Chapter 18
18
“It’s very, very sad,” the new mom who’s had a little too much to drink slurs. “That you can’t admit you like her.”
It's probably a really, really bad thing that my friends from high school being in town fills me with so much dread.
I managed to avoid them at the wedding—the very reason they’re in town, thanks again, Marcy . Although, that wasn’t too hard a feat; it’s not like they were actively seeking me out, what with so many other people around to entertain them. But maybe successfully getting through the night an interaction was the wrong move. Maybe I should’ve sucked it up and found them. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be sitting in Bishop’s, facing two people I very quickly realize I have nothing in common with anymore.
They got out. They went to college far, far away. They're living their lives to the fullest extent while I'm stuck here doing the exact same thing every day. My life looks freaking pathetic in comparison to theirs. I'm embarrassed and insecure, and when Rochelle whips out her left hand, I fight the urge to scream.
“It’s beautiful,” I gush obediently over the extravagant diamond decorating her ring finger, willing my smile not to morph into a grimace. Is this my life now? Watching everyone around me get engaged, get married, get their dream life? We’re twenty-two, for God’s sake. What the hell is the rush?
“I know.” Rochelle beams, proud and smug. “And he picked it out all by himself, did I tell you that?”
She did.
Twice.
Beside Rochelle, Carly sighs. “Joe would never pick out something as nice as that.”
“Don’t worry.” Rochelle pats our friend’s arm, seemingly oblivious to the jealousy thickening the air between them. “I’ll steer him in the right direction.”
Yes, she all but confirms to me. This is, in fact, your life now. Engagements and weddings, and babies too, probably. College graduations and burgeoning careers and experiencing life outside the claustrophobic boundaries of Haven Ridge, experiencing people outside of those I’ve known my whole life.
“What about you, Line?”
I fight a cringe as I shrug, picking at the burger I ordered thirty minutes ago, but have yet to touch. Considering the topic of conversation has ranged from Rochelle’s perfect life to Carly’s perfect life before landing on mine—or my lack thereof, more accurately—I haven’t had much of an appetite.
Apparently, it's too much to wish that if I just stay quiet and avoid eye contact, they'll move on.
“Come on,” Rochelle whines. “It's been, what, five years since Jackson?”
Scrunching my nose, I drag a salty fry through the puddle of Sriracha on my plate, taking my time chewing to delay having to answer. “Something like that.”
“That's a really long time.”
No way, Carly. Is it?
I roll back my shoulders, defensiveness straightening my spine. “You know what it's like here. Not exactly a big dating pool.”
“Are you even trying?”
No . “Yes.”
It's obvious that they don't believe me, and even more obvious that the prying is about to amp up a notch, and I panic. I just want to move on from this, which is why I blurt out, “Tommy asked me out.”
It's almost comical, how instantly the pair perk up, like dogs being taunted with a bone. “Tommy?” They squeal in unison, in sync as they lean across the table towards me too. “As in, Tommy Fields from high school?”
Regret punches me in the gut. God, why didn't I just make someone up? Or why didn't I use Aldo's cousin as a decoy? They don't know Aldo, they certainly don't know Roberto, and a hot Italian would definitely succeed in getting them off my back. “Uh-huh.”
“Wow.” Sliding Rochelle an impressed look, Carly pats my arm— goodbye , pity ; hello, condescension. “Go you.”
Propping her chin in her hand, Rochelle flutters her lashes at me. “How was it?”
And there it is. The fault with bringing up Tommy; I can’t lie. “We haven’t gone out yet.”
Their grins disappear instantly.
“Line.” It's almost reprimanding, the way Rochelle addresses me. “You haven't dated anyone since Jackson.”
I repeat; no way! “I know.”
“It's kind of…” My friends—in my head, a question mark follows that word—exchange a wary glance. “Weird.”
“Like you're still in love with him or something,” Carly finishes Rochelle's thought, and if I wasn’t hating my life two minutes ago, I'm definitely hating it now.
“I'm not,” I reassure them quickly, weakly, so damn sick of having to constantly confirm my lack of feelings for my ex-boyfriend, so tired of people acting like my entire life still revolves around him. “I just haven't met anyone yet.”
The pitying tilt of their heads makes me feel about two-feet-tall. Instantly, all the effort I made this morning to feel good is erased. My prettiest dress, my nicest sandals—with a heel and everything, for God’s sake. I washed my hair, curled it too, left it down and unbraided even though I hate the feeling of it sticking to my skin in the late July heat as. I’m wearing make-up . I can't remember the last time I wore make-up.
Yet I did it for them because I wanted to feel pretty, I wanted to look pretty, I didn’t want to look like I spend my entire life working and covered in dirt and tired , but it doesn’t even matter. They’re still pouting at me like I’m poor little loveless, hopeless Caroline.
“Who’s that?”
For a moment, I’m grateful for their flighty attention span, and for whoever managed to catch it. I twist, ready to silently worship whoever managed to steal the spotlight away from me. But then, I groan. Loudly. Too loud, but deserved, I think.
The twisted, funny-to-anyone-but-me kismet that is Hunter Whitlock being in Bishop’s right now so deserves a groan.
Whipping around before he sees me, I slump in my seat. “That’s Hunter.”
“You know him?”
The surprise in Rochelle’s voice makes me stiffen. You? It screams. Caroline knows a man like that? Impossible! It makes me want to prove how much I know him, how we hike together and his favorite color is red and he’s called me honey a handful of times, and that last night, at the wedding, we danced.
I don’t, obviously. I keep my mouth firmly shut because, really, would they believe me? Or would they call him over and demand proof, thus condemning me to death by mortification?
Wrapping my arms around myself, I make myself as small as possible and pray Hunter isn’t as perceptive to my presence as I am to his. “Kinda. He’s the new ranch hand on Serenity.”
“Ah.” Both girls nod, some sense of understanding blossoming. “Not a candidate then,” Carly laments. “Shame.”
I bristle. “Why do you say that?”
“He works for the Jacksons,” she explains—as if that’s any kind of explanation. When I blink at her, still clueless, it’s Rochelle who adds, “They’ve probably told him all about you.”
All about me . Like I was some unhinged, hazardous presence in their life. Like I did anything other than love one of them.
Am I missing something? Did I black out and murder the long-lost sixth Jackson sibling? Did I burn their house down? What did I do, what the hell did I do, to brand myself with a freaking scarlet letter?
“Actually,” I find myself saying, my voice thick with anger I scarcely recognize. “Lux and I are friends.”
A pair of matching doubtful expressions make me want to scream.
“Caroline…”
Great. Now they’re using the tone . That freaking tone, the one everyone uses around me when the Jacksons are mentioned, all condescension and pity and false concern.
“You gotta let it go.”
“He's moved on. You need to as well.”
I don’t get the chance to insist I have to because suddenly, the subject swings to proof of Jackson ‘moving on.’ Luna, and how beautiful she is. How funny she is. How she’s the love of his life and so perfect for him, and they couldn’t imagine him with anyone else. All these little things that I already know yet when stated so flippantly, so pointedly, they slice fresh wounds, chipping away at me until I’m one comment away from banging my head against the table.
Maybe if I hit it hard enough, I’ll knock this entire afternoon right out of my brain.
So focused on tuning out the conversation that’s suddenly become about how wonderful Luna is, and implying how terrible I am, I don’t notice something approaching. I don’t notice silence settling. I don’t notice a shadow falling over our table until a hand lands on my shoulder and makes me jump.
I freeze when I recognize the blunt fingernails, the constellation of freckles speckling the curve of a thick thumb, the calloused fingers splayed so widely, they touch from the slope of my neck to the end of my collarbone.
“Line,” that familiar, gruff voice murmurs, and I swear my heart stops beating.
Slowly, so very slowly, I look up, knowing exactly who I’m going to find yet somehow still surprised. Hazel eyes stare into my freaking soul, so intense they make something in my gut curl.
“You forget about me, honey?”
I wonder if my malfunction is a visible thing. If Rochelle, Carly, and Hunter can see my brain short-circuiting—if they can tell my lungs are struggling with basic function too.
It takes a long, embarrassing moment before I realize what’s happening.
He’s saving my ass.
Saving my pathetic, lonely, pining ass.
“ Oh. ” I put whatever acting skills I possess to work, eyes wide with false apology. “I’m so sorry. I must’ve lost track of time.”
I don’t think about it, I just get up, so hastily I almost knock my chair over, and I throw myself at Hunter. I plaster myself to his side and take his hand in mine. I don’t give myself time—I don’t have the mental capacity—to doubt my actions, but when he freezes, I start to worry I’ve done the wrong thing. That he’ll freak out at me touching him and run away like he did at the wedding, leaving me embarrassed and even more pathetic than I was before in the eyes of my friends.
