Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
FORREST
“ Y ou did the right thing,” Sterling said as we walked.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “I hate that I made her sad all over again.”
“Yeah. Me too,” she agreed. “But I understand. I don’t think you ever get over that kind of sad.”
“Maybe.” I opened the side door of the garage. The space had been split in two. One half was Jerry’s studio, the walls there lined with shelves holding everything from glazes to projects in various stages of finishing. A pegboard on the wall held all sorts of tools, and the potter’s wheel sat in the middle of the room, covered by a sheet. The other half of the garage was taken up by more shelves stacked with boxes and plastic storage bins.
“I haven’t been in here in ages,” I said, trying to remember the last time I’d come in the garage. It had been years, and everything had been rearranged since.
Sterling pulled out her phone and started texting. “I’m asking Emmett if there’s any chance of getting something to back up his suspicions. Maybe something solid enough that your mom will believe it.” Sterling hit send on her text and then looked up at me. “She’s afraid to hope. She’s been so angry at him for leaving her. The idea that he was taken, that’s a whole new hurt, you know.”
I did, considering I was grappling with it myself. To me, the idea that he hadn’t left me willingly made all the difference. But maybe not so for my mother. Or maybe, as Sterling said, it was just that simple—the hope that she’d been wrong all this time was too much. And maybe forgiving my father would be a whole new kind of pain, a new kind of grief. There’d been enough of both in my mother’s life.
Sterling’s phone beeped. “Emmett says he’s working on it.” She looked up to see me standing in front of a shelf, reading the labels on the bins.
“She must have reorganized all of this stuff at some point,” I said. “These bins don’t date from our move from Georgia to Oregon, but they’re not new either.”
I lifted one that said Forrest Toys and pulled it off the shelf, setting it on the floor. Sterling pulled over an empty bucket, turned it upside down, and sat on it.
“Let’s see what’s in here,” she said.
I pulled off the lid to find stacks of board games, an ancient pack of Uno, and a tin covered with faded pictures of dominoes. I opened it to find it filled with stone arrowheads and shark’s teeth.
“This is all my stuff,” I said, brushing a finger over the sharp edge of a tooth.
“I don’t understand,” Sterling said, rummaging through the bin. “These are your things from when you lived in Georgia?” I nodded. “Why didn’t your mom unpack it and put it in your room here?”
I wasn’t sure I knew. Thinking back, I said, “When we came out here, we lived with my grandparents. My mom was…” