“I think my dad did it,” I whisper. “James doesn’t know.”
Though he doesn’t move, relief flashes across his face. “What can I do?”
I know what I want him to do. Four nights of kissing him in my sleep has left me achy and desperate for more. I don’t know whether it will help, but I’m willing to find out. I look up at him through my eyelashes, feeling embarrassed by what I’m about to ask. “Can you make me forget?”
I expect him to back me into the doorframe and kiss me senseless, but he doesn’t. Instead—after checking to make sure I have shoes on—he reaches behind me and closes the door like he did the last time we were standing in this exact spot. I take his outstretched hand and let him lead me down to his car.
When we’re five miles outside of town on the road that leads deep into the mountains, I realize he’s taking me to Leslie’s. Anger and hurt seep into my heart. Does he seriously think buying me drugs is a good idea after I watched my mother die of an overdose?
But then he turns onto a service road that takes us away from Leslie’s and down into the small valley below.
“We’re going to the river?”
“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “I thought maybe we could have a secret place. Somewhere we can spend time together without worrying about someone coming to look for us. I thought it might be nice to get away.”
My cheeks get hot, and not just because I feel like an idiot about the Leslie thing. Total seclusion, zero interruptions, and Sam. So many possibilities.
But then I realize that this is what James has wanted to do for a while now—take us away from everything—and I feel guilty for saying no so many times. When he comes home tonight, I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind. Screw the money.
Sam pulls into what looks like a wide, pine needle-covered campsite that slopes sharply away into a fast-moving stream—one of many that wind away from the Rogue River in these hills. The trees here are thick and cast an ominous darkness over the forest around us, but the rocky ledge and the water are bathed in the beautiful morning light. I’m out of the car running toward the sunshine before Sam can cut the engine.
The slope is too steep for me to make it down in flip-flops. If I slip, I’ll land in one of the many patches of slimy moss and lichen tucked into the millions of crevices and mucking up the stones’ smooth surfaces. It’s pretty, though. Even prettier is the little deer trail that leads from the rocks through the ferns along the edge of the slope and back into the forest. I’m going to need to buy a jug of bug repellant before we come up here again.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe when Sam finally catches up.
He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on top of my head. “Do you want to walk around for a bit, or should we get right to the ‘make you forget’ part?”
The ferns and the trees and the clear water gushing over the rocks look inviting, but they’re no competition for the warm body pressed against mine. “Make me forget.”
He scoops me up and carries me over to a worn flannel blanket lying neatly in the middle of the pine needle clearing. In the few seconds I spent looking at the water, he’d been busy. My heart flutters at the thought of how sweet he’s being. We stretch out on the blanket, me on my back and Sam hovering over me. Judging by the serious look on his face, any hope of me forgetting is doomed before it can begin.
“The more I’m around you, the more I realize just how much James didn’t tell me,” he says. “How much I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re the dark, thunderstorm gray I love best. “If I had any idea, I never would’ve waited this long.”
He leans closer and threads his fingers through the hair above my neck. My breath catches in anticipation—so close, so very close—but he doesn’t kiss me.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he whispers. “I’ll keep you safe.”
That he cares enough to make a promise like that—even when I’ve heard it a million times from my brother—burns in the very best way. It’s too bad that, short of gluing himself to my side, there’s nothing Sam can do to protect me from my father. Rather than ruin the moment, I just smile and say, “I know you will.”
When he kisses me with more tenderness than I’ve felt in my entire life, let alone my recent dreams, I almost believe myself.
Around two, when our empty stomachs grumble loud enough to be heard over the burbling stream, Sam and I tear ourselves apart and head back into town in search of food. He doesn’t protest when I lie across the seat with my head on his lap like I wanted to the first day he rescued me from my house. It’s so tempting to fall asleep when he strokes my hair.
I must have, because the next thing I know, we’re parked in front of a cheerful florist shop called Enchanted Garden with the rich aroma of teriyaki chicken, tangy pineapple, and hot rice curling like steam from the three bento boxes sitting on the dashboard. With my mouth watering and stomach singing with anticipation, I gape at the food. “Where’d we get that?”
Sam nods to the old coffee drive-thru across the parking lot that now houses a Japanese food stand. “You were sleeping, so I picked up lunch. You like bento, right?”
“I love bento,” I say, scrambling into an upright position so I can grab the closest box. “You didn’t have to buy three meals, though.”
“Yeah, I did.” He gives me a sheepish, please-don’t-hurt-me smile. “We’re having lunch with my mom today.”
Twenty
Sam lets me carry two of the bento boxes. Maybe he saw the look of panic in my eyes when he opened the shop’s door and set off the pair of ominously cheerful wind chimes hanging from the door handle. The two boxes and the distraction of my growling stomach are all that keeps me from bolting when he nudges me into the paradise of wildflowers and tropical foliage.
