Chapter 6
6
She looks at him, and the fourth finger on his left hand burns.
“Lux…”
“Don’t.” My friend holds up a shaky hand, a sickly sheen to her light brown skin. “Don’t say it.”
I roll my lips together in an effort to keep them shut. It’s not like I want to point out the obvious. Usually, I much prefer blissful ignorance. Pretending everything is okay all the time is a pretense I live by, really. But the fire pit currently being constructed, the twinkling lights strung from every available surface, the threat of people’s imminent arrivals… Kind of unignorable. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
Lux’s horrified expression might agree, but the downward tilt of her mouth doesn’t. “I do this every year, Line.”
“I know, but—”
“Just because I have a baby doesn’t mean everything has to change. I can still have fun.”
Sure. Of course she can. I’m just not sure this , tonight, will really be her idea of fun.
I know the party Lux throws every summer used to be about her grandparents. I only met them once—a testament to their absence in their grandchildren’s lives—but once was all it took to chalk them down as awful, loveless people. Using the land they owned to host a festival-scale extravaganza, using their vast reserves of money to supply the whole town with booze, was a petty but satisfying way to piss them off.
But this isn’t their land anymore; Jackson bought it from them a few months ago before making it very clear they weren’t welcome anymore. And, with a bank account full of revenue from the ranch and years’ worth of monthly stipends received in place of love and affection, Lux has her own money to flit away. And she has a pretty fresh newborn with a crappy father and an apparent vendetta to turn the rest of the town against her, a vendetta that’s freaking working; because, you know, when a man refuses to take responsibility for the child he had a part in conceiving, it’s the woman’s fault. I don’t get why Lux would be so eager to invite people who genuinely believe she got pregnant to trap Mark, or that she cheated on him, or that she won’t let him be involved, onto her land.
I don’t get it, full stop. Until, that is, as we sit in my parked truck staring at the people Lux coerced into helping set up, I catch the wistful look on my friend’s face.
“It’s a tradition.” Twisting in the passenger seat, Lux reaches behind us to stroke the fluffy hair of the baby safely strapped in the backseat. “I want him to have traditions.”
“I get that.” God, do I get that. When I was kid, after my mom died and all our traditions died with her, I would’ve killed for something like this. But back then, I was old enough to actually know what was going on; to recognize the loss.
Right now, the only thing Alex cares about is the boob that feeds him.
Either Lux can read my mind or my damn open face is betraying me, because her lips flutter with a violent exhale as she clambers out of the truck. “Fuck, this was a shitty idea.”
Exactly what I’ve been subtly saying all day, but I’m not about to rub it in. “Too late to do anything about it now.” Leaving her to retrieve Alex from his carseat, I get out of my truck, flip down the tailgate, and start grabbing the many, many, many canvas grocery bags weighing down the bed of my poor old Chevy. “Might as well try to enjoy it.”
Lux snorts; fat chance of that, that noise says.
I can’t say I feel any differently. It’s never been my favorite night of the year, despite never missing one. Jackson and I might’ve been freshly broken up when the tradition first began, but I was still invited by default—it’s always been an open invitation kind of affair. I remember that first one like it was yesterday, remember being eighteen and heartbroken and desperate for a glimpse of the boy I loved. Even though I was sick with nerves, I still let my friends convince me to come. I pretended to listen to their conversations while searching the yard for familiar long, dark hair. I had one stilted, awkward exchange with the boy who broke my heart. I went home and I cried.
I repeated that series of events every summer after, until this one.
As I haul groceries inside, I try to convince the anxious knot in my chest that this year will be different. I’m not here for Jackson anymore. I’m not here as his ex-girlfriend. I’m a friend. Maybe not of his, but definitely of the girl who helps me lug a twenty-four pack of beer—one of many of its kind—into the kitchen after putting her son down for a nap.
It doesn’t take us that long, but my arms still ache something fierce by the time we ferry everything from my truck to the kitchen table. Just as we’re setting the last bags down, a door opens from somewhere deeper in the house, and footsteps start towards us.
“Did a bomb go off in here?”
