
I slam the trunk with a thunderous bang. For two months, Echo and I didn’t worry about our messed-up lives in Kentucky. She didn’t focus on her mom or dad or her newfound memories or the scars on her arms, and I didn’t think twice about how in June I turned eighteen.
Eighteen. Out of foster care, out on the streets, pack your shit, get out of my fucking house, eighteen.
Soon Echo and I will be heading home and back to our problems.
Once Carrie sends the email, I’ll have one more problem to add to this list: deciding whether or not to read it and what the hell to do with the message.
My head falls back, and I focus on the crystal-blue sky overhead. I blow out a rush of air then inhale slowly. Mrs. Collins told me to do that whenever I was hit with the urge to tell her where to shove her annoying questions. I’d never admit it, but sometimes, as in now, it works.
I need to go after Echo, but I’ve got no clue what to say. Desperate for help, I pull out my cell, scroll to a familiar number and press Call. Two rings and I smile at hearing the voice of my best friend and foster brother on the other end. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the middle of nowhere?”
“S’up, Isaiah. What’s going on there?”
“Watching Beth’s back...as much as she’ll let me. Right now she’s picking up her pay at the Dollar Store.”
I met Isaiah and Beth over a year ago when social services placed me into a new foster home—the same home as Isaiah. He had been placed at Beth’s aunt and uncle’s house years ago and because of Beth’s messed-up home life, she often crashed there with us.
“Watching her back how?” I ask.
“Some shit’s going down with her mom.”
“How bad?” Beth’s mom is a nightmare, plus her mom’s boyfriend makes serial killers look like cuddly puppies.
“Bad.” The short answer creates chills. “But Beth doesn’t know, and keeping her in the dark is becoming complicated.”
“Should you keep her in the dark?”
Isaiah pauses. “It’s Beth. If she knew what her mom is mixed up in, she’d try to fix it, and then she’d end up in trouble that I couldn’t fix.”
This is the kind of guy Isaiah is: loyal to the end and a fixer. Even if the person he loves doesn’t want to be helped.
“Yeah. I get it.” There’s not much I wouldn’t do for Beth. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister. “We’ll get Beth to move out with us. The more distance she puts between her and her mom, the better.”
“Thanks, man. So why are you calling?”
My gaze roams back to the path. “I fucked up with Echo.”
“When don’t you fuck up with Echo?”
My best friend’s a comedian. “A guy called her a freak, and I threw him against a wall.”
“Good for you.”
“She’s pissed. Won’t even look at me.”
“Why?”
Exactly. “I love her, but I never said I understood her.”
“Have you said you’re sorry?”
“No, and I’m not sorry.” Not in the least.
“Try it. Who knows, it could help.”
“It could.”
“And people say you’re smart.”
“Fuck you.” I let sincerity into my voice.
“Right back at you. When are you coming home?”
I study the mountains looming on the horizon. “I don’t know. I thought we’d be heading back later this week, but some shit’s come up.”
“Shit?”
“Shit.”
“Got it.” That’s Isaiah. He doesn’t need to know details to sympathize.
“Did you put the money down on the apartment?” I made a promise to Isaiah that I wouldn’t leave him behind in foster care. Even though the state would pay for me to live in the dorms, there’s no way I can leave my non-blood brother behind, so we decided to move out together, even though he’ll only be a senior in high school this fall.
“We move in September first.”
I exhale. One less situation to worry about.
“I got a favor to ask,” says Isaiah.
“Shoot.”
“If you’re going to be gone for another few weeks...” Isaiah’s not a guy who hesitates, nor is he the kind that asks for favors. He’d rather break off his arm and
sell it than ask for help. “I’d like to bring Beth out. A guy owes me, and I can get one-way bus tickets cheap. Watching Beth with her mom is like watching a ticking time bomb without a pair of pliers to clip the wires.”
“Is Beth going to be on board with this?” Beth doesn’t like being away from her mom.
“She owes me, and she knows it, but it doesn’t mean she won’t bitch.” A long pause. “The shit Beth’s mom’s into...I need to get Beth out of town for a few days. Change her perspective. Then maybe she’ll stop going over to her mom’s so much.”
