I know our second separation wasn’t a long time, but it affected me, it aged me, it changed me more, in a few short minutes, than a month living our normal happy life in the forest.
I’d already been kicked from childhood into the next part of growing up, so I suppose, it was only natural to be protective and guarded of Ren in return.
He was mine.
I didn’t have much, but I had him, and I had no intention of ever losing him.
I know I’m rambling, but I’m trying to make you see that I felt different. Back then, I had no name or maturity to grasp how I felt differently.Now, of course I do, and as I sit typing this, I wonder if a child could feel those things or if I’m just placing such well-worn and long-lived emotions onto her.
That’s possible.
Because what I’m about to tell you probably won’t make sense.
It’s time for my first confession. And I say confession because, well, there is no other name for it. It’s twisted and wrong and one I’ve never told anyone…not even him.
Do you feel lucky that you’re the first?
You shouldn’t.
Because I’ve come to the conclusion that I can never show you this. The more I write about my past, the more I’m aware that I’ll have to erase every word and burn every edit because realistically, Ren was right.
No one can know that my real name is Mclary or that he took me when he was ten or that we lived so unconventionally for so many years. Who knows the sort of trouble I’d cause him and the nightmare that might come after me.
And so, because I’m now entirely convinced I’m going to delete this, I can be more open. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I have no assignment to turn into you, but now that I’ve started…I can’t stop.
I want to keep going because it hurts.
Funny, right?
Every word I write about him hurts. The heartache I live with. The deep-seated longing that I’ve grown to accept has magnified tenfold since you gave me that piece of paper with this assignment.
You were the one who gave me permission to pull out dusty desires and polish them until they’re so bright and blinding, I can’t stop it anymore.
I can’t pretend.
I can’t ignore.
I can’t lie to myself, and I don’t know where that leaves me.
You see, there was never a day in my life when I haven’t loved Ren Wild.
Every memory, he’s there. Every experience, he’s with me. And for that…I almost hate him.
There is no me without him, and perhaps this complicated mess is all his fault, but the sweet agony I’m putting myself through by writing this—the unrequited ache that I feel every time I recall how perfectly he raised me and how dotingly he adored me is nothing compared to the agony of growing up loving him in a way I knew was wrong.
Are you ready, Professor, to never read my darkest secrets? To never see the dirtiest of confessions?
No? Well, good because I don’t know if I’m ready to write them, but here I go…
In my eighteen years, I’ve been guilty of all seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. I was never innocent, and I’m not afraid to be honest and share them with you.
But how about I start with my first one?
Wrath.
My first true sin.
And it all happened the moment I met her.
Let’s just say, I hated her.
From the second she popped up on that ladder to the many years and memories later, I hated her.
But…and this is the kicker, I also loved her.
Her name was Cassie Wilson, and she was the daughter of Patricia and John Wilson, sister to Liam Wilson, friend to my girlish adolescence, and biggest enemy to my fledgling womanhood.
When she found us, I clung to Ren—partly trying to protect him from her and partly wishing he’d protect me. Even so young, I knew our lives were about to change, and I knew it was all because of her.
She’d vanished as quickly as she’d appeared, slipping down the ladder with skills of doing it a hundred times before, and bolting across the farm to grab her father.
In the few minutes we had alone, Ren barked for me to grab his jeans and boots and used the last of his remaining energy to hoist on sodden, cold things and helped me safely down the ladder.
He’d tripped going down and tripped again as he struggled to haul the backpack onto his shoulders.
In his flu-fugue state, he’d left our sleeping bag upstairs—our one valuable piece of equipment second only to our tent, and he’d left it behind.
At the time, that terrified me.
To have someone so strong and invincible suddenly become so sick and lost rocked my small world.
Not that it mattered.
Because we didn’t get far.
John Wilson arrived, flanked by his curious handsome wife, devious pretty daughter, and cute little son.
And that was when Ren pushed me behind him, stood to his full height, and spoke with the gruff and rasp of sickness to let us go. His hand flexed around the hunting knife in his jean’s waistband, his knuckles turning white, then pink, white, then pink as he flexed in preparation.
He was my protector, and he’d promised I wouldn’t have to share him with anyone, yet here I was…sharing him.
I wanted to run in front and scream for these strangers to let us go, but Ren kept a solid grasp on my bicep, keeping me wedged safely against him.
With my limited interaction with humans, I expected them to grab us and maybe murder us there and then.
I’m pleased to report, they didn’t.
Instead, they changed our lives.
They welcomed us into their home, fed us a home-cooked breakfast of bacon and eggs, and called a doctor for my brother and best friend.
And through it all, Cassie Wilson never took her eyes off my Ren.
And my hate grew wings and flew.
You see, I loved her for being so kind to me, for everything she became to me.
But I hated her for taking something from me, for claiming the only thing I had, for stealing the boy I loved in all the perfectly right and terribly wrong ways that a sister ever could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
REN
* * * * * *
2005
I DIDN’T WANT to be here.
I didn’t want to be under the scrutiny or charity of John Wilson and his family.
But I had nothing left.
I could only accept their assurances that they meant us no harm, bow my head in gratitude as a warm-cooked meal filled the icy emptiness in my belly, and cough my thanks as Patricia Wilson led me into their guest room complete with donkey figurines and crocheted blankets thrown over yellow bedding and left me alone with a doctor they’d called on my behalf.
In my fuzzy state, I permitted them to close the door without Della by my side. In a flash of lucidity and rage, I remembered why Della had to be with me at all times, why I hated strangers, and how I could never trust anybody.
This might’ve been their plan all along—to lull us into a relaxed state, then steal her and kill me.
If my strength was at full capacity, I would’ve left right then.
Then again, if my strength was at full capacity, we would never have been in this situation in the first place. I wouldn’t have slept too long, and under no circumstances would I have ever entered a house occupied by unknowns.
All I could do with my lacklustre brain power and my pathetic excuse for endurance was to immediately storm from the guest room and demand Della to stay with me at all times.
She was only too happy to wrap her arms around my thighs and take my command literally, even as Patricia Wilson tried to argue that I should be examined on my own and for Della to keep her distance so she didn’t get sick.
Their logic tried to undermine my confidence.
A thread of fear filled me that she might come down with what I had, but it was a risk I had to take because
I wasn’t risking her in any other way.
I wouldn’t leave her alone to be hurt by them, taken by them, or touched in any way, shape, or form.
Just because they hadn’t punished us for sleeping on their property, shared their food, and called their doctor didn’t mean I trusted them.
The only family I trusted was ours.
And Della would stay with me at all times.
Back in the guest suite with the doctor who’d patiently waited, Della wedged herself in the rocking chair and cuddled a pillow with an embroidered donkey on the front.
With one eye on her and one on the exit, I submitted to the doctor’s many questions. I steeled myself against allowing him to use something that was cold and hard called a stethoscope and gritted my teeth with discomfort as he poked and prodded my chest and belly then felt under my throat.
I let him touch me more than any other human had before, and it drained me of my final reserves. I was a model patient, up until the end when his forehead furrowed and a strange new light filled his gaze—made worse when he found the brand on my hip and missing finger on my left hand.
He didn’t ask questions but did ask to perform a full examination with worry in his voice. He looked at me as if I was worse off than just an annoying cough.
He already knew more about me from reading my body than I’d ever tell him verbally, and I had no intention of letting him guess more of our story than the lie I’d told the Wilsons.
The lie that Della was my baby sister and we’d been travelling on a bus to visit our cousins in some state far from here. The bus had broken down. And we’d hitch-hiked ever since.
I knew the tale had holes—my backpack was well-used and our gear adapted for life in the wilderness. I knew Della wore clothes meant for boys and her hair, even now, had leaves stuck between the strands.
She looked scruffy.
She looked wild.
Just like me.
But the doctor didn’t give up, murmuring how he’d keep our confidence, that he knew there was more to us than we’d said, and his only interest was to help. He went on and on how he only wanted to ensure our full health and that Della needed examining just as much as I did.
He’d lost all my cooperability at that point.
I’d crossed my arms, did my best to stifle my ever-worsening cough, and told him to leave.
To my surprise, he did, with only a final word that he was around if I changed my mind.
The moment he was gone, I plotted a way to leave this farmhouse and the strangely nice family before they devised another way to delay us.
Only, Patricia Wilson knocked on the guest room door, interrupted my plans, and held out medicine while relaying the news from the doctor that the flu had turned to mild pneumonia, and I needed to start a course of antibiotics immediately so I didn’t get worse.
I argued it was just a cold, but Della cried when Patricia shook her head and listed my symptoms. Each one she got right from the bruised ribs, continuous sensation of being out of breath, painful chest, and the incessant cough.
All of that didn’t scare me—it only made me mad to be so weak—but what did scare me was the knowledge I was no use to Della in my current state. I couldn’t protect her the way I wanted. I couldn’t defend her if I needed.
Despite my desire to be far away from these people, I had to swallow those needs and accept help, for Della’s sake.
I sat heavily on the mattress and grudgingly accepted the first tablet. With my spare arm, I held out my hand for Della to join me.
She threw away the donkey cushion and soared into my embrace.
Clutching her close, I eyed up the glass of water Patricia Wilson pushed toward me, then drank deep, washing the medicine deep into my belly so it might start working faster.
Patricia Wilson smiled kindly at us; her motherly instincts, already pronounced from raising her own kids, latched on to caring for us.
I didn’t get the feeling she was cruel like Mrs Mclary or saw me as dollar signs like my own mother. With her red hair, freckles, and purple frilly apron, the only threat she delivered was her fascination with Della. She couldn’t take her eyes off her, and my hackles rose.
Placing the glass on the nightstand, I stood and said around a cough, “Thank you for breakfast and the medicine, but we really need to go.”