I glance at the young girl lurking in the kitchen doorway and let loose a slightly unhinged laugh. “Sure looks like it.”
Creeping into the room, Eliza eyes me cautiously like I’m the real incendiary device primed to explode. “Hi, Caroline.”
A smile slots into place. “Hi, Eliza.”
Lux flicks her little sister on the forehead before shoving her towards the nearest pile of crap to be organized. “Line got you something, kid.”
Despite her wariness, Eliza perks up.
Technically, the hard seltzers I brandish were bought under Lux’s direction—a bribe if I’ve ever seen one—but hey, I’ll take the credit if it earns me the pleased grin that lights Eliza up. Snatching what’s really little more than watermelon-flavored sparkling juice, she twists the box to squeal at the more-firm-than-hard alcohol percentage stamped on the cardboard. “No way.”
Lux and I exchange a look—oh, to be sixteen again.
“If you and your friends get drunk and your brother finds out,” I shiver at the mere thought, “blame your sister, not me, okay? He’ll let her live.”
Just like that, Eliza’s face drops, as does her gaze. “I didn’t invite anyone.”
I glance at Lux again, who widens her eyes and shakes her head quickly.
Luckily, I don’t have time to be mad at myself for inadvertently putting my foot in my mouth. Eliza bounces back quickly, and I don’t know whether to be amazed or deeply saddened at how quickly she shoves her emotions aside and changes the subject. “Do you think Hunter will come tonight?”
“I hope not,” I mumble beneath my breath, not even really meaning to say the words aloud, but out they come—and heard, they are.
Two identical pairs of so-dark-brown-they’re-almost-black eyes swing my way. “You don’t like Hunter?”
Avoiding their gazes, I shrug as I start unpacking the grocery bag nearest to me. “He’s not very nice, don’t you think?”
Whistling, Eliza pretends to fan herself. “He’s pretty nice to look at.”
“ Elizabeth.”
“What?” The youngest Jackson sibling is the picture of doe-eyed innocence as she blinks at her older sister. “I’m sixteen, not six. I know a hot guy when I see one.”
“Being hot doesn’t mean he gets a free pass to be an ass.”
Again, I speak without meaning to, and I cringe as silence settles. When I glance up nervously, I find the sisters looking uncharacteristically serious. “Did he do something to you?” Lux asks.
“No.” Pretending to inspect a jumbo bag of marshmallows, I take a leaf out of Eliza’s book, and swiftly change the subject. “You mind if I cook so we don’t end up having s’mores for dinner?”
With Alex in my arms, I watch Lux inhale a chicken thigh like she hasn’t seen food in weeks. When she groans a borderline pornographic noise, I laugh, but the sound is drowned out by the rest of the noise flooding the kitchen.
I forgot Jackson’s friends were visiting for the weekend until I was pulling ingredients out of the fridge and Lux off-handedly asked if I was okay making enough to feed a small army. I’m not sure how I could forget, considering they’ve been flitting around the yard all morning helping to set up, but I guess I’ve been distracted keeping Lux calm.
When Jackson, his friends, and his girlfriend filed into the kitchen about fifteen minutes ago, I tucked myself in the corner without even realizing what I was doing. Cowering like a nervous child, Alex cradled to my chest like a shield, my heart in my throat as I was subtly assessed by people I only briefly met once before at Lux’s mom’s funeral—not my finest moment. People whose presence makes me anxious because I dread to think what stories they’ve heard about me. People whose names I barely know because honestly, there’s a lot to remember.
I know they call the short redhead ‘Tiny,’ and she’s never far from the guy with all the tattoos. A girl with waist-length braids leans against the sink with her arm around a golden-skinned girl. Luna’s sister is here too, the pair so uncannily similar, it’s a little hard to believe they were friends for months before finding out about their relation. A perpetually smiling blond guy flits around the room like a puppy with too much energy. And Cass Morgan, I know—I doubt there’s a person alive who’s met Cass and forgot about it.
Everyone greeted me. No one needed an introduction, which I read into more than necessary. They thanked me for the meal before digging in, and they’ve been chatting, bickering, joking around ever since.