At least his mother isn’t right inside the door, waiting to pounce. I duck under a broad leaf that would be more at home in the Amazon than in a rural Oregon flower shop and gawk at my surroundings. One corner of the room reminds me of the gold and peach wildflower fields James and I pass on the way to the coast. The opposite corner looks freshly ripped from the rainforest, complete with mammoth leaves and flower stalks that look like fancy parrots. Between the two, a huge display of roses and dahlias bloom from vases mounted to the wall, all bright reds, oranges, and yellows. A single pink rose nestled between two bright bouquets looks as out of place as I feel.
Now I understand why the shop is called Enchanted Garden—I’ve never been anywhere this magical in my life. Juggling the bento boxes into one arm, I move closer to the wall so I can reach the pink rose. The upturned bloom seems to smile at me, begging to be stroked. Sam beats me to it, snagging the pink rose out from beneath my fingertips.
“Here,” he says and coaxes the bento boxes away from me. The pink rose quickly takes their place in the crook of my arm. “Doesn’t do you justice, but still.”
“I’ll be right there,” a voice calls from the back room.
I freeze in place, terrified of who might emerge from the small doorway. A ghost of a woman like my mother? A mourner dressed in widow black?
Sam’s mother is neither of these things.
In a word, Mrs. Donavon is adorable. Her light brown hair is cut short, at least three inches shorter than mine, which only makes her big, brown eyes look bigger. When she grins, it’s like I’m looking at a tiny, feminine version of Sam with lighter hair and a much louder voice.
“Sarah,” she booms and draws me into a bear hug. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. Sam has been talking about you for years.”
“Um, hi, Mrs. Donavon.” I blush and look over the top of her head at Sam, focusing on him so I don’t yank myself out of her arms. The embarrassment on his face makes my fear of meeting her and my discomfort around her after what just happened to my own mother slightly more bearable. “We brought you bento,” I blurt out anyway.
She laughs and pulls away, patting my shoulder. “Great, but please—call me Liz.?
?? Her expression shifts like a light bulb flickering out, one second warm, the next…empty. “I heard about your mother. I’m so sorry. How devastating.”
I choke out an unintelligible response. Devastating? James must not talk about our family much, or she’d know better. I still can’t feel a thing, but I bet my father has spent the last four days raising a beer to the heavens and thanking his lucky stars he didn’t get caught.
“I’m sorry,” she says and touches my shoulder. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, I understand.”
I can’t seem to respond. If only I were grieving like James. Grieving would feel better than this emptiness.
“So, I tried calling on the way over,” Sam says as we follow her through the curtain of sparkly beads into the back room, which is wallpapered with peg board and a million miniature gardening tools. “You too busy to answer your own son’s call now?”
He sets the bento boxes on the one clear edge of an enormous concrete tabletop covered in squat, round vases, buckets of flowers, and piles of greenery, then slides out a pair of stools. After dusting off what looks suspiciously like dried moss, I settle onto one and pick at my food.
Starving or in a hurry—maybe both—Liz digs into hers without waiting for anyone else to settle in. “Today has been ridiculous,” she says between bites. “This wedding is killing me. Who waits to order their wedding flowers until the last minute? And God only knows what all the people who’ve been leaving voicemail want. You’d think it was Mother’s Day.”
“You need to hire somebody,” Sam tells her. When she grimaces, he turns to me. “My mom is a control freak. The thought of anyone touching her flowers makes her crazy.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Liz grumbles. “I don’t have time to train anyone else, that’s all.”
“How hard is it to answer the phone and take orders? I was eleven the first time you made me help out and it only took five minutes to show me what to do.”
“Not everyone is as bright as you are, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a given.”
A pang of jealousy sours the bento settling in my stomach. Their bickering feels comfortable. Practiced. Even the jabs they throw at each other resonate love.
I want that love.
“I can answer your phones, Mrs. Donavon. I don’t have to touch your flowers if you don’t want.”
“It’s Liz, sweetie. And are you sure? I don’t want to ruin your summer.”
Sam snorts and takes another bite. “Sure she does,” he says through his food and nods toward his mom. “Just look at her. You made my mom’s whole day.”
Sure enough, Liz is on the edge of her seat, fork poised over her bento box, as if she might bolt across the room to grab me an application any second. I can’t help myself—I giggle.
“Shush, Sam,” she snaps, but the light in her eyes hasn’t dimmed a bit. “It would only be a few days a week,” she tells me. “Just enough hours to help me catch up on all these arrangements. I’d pay you, of course.”
My own money. A way to contribute to James and my meager savings account. A safe haven away from my father’s warning gaze.
My smile must be as huge as it feels, because Sam is grinning, too.
I set my fork down and fold my hands in my lap. “When can I start?”
Twenty-one
Sprinting up the driveway, I force myself to acknowledge the setting sun and the chirping crickets. I’m at least two hours late. Though I had a surprisingly good time learning about seedlings and fluffing flower arrangements while Sam and his mom bickered, coming home late is inexcusable.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sam dropped me off a block away and I hit the sidewalk running—no kiss goodbye, no plans for tomorrow, no nothing. I’d been far too freaked out for any of that. Since my brother started at the mill a year ago, I’ve never missed his arrival home, never missed having his dinner at least cooking if not finished when he walked through the door. Of all days to screw up, his first day back at work after being utterly devastated over our mother’s death is hands down the worst.