That would take a damn miracle. Regardless of that I say, “Come on out.”
I should discuss it with Echo first—hell, I still need to talk to her about my mother’s family. Beth and Echo can be oil and water. It’s tough for Beth to trust people, and she’s given Echo a rough time from the get-go. I’m sure Echo’s going to be thrilled to hear we’ll have guests, but the decision needs to be made and made now.
If Echo’s anything, she’s understanding. We’ll enjoy Colorado Springs then get to Denver. I’ll take her out to a nice dinner after the showing then tell her everything. She’s got too much on her plate at the moment to deal with my baggage.
“We’ll be in Colorado Springs for the next two days. Denver for a night after that.” And screw me. “Maybe Vail will be on the list.”
“I’ve gotta go. Beth’s walking out.”
Isaiah hangs up, and a tug to return home grows. I’ve got Isaiah, Beth and my brothers waiting for me. Plus, Echo will be at my side. I’m not alone—I’m not.
Echo’s red curls bounce as she drags the cooler up the path. With her eyes fixed on the car, she lifts the cooler, tosses it into the backseat, slams the back door shut then slides into the front passenger seat and yanks that door shut with pissed-off pizzazz.
We’ve got a couple of hours in the car together, and my girl has a hell of a temper. This should be an interesting ride.
Echo
Colorado Springs is, according to the guy who tried initiating small talk a few seconds ago outside the hotel, unseasonably hot. Hot enough that I’m shocked that people don’t melt the moment they step into the sunlight. The sweater doesn’t help.
I push off the hood of my Honda Civic, twist my hair off my neck and duck into the shadow of a towering fir tree. The stark contrast between Alamosa and Colorado Springs is beyond amazing: desert and flat to green with mountains rising in the distance. The urge to paint and draw overwhelms me as the sights and colors here are a feast for my artistic palate.
I could have joined Noah in the hotel lobby, but then he’d believe he was winning, and he’s so not. We haven’t talked since the café, and he’s dead wrong if he thinks I’m caving. I don’t care how many wicked smiles he flashes in my direction or how many times he “mistakenly” brushes his hand against my cheek or thigh. He can make my head spin and my blood run hot, but I’m strong enough to resist his every temptation.
I haven’t gone this long without kissing Noah since this spring when we broke up for a couple of weeks. I shiver despite the heat. That was one of the darkest periods of my life and, unfortunately, I’m well versed in dark.
Noah exits the lobby, and I’m hypnotized by his confident strut. Even in the heat, he wears jeans and a black T-shirt and never breaks a sweat. Not impervious to hot weather, I blow a couple of curls away from my face.
“You wouldn’t be so hot if you took off your sweater,” he says.
My fingers clutch the ends of the material.
Noah rests a hand on my hip and chuckles when I pull away. “You’re going to have to talk to me sometime.”
I will not crumble. He started this fight, not me. Going around and bullying guys because they called me a name...it’s not okay, especially when it attracts attention to me and leads people to wonder if what they said is true.
He holds up one key card and with a slip of his fingers reveals two. I extend my palm and waggle my fingers for my key, but Noah only grins as he lowers his hand and walks past. Arrogant, conceited, smoking, full of himself...
Without looking back, Noah strolls into the side entrance. I’ve got two options: liquefy from the heat and dissolve into the pavement or follow Noah. I actually weigh the choices. I really, really don’t like admitting he has the upper hand because Noah is a sore winner.
A bead of sweat drips from my scalp and onto my neck. We do sleep in the same bed, and I could smother Noah with a pillow later tonight or toss his pants and boxers onto the front lawn of the hotel. Except the last one would make him smile and me blush.
With an exaggerated sigh, I yank open the door and spot Noah down the hall sliding the key card into a slot. The cool hotel hallway reeks of chlorine, and the farther I walk in the direction of our room, the sound of splashing and children shouting in delight grows.
Noah enters the room and disappears. My agitation reaches a new level as tension builds between my muscles. Is this how he’s going to be? Ignoring me? Not even waiting? My skin tightens until I feel paper-thin and ready to rip.