All except for one.
As discreetly as I’m capable of, I watch Hunter. He came in with the rest of them and pulled up a seat at the table, but he’s certainly not with them. He doesn’t join in the chatter. He sits, he eats, he grunts occasionally when someone speaks in his direction. I wonder if the cacophony of voices grates on him as much as it does on me, and that’s why he’s so stiff and tense. If that’s the case, then that makes three of us, because Alex doesn’t like the hustle and bustle either, a grumpy frown crumpling his small face as he squawks unhappily.
No one notices when I duck outside. I settle on the porch steps, resting Alex on my thighs and tickling his round, full belly. “You don’t like lots of people either, do you, buddy?”
The newest Jackson mewls quietly. One little hand reaches up to tug on my hair, making me wince—for such a small thing, he’s got a hell of a grip. Carefully detangling his grabby fingers, I offer him my thumb as a replacement, smiling when he immediately tries to shove the digit in his mouth.
I lean forward and my hair falls around, like a thin shield separating us from the rest of the world. “It’s okay. They’re not that scary.”
Alex blinks.
“Okay,” I amend. “The big one is kinda scary.”
It’s impossible because he’s barely a month old, but I swear the little guy laughs in tune with the laughter spilling out of the door behind us.
“You’re so lucky, buddy,” I whisper quietly. “Got so many people who love you. Your mom and your aunts and your uncle…” I whistle softly. “I’d kill for that.”
“Caroline.”
I jump at the sudden husky intrusion, making a startled Alex cry out. Bringing him to my chest and whispering an apology, I reluctantly turn around. My cheeks flush at the sight of Hunter filling up the doorway, a bowl of food in one hand and a glass of what looks like iced tea in the other. Clutching Alex a little tighter, I spin back around. “I'm in your way again?”
Surprise, surprise, he doesn't say anything.
As boots thump against the creaky porch, I keep my gaze focused on the sweet baby boy on my lap, but a gentle thud has me instinctively glancing aside. I jerk back slightly when I find Hunter crouching beside me, nodding towards the dishware he set down. “Lux says you gotta eat.”
He emphasizes his boss’ name—God forbid I thought he was bringing me dinner out of the goodness of his heart. “Tell Lux I say thank you.”
Hunter nods stiffly. I expect him to flee as quickly as he usually does, but he doesn't. He lingers, his gaze flickering between me, the baby, and the fork I use to spear some chicken. I notice it never lands directly on me, though. It brushes over me, light and fleeting, and never does he risk eye contact. Cheeks, ears, collarbones, the smattering of freckles on my shoulders, they all earn his brief attention, but never my eyes. When I bring the fork to my mouth, his gaze follows, and I feel my skin heating in response.
Weird .
“Did you want some?”
Hunter jolts. Clearing his throat roughly, he shakes his head and straightens as quickly as that large body will allow. He doesn't go back inside. Without another word, he strides towards the barn, and I'm entirely ashamed to say that I watch his retreating form until he disappears from sight.
The air smells like smoke, alcohol, and enough men’s cologne to choke a girl.
I don’t know how I found myself amongst a throng of guys I went to high school with. One minute, I was floating around, politely greeting people, trying to find someone I actually wanted to talk to, trying harder to hide from people I really didn’t want to, trying the hardest not to cling pathetically to Lux. The next, Matty Jenkins was yanking on my arm, the same way he yanked when he asked me out a few years ago, Post-Jackson, when I was—and this is a direct quote I accidentally overheard—a ‘heartbroken, easy target.’
He calls me Carol . Tells me I got real pretty. Asks if I want a drink, and makes a face when I decline. His friends are just as charming. Some of them I know—Jerry Davis, who was in my homeroom for four years, asks if we know each other three times—and the others, he must’ve picked up in college.
All of them are chugging beers like they’re on a time crunch.
The drunker they get, the more on edge I become. Inebriated people always have that effect on me. Men, in particular. I can handle it, though. I’m not just a real pretty face—I’m real good at putting on a show too. When they burp, I laugh. When they brag about their lives, I smile and pretend to be interested. When they give me crap for not drinking, I quip something self-deprecating about being a lightweight.