“Yes!” Della popped off the mattress faster than I’d ever seen, flying to the door where she wrenched it open, then promptly slammed it shut again as the girl with brown hair called Cassie peered in, catching my eye.
“Tell her to go away. I want to leave.” Della stomped her foot. “I’ll take care of you, Ren. You’ll get better.”
Patricia Wilson moved toward her and squatted down with a sad shake of her head. “Sweetheart, your brother is sick. He’s lucky he found a doctor. Otherwise, he might’ve gotten a lot worse.” Throwing me a look, she added, “You’re both welcome to stay. In fact, I insist on it until everyone is healthy and no more coughing, okay?”
I didn’t do well with instruction even when it came with a promise of being beaten and starved. And I definitely didn’t do well with it after years of freedom and being solely responsible for myself and Della.
“But I don’t want to stay.” Della pouted, beating my refusal.
Patricia Wilson laughed kindly. “Are you sure? When the weather clears, you can go for a ride with Cassie if you want. Or maybe play snakes and ladders with Liam while having a treat of milk and cookies. He’s about your age and loves new friends. Don’t you want another friend, Della?”
My fingers clenched into a fist, regretting, in my weakened state, that I’d told these people our real names. At least, I’d said our surname was Wild—we had that element of protection—but if they happened to research any news or contact Social Services or decide to call the police…
We can’t stay here.
I stepped forward, cursing under my breath as the room spun. A loud, painful cough shredded my lungs, sending me crashing back down on the mattress.
The bedroom door opened, and the entire Wilson family poured in. Liam, a lanky kid with short brown hair and green eyes like his father and sister, clutched a plastic lizard and ran to his mother who still squatted in front of Della. He looked Della up and down, then promptly shoved his lizard in her face.
Della stumbled back, indignation all over her.
I wanted to go and act as a barrier between her and all these people, but the girl with red lips stepped toward the bed, her arms crossed and one green eye covered by bay coloured hair. We stared at each other, her gaze flittering all over me while mine stayed transfixed to her face with the occasional stray to her full chest. Through her tight t-shirt, the indents of a lace bra showed.
I jumped as she said in her crisp, haughty voice, “Dad said you’re not going anywhere.”
My legs bunched to prove her wrong by walking out of there. I barely managed to stand again, let alone shove her out of the way to leave. “We aren’t your prisoners.”
“No, you’re our guests,” she snarled. “So how about you start acting like it instead of damn hostages?”
I blinked.
“Ignore my daughter, Ren Wild.” Her father, John Wilson, stepped around Della, his son, and his wife to stand squarely in front of me. His height towered over me, his thick bushy beard putting my scraggly teenage one to shame. “I have something to say but before I do, I want your word that you’ll hear me out and not use that knife in your waistband or try to push your way out of here, got it?” He narrowed his green eyes, waiting for me to speak.
Locking my knees as the room rolled and my legs threatened to buckle from lack of oxygen, I peered around him to Della who’d retreated to the rocking chair, glowering at everyone as if they were our mortal enemies.
And who knew, perhaps they were, but unfortunately, I wasn’t at my usual strength, and I had to be smart about leaving that wouldn’t end up with us split apart or me being shot by a farmer.
Because a
bullet in my brain was a real possibility.
All farmers had guns.
Just because he didn’t carry one right now didn’t mean I was safe.
Sticking out his hand, John Wilson grumbled, “Do we have a deal?”
It took another few moments for my fuzzy head to clear, but I finally concluded I didn’t have a choice. I had to continue playing nice and hopefully whatever drugs I just took would work fast and we could be out of here by this afternoon.
I nodded, keeping my hands by my sides. “You have a deal, but I won’t shake your hand. According to your doctor, I’m sick, and I don’t want you to catch it.”
John Wilson cracked a smile. “Courteous fellow. I like that.” Striding from the bedroom, he threw over his shoulder. “Come on then. Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
It took a few minutes for everyone to shuffle from the guest bedroom, down the wood-panelled corridor to the peach and cream kitchen.
Another minute later, Patricia Wilson had ensured each of her children, husband, me, and Della had a mug of something hot placed in front of us at the dining room table.
Once settled, John Wilson sipped his drink, looked me up and down, then glanced at my dirty, tired backpack wedged against his kitchen cabinets. “Okay…first, I’m going to start with the obvious.”
My heart rate picked up. I wrapped my fingers around the hot cup to stop myself from grabbing Della and running.
“Obviously, you lied to us about a bus trip and visiting relatives. I understand why you did and appreciate your need to protect yourself and your sister, but that’s the last lie you’re ever allowed to tell me, understand?”
My teeth clacked together. I didn’t reply other than narrowing my eyes in warning.
He continued, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you two don’t seem to have a home. If I was to put money on it, I’d say you’ve been living rough for a while. It’s winter. You’re going to freeze out there. To be honest, I don’t know how you’ve survived with the cold snaps we’ve been having.”
“Honey, don’t go off on a tangent,” Patricia Wilson piped up, smoothing her son’s hair who sat next to her.