Don’t.
Please, please, please don’t.
Tears threaten to fall when Hunter flexes his hand, shaking me off. I redden with embarrassment, but soon, my skin flushes for different reasons—because of the thick arm sneaking around my waist, the fingers curling resting dangerously low on my hip. His other arm, the one farthest from me, reaches across himself to take my hand, the one closest to him. He lifts it in the air. Up and up and up until his mouth is pressing against my knuckles, lingering there, mouthing against them, “Let’s go.”
I blink vacantly. Go ?
Right . We’re not alone. We have an audience—an audience who gawks at us like they can’t believe what they’re seeing almost as much as I can’t believe it’s happening.
I only get a second to revel in the looks on their faces. I don’t get a chance to say anything, nor to say goodbye; I barely have time to grab my purse before he’s hauling me towards the exit. The second my feet land on the sidewalk outside Bishop's, I step out of Hunter's grip, putting some healthy distance between us before my head freaking explodes. “Sorry,” I mumble as I wrap my arms around myself once again, willing the heat emanating from my hip to go away.
He doesn't reply. The smirk on his face drops, replaced by impassivity as he strides towards his truck. For reasons unknown to me, I follow. When he climbs in, I do too. The click of his seatbelt is echoed by mine, by my quiet voice too, saying, “Thank you for that,” as he starts the engine.
Hunter's lips press into a straight line. His knuckles turn white as he tries to strangle the steering wheel. “You let everyone talk to you like that?”
The anger in his voice catches me so off guard, I don’t quite manage to stifle a flinch. “Excuse me?”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, every inch of his body as tense as his tone. “They were rippin’ into you and you were just sittin’ there, fuckin’ takin’ it.”
“They weren't—”
“I could hear them, Caroline.”
Great. Because I really needed something else to be embarrassed about.
“So, what?” I swallow down the lump in my throat, forcing a brave face. “You stepped in to be some kind of knight in shining armor?”
His head swings towards me, and I recoil at the apathy on his face. “I stepped in because watchin’ that was fuckin’ embarrassin’.”
It’s instant, how his words manage to coax tears to my eyes. My hands curl into tight fists, my nails biting into my palms, and I focus on that sting instead of the ache in my chest. “That was mean.”
He looks away. “It was the truth.”
“I embarrass you?” I question quietly. “That’s the truth?”
When he only releases a jagged breath, I find myself wishing I’d just put up with the girls. At least their barbs were thinly-veiled. At least I only see them once, maybe twice, a year. At least I don’t really care what they think of me. Suffering through another half hour of their jibing would’ve been so much better than this.
I try not to cry as Hunter drives me home. When he gruffly asks, I give him my old address without thinking, only realizing what I’ve done when we pull up outside the red-brick house I called home for over two decades, and nausea washes over me. For once, though, something overpowers my reluctance to be in my father's presence, and that's my desperate urge to get the hell out of this truck.
“Thank you.” The words are barely audible as I slide out of the truck. I don't wait for a response, and it's a good thing because he doesn't offer me one. But his gaze does burn into my back the whole way to the front door. And I do make a show out of looking for my keys, digging around in my purse dramatically while praying he'll just drive away so I can sneak off.
But he doesn’t, and salty tears burn my eyes as I reluctantly fish out my keys. It's not until I open the door and step inside that Hunter drives away.
By then it's too late.
In the hallway of my childhood home, the tears finally break free, rushing in hot streams down my cheeks.
How long ago was it that I was here, cleaning up the abysmal mess? A couple of weeks, maybe? Less? It feels like longer. It looks like longer. It hurts like hell, the perpetual state of disarray this place seems to be in, compared to the clean, bright space I used to know. And it hurts even more when I think about how much Mom would hate this.
It's mercifully quiet. So much so that I start to get hopeful, start to think I might’ve gotten lucky for once, that I can linger for a moment longer, just until Hunter’s far enough away, before sneaking out without my presence ever being known.
Or maybe not.
“You crying?”
I flinch. My head whips to the living room, finding my Dad standing with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Quickly swiping at my eyes, I shake my head, but the damage is done.
“What the fuck do you have to cry about, Caroline?”
Despite the circumstances, a laugh bubbles up in my throat.
I don't know. What do I have to cry about? Just a dead mom and an absent, drunk dad and a pitiful, worthless, humiliating excuse for a life.
Dad huffs as he slugs his beer and takes a wobbly step towards me. “What're you doing here? Thought you were too good for me now.”
“Just getting some stuff,” I lie, keeping my gaze down as I shuffle towards the stairs.
“ My stuff, you mean.” He moves to block my path. “I paid for all that shit.”
He didn't. Everything in my bedroom is mine and mine alone, scrimped and scrounged from flea markets and thrift stores, bought with money I earned from babysitting or mowing the neighbors’ lawns or, eventually, from working at Bloom. “I just need some clothes.”
My second attempt to escape upstairs is once again thwarted, this time by a hand locking around my bicep. “Don't take that fucking tone with me.”
“I'm—”
Fingers grab my chin, harshly yanking until we’re face-to-face. “You fucking look at me when I talk to you.”
I do, and my body locks with fear, utterly terrified of the wild, furious look in his eyes.
He's never done this before. Manhandled me like this. He's never gripped me with enough intensity to bruise, never purposely left marks.
Forcing air into my lungs, I try to shake him off, but his grip is too tight, pinching my skin. “Dad, you're hurting me.”
I don't know what I expected. Maybe I thought it was unintentional. That he just got angry and grabbed me without thinking. Maybe I thought that my words, practically whimpered, would break through the angry haze and he'd let me go immediately. God, maybe I even thought he'd apologize.
He doesn't.
There isn’t a flicker of worry or concern in his eyes.
If anything, I swear his grip tightens.
A sneer on his face, Dad shoves me backwards so hard, I hit the wall with a thud. “Fucking weak,” he spits before turning around and stumbling back to the sofa . “I didn't raise you to be weak.”
“You didn't raise me at all.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I wish they hadn't. I didn't mean to say them aloud. I clap a hand over my mouth, like that might take them back, silently praying that Dad didn't hear me.
The way he stops in his tracks suggests otherwise.
Terrifyingly slowly, he turns, revealing an expression that’s nothing short of furious. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing.” The bottom step of the stairs creaks as I inch my way onto it.
“What the fuck did you just say, Caroline?”
Dad takes a step towards me, everything about him screaming ' threat ,' and the limited self-preservation skills I possess drive me upstairs. I only make it a few steps before a sweaty hand swipes at my ankle. The contact throws me off balance and I fall forward, my knees hitting wood hard . I barely get a second to process what's happening before my neck snaps backwards, a hand painfully tangled in my hair as it tries to drag me back downstairs.
Blind panic fuels my movement. Desperately, I kick out behind me. When my foot collides with something solid, Dad’s grip relents with a holler, and I take the brief reprise as my chance to escape.
I don't breathe again until I'm in my old bedroom. Slamming the door behind me, I lean against it as I clumsily engage the lock. Pain echoes through my shoulder when something heavy collides with the other side and sends me careening backwards.
“Open the fucking door, Caroline.” Fists pound the wood hard enough that it creaks under the force. “I swear to God, Caroline, open this fucking door or I'll break it down.”
Tears track steadily down my cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut as I cry into my hand, trying to muffle the sobs escaping me.
What the hell is happening?
My mind can’t comprehend the last few minutes. Can't understand how this day went from moderately crap to pretty damn terrible to... this . Sobs wrack my body and my head throbs and my knees, my chin, my shoulder are on fire, and the banging just won't stop .
Fear grips me by the throat as I wonder what will happen if the door gives in before his temper wears off. Glancing frantically around the room, I search for an alternate escape, coming up empty except for the window.
With no other choice, I wrench it open. I don't hesitate, I don't think, I just swing my legs over and jump. It's not a far drop but still, I whimper when my already sore knees take the brunt of the impact. Forcing myself upright, I limp down the driveway, breaking into a painful, bone-rattling run when I hear the front door open and incoherent shouting rings through the air. Moving as fast as I can, I tear around the corner and sprint down the road, not risking a single glance behind me.
The ringing in my ears, the throbbing pain, the complete and utter disbelief towards what just happened, that's all I can focus on. I'm sobbing more than I'm breathing as I run and run and run with no destination, wishing that, just for a little while, everything would go away.
Because the bright side? Non-existent right now.