When Matty grabs me by the chin, though, I falter. He pinches a little too hard for comfort, trying to get me to open my mouth as he tilts my head back, laughing a joke I don’t quite hear. I dodge just in time to avoid a mouthful of beer, the amber liquid sloshing down my chest instead.
“Oops.” The lazy quirk of his mouth makes my heart beat a little faster. “Let me clean that up.”
“That’s okay.” I wave him off good-naturedly. I smile. I roll my eyes like I think his sleazy comment and the hand reaching for my chest are funny. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m out of there before anyone can protest, not that they do. Out of sight, out of mind, I know that’s a drunk man’s philosophy, and I’m only a few steps away before I hear their interest move elsewhere— dude, Jackson’s new girlfriend is so hot .
Walking quickly towards the house, I keep my head up, still smiling, smiling, smiling as if nothing is the matter. When my skin gets a little tingly, that telltale sensation of being watched, I only smile harder and speed up.
It’s mercifully quiet inside. The bathroom is a little disgusting considering half the town’s population has been using it, but it’s empty, and a perfect refuge for a brief break. Releasing the breath I feel like I’ve been holding all night, I grip the edge of the sink and grimace at my reflection in the mirror above it.
Bright red cheeks. Watery, bloodshot eyes. A splotchy, stinky stain on the bodice of my favorite yellow sundress.
Surprisingly, no stamp on my forehead that reads ‘mess with me.’
As I wet a towel and wipe beer off my skin, I sigh. A voice in the back of my head calls me dramatic, says I’m too sensitive, and I try to shake it away. I try really hard because I know that voice and I don't want to hear it—I don’t want to be reminded of my dad. I don’t want to think about him, wonder what he’s doing, why he hasn’t called again since that one time, if he’s okay, because it’s a sinkhole train of thought, one that’ll drag me under and consume me until I’m on his doorstep, checking on him.
All of a sudden, the bathroom is too quiet, no longer providing the peace I wanted.
Almost as soon as I open the door, I have to work like hell to resist the urge to slam it shut again. Because across from me, slouched against the wall with his arms crossed, is Hunter. I flinch at the sight of him, self-consciously swiping my fingers beneath my eyes, raking a hand through my hair, fixing my dress.
Expression unreadable, his eyes are much the same as they swoop the length of me. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t say anything.
Surprisingly, neither do I.
My social battery is running dangerously low. I don’t have the energy to fend off his attitude. I barely have enough for a polite nod of acknowledgement before I scurry away, down the hall, into the kitchen and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Snagging a can of soda, I hold it against my flushed cheeks.
When I peek over my shoulder, Hunter abruptly faces forward. The jerky movement makes me frown, reminding me of something. I caught him doing the same thing earlier tonight, I think. More than once. Looking away like I’d caught him staring.
I don’t really get why he’s here. He’s made it clear he’s not a conversationalist, not even fond of being in the general vicinity of other people. Those few times I caught him maybe-staring, he was standing on the edge of a group, silently nursing a beer, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I could ask. If I weren’t feeling so rough around the edges, I probably would. But I am, so I don’t. Instead, I turn back around and open my soda, rummaging around for a glass in the upper cabinets because I hate drinking from the can—and maybe a little because I’m stalling, working up the nerve to head back outside and face the masses.
Footsteps bring my search to an abrupt halt. A cool rush of air brushes the side of my face as the refrigerator opens again, the big hand that reaches inside coming out with a beer. That hulking presence is only an inch away, and it stays that close as Hunter leans against an appliance as big as him, back against the stainless steel.
“I saw you.”
For a moment, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. I glance at the can in my hand, checking the label to make sure I haven’t accidentally been drinking alcohol all night. I briefly consider pressing a hand to my forehead and checking for a fever. Then, I turn to the man beside me and oh-so-eloquently stutter, “What?”
“Hiking,” Hunter clarifies, voice rough like the word scratches his throat on its way out. He names a trail, and I barely recognize it as the one I took last weekend, stunned into a stupor by voluntary conversation.