At least our father’s truck isn’t in the driveway. Maybe he’s at Smoke Jumpers, Granite Falls’ only dive bar, schmoozing another woman already.
I barge into the foyer and glance at the clock.
6:46.
Make that almost three hours late.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
James isn’t in the kitchen or the dining room or the bathroom. Seeing our bedroom door open a crack, I creep closer. The lack of Godsmack blaring from inside is alarming. My brother is never this quiet. Maybe he’s sleeping?
When I slip inside, I find him lying on his back in my bed, hands resting on his chest, eyes locked on the ceiling. “You’re late,” is all he says.
“I’m sorry.” I slip my now-dusty, pink flip-flops off and kick them under his bed. If he’s ever paid attention to the reddish dirt on the ground around Leslie’s place, he’ll know I was in the woods for at least part of the day. “I lost track of time. Want me to fix dinner really quick? We’ve got mac n’ cheese, peanut butter and jelly, some of those pizza roll things—”
“Where were you?”
“At the mall. And then I went to the library for awhile.” In the mirrored closet door, I see James watching me. He’s on his elbows now, his expression dark. Keeping my face neutral, I slip one of my sleep shirts from a hanger and drape it over my arm. “What about you? How was work?”
“I drove to the mall. And the library. You weren’t there.”
Lying has never been my forte, but I’m desperate—especially when I notice a bit of dried moss in my hair. “Maybe we crossed paths in the middle someplace?” I say, casually brushing it away. “I stopped off at the gas station to pick up a pop on my way to the library. I might have been inside when you drove past.”
James doesn’t say anything. Hoping that’s the end of things, I grab a pair of a flannel pants from his drawer and a pair of nondescript white panties from mine and practically run to the bedroom door.
“What were you doing at the mall?”
Slow, even breaths, I tell myself. “I was looking for a job.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I push forward.
“If I had a job, we’d be able to save even more money. Plus, you wouldn’t have to worry about me being stuck at home with Dad—”
“No job.”
Taken aback by the force in his tone, I whirl around. “Why not? You have one.”
“We’re not having this conversation.”
“Don’t you want to hang out with your friends this summer? What about the Armory? If I had something keeping me busy, you could work out whenever you want.”
“No.”
“We need the money, James!”
My brother pins me with a hard look. “If I’m at the Armory, who’s gonna drive you to work?”
Sam. “I could get my license—”
“No job, no license.”
Anger like molten metal churns in my chest. Rather than get into an argument about a ridiculous job or that I’m secretly dating his best friend, I redirect my irritation back to where it should be. “How is it fair that you get to have a life when I don’t?”
I flounce out of the room before he answers, then dash into the bathroom and lock the door behind me, checking and double-checking the lock like I always do. Closing my eyes, I sink to the floor.
Something dark and nasty sparked in my brother’s eyes when I lied about where I’d been—the same dark nastiness I’m used to seeing in our father. Anxiety crackles across my skin but I refuse to succumb to a panic attack.
James is not our father. I can trust him. He would never hurt me.
After what feels like an eternity of deep breathing, I climb to my feet and start the water. My shower’s going to be extra long tonight so James has time to cool off.
And then I’ll cook him dinner and lock us in our bedroom until we’re sure our father isn’t going to snap. Bed shari
ng will likely be involved. It always is if I let James get his way.
Maybe it’s just me, but the life I’ve been leading for years suddenly seems…off.
Twenty-two
“He won’t let me have a job or get my license or anything,” I grumble in the middle of the Shop Mart canned foods aisle the next morning. “The whole overprotective thing is starting to get old.”
“Can you really blame him?” Sam plucks the can of raviolis out of my hand and puts it back on the shelf. “You’re not exactly being honest about any of this. Maybe if he knew you were working with my mom, he’d be more open to the idea. Maybe if you told him about us—”
“No.” No way am I telling my brother about Sam—not yet, anyway—and James would connect the dots way too fast if I told him I worked at Liz’s florist shop. I won’t risk it.
“Here. Get this instead of that canned Chef Boyardee crap.” He hands me an enormous jar of spaghetti sauce. A full serving of vegetables in every half-cup! the label proclaims. “You know, if he doesn’t trust you with me, he’s probably not going to trust you with anyone.”
James has made how he feels about me and Sam dating perfectly clear. Rather than explain this again, I blink at the display of dried noodles he positions me in front of. Flat-end tubes, pointy cylinders, curly-cues, and bowties—all in various shades of orange, green, and paste-yellow. None of which look like the canned ravioli my brother loves. “Are you sure about this? I’ve never cooked anything homemade before.”
Sam snorts. “Boiling pasta and dumping a jar of sauce on top is hardly homemade.” He grabs a blue box of the flat-end tubes—rigatoni the label says—and tosses it into the cart. “You should come over for dinner this weekend. My mom’ll probably make a five-course meal to celebrate you helping her out at work.”
The warmth in Sam’s voice when he mentions his mother slips past my usual defenses. I grab a few more boxes of noodles and force myself to smile. “Your mom’s so nice.”