My hand stings when it pounds into the cracked open door, and a cold blast hits me as the air conditioner roars to life. “Do you seriously think you have the right to treat me this way after what you did this morning?”
All the air rushes out of my body. Roses cover the full-size bed closest to the door. The long-stemmed kind. Noah bought me flowers...for the first time...ever. Despite the anger and hurt from earlier, every romantic notion inside me squeals with excitement.
“I’m not sorry for defending you.” Noah leans against the wall next to the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. “But I am sorry for hurting you, so talk to me, Echo. Or yell. Anything but the silence.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and I become hyperaware. I’m alone with Noah. It’s not the first time, but whenever we enter a room with a bed, in complete isolation, the same strange sensation hums along my body, like a tuning fork being struck.
Speechless, I ease over to the bed and rub the silky petals between my fingers.
This isn’t a swanky room. In fact, it’s modest with two beds that share the same thin multicolored comforter. A two-hundred-pound television sits on a dresser, and the corner contains a particle-board table and chairs.
The air from the conditioner has a musty, this-room-is-older-than-me scent. Heck, this hotel could be older than my dad. But as I stare at the roses, it’s as if the bareness of the room fades, and I’m the princess entering her castle. Noah always has the ability to turn reality into fantasy.
I pick up one of the long stems, and the smooth petals caress my lips as I bring it to my nose. Noah’s kisses always start off soft and gentle. If I face him, would Noah notice the vein pulsing wildly in my neck? If so, he’d know I was imagining him and his kisses and right now, I’m not sure I want to be kissed.
The fragrance of the rose isn’t overwhelming. It’s mild and sweet and perfect, and it must have driven Noah crazy to buy them.
“Come on, baby, you’re killing me here.”
“This had to be expensive.”
I risk a glance at him and catch his eyes before he lowers them. “You’re worth it.”
Noah finds spending money difficult, and I try my best to understand. Until this summer, I never thought about purchasing my morning latte. Then I noticed Noah avoiding breakfast or skipping lunch or dinner. He’s fended for himself for so long that he’s constantly scared of losing what he’s earned, and his pride won’t allow me to pay for his meals. I practically had to arm wrestle him into letting me pay halves on the hotel rooms, which is why we camp, often, at my suggestion.
I lay the rose back on the bed. “I love you.”
He pushes off the wall and snags a belt loop on both sides of my hips, tugging me into him. “You didn’t say you’ve forgiven me.”
The heat of his body surrounding me in the midst of the cold room creates a fluttering in my bloodstream. It’s impossible to hold a steady thought when he’s this close. “So you agree that throwing people into walls isn’t okay?”
“It is when someone fucks with you.”
I attempt to step back, but Noah halts the escape. “I mean it. No one treats you like shit. At least when I’m around. That’s nonnegotiable.”
“You embarrassed me.”
“He hurt you.”
“You hurt me,” I snap, and this time he allows the release. I shake my head trying to expel the memory and the ache building in my chest. “When you told him to apologize and the way he looked at my arms...”
This pain, it was supposed to be over. None of this was supposed to carry out of high school and into normal life.
Noah brushes his fingers along my sweater-covered arm. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I close my eyes at his intimate touch. It’s a slow movement, not one meant to seduce. It’s one to show how much he loves me, and I flatten my lips, fighting the urge to cry. Noah nudges me toward him and if it wasn’t for his hold, I’d drop like a house of cards.
I fall into him, and Noah wraps me in his arms. “It’s okay, baby. We’re okay.”
I cling tighter to him, because it doesn’t feel okay. For the past two months, life was good and easy and everything I dreamed it could be. Despite my efforts, the muscles at the corner of my mouth tremble. I wanted to be done with tears and with whispered comments thrown in my direction like knives and with this overwhelming sense that I’m less and that I’ll never belong.
“I thought I was past this.” Past caring what people thought. Past people caring about the scars on my arms. Like a diploma somehow gave the world and myself a magical maturity.
“You are.”
“I’m not.” I’ve been living in a delusional bubble. The world hasn’t changed, and neither have I.
“You are. It’s the day.” Meaning like everyone else, he blames my mom. “Just a bad day.”