Lips so numb they can barely form words, I slowly say, “I didn’t see you.”
“You were with someone.” He pauses, fingers flexing around the base of his beer bottle. “A guy.”
“Right.” God, it’s a good thing we didn’t see him. A hot man would’ve put a hasty end to Aldo’s whining, but then I’d have to hear him waxing poetic about the handsome ranch man for, oh, say, the rest of my life. “I didn’t know you hiked.”
His typical shrug is almost comforting. As he takes a drink, I assume that’s it. He’s hit his conversational quota. Maybe he saw me wandering around like a sad, lost puppy and decided to throw me a bone, and I should just take it and shut up.
But Hunter hikes. He hikes . And I don’t want to go back outside as much as I don’t want to waste this rare, miraculous, chatty opportunity. So, with my eyes on the ground and my shoulders hunched as I fully anticipate a harsh brush-off, I quietly tell him, “I was gonna head to Heather Lake this weekend.”
Hunter doesn’t pause or sigh or grunt; he says, “That’s a good one.”
My shoulders lower an inch. “You’ve done it?”
Hunter hums, a deep, melodic noise. “It gets busy so you gotta go early.”
I know that already yet I nod thoughtfully. “Good to know.”
“Make sure you do the Watchtower Trail. It’s pretty hard, but the views are worth it. The last few miles are a bit of a scramble, though, so if you don't like heights…”
“I don't mind them.”
Hunter nods, and I swear he stands a little straighter. As he quietly rattles off some more advice, I stare up at him in disbelief. Wondering if someone slipped something into his drink; surely, drugs are the only explanation as to why he’s making small talk. Being nice. Remaining in the kitchen with me instead of being literally anywhere else.
“You goin’ alone?”
“Uh-huh.”
A crease appears between dark brows. I internally weep at the divot in his skin, convinced that the next words out of his mouth will ruin the gentle lull between us, but I never find out if I’m right; someone else ruins it first.
“Hey.” My head whips towards the archway leading into the hall, and I wince at the faux-redhead standing there with her arms crossed, expression pissed, voice a low hiss. “Shut up or get out,” Lottie commands—me, not for the first time. “You’re gonna wake Alex.”
If I’d remembered that Lottie was on nephew-duty while her sister had fun—an offer that surprised us all—I never would’ve come inside. As it is, I almost break my neck scrambling out the door, so eager to escape the angry teen’s wrath, I forget who else I was trying to escape. When the douchebag actions of Matty Jenkins and his friends come flooding back to me, I come up short.
“ Sorry .” I squeak when a hard chest collides with my back. Scuttling to the side, I lean against the porch railing, grasping it tightly as I search the yard.
A bare arm brushes mine, just for a fraction of a second, but it leaves a burn. “Lux told those guys to leave.”
I grimace. “She saw that?”
Another pause.
A slow, confusing shake of his head.
And then, Hunter’s gone.
“Where the hell have you been, young lady?”
I smile sheepishly as I sit beside Lux on one of the log-style bench seats arranged around a roaring fire. There’s no point lying—Lux knows damn well I’ve spent most of my night hiding in the shadows. I’m predictable like that. “Sorry.”
Tutting a playful reprimand, she rests her head on my shoulder. On my other side, a swaying Nova links our arms and plants a smacking, sticky kiss on my cheek, drunkenly rambling words my sober self can’t decipher. Grace sits beside her, suspiciously close, and I make a mental note to grill Nova about that tomorrow. Eliza drinks what looks like nothing more than sparkling water from a bottle, but when we lock eyes, she lifts it in a cheers and winks, making me glad that Jackson is nowhere to be seen, even more so than I was when I tentatively approached the large group missing him and his girlfriend. Their friends are all here, though, all drunk, everyone is drunk.
Everyone but me, and the man directly across from me. Staring at me. Who spoke to me with real, complete sentences for I think the first time ever.
And I swear, I swear on my freaking life, that one corner of his mouth lifts in what could almost be considered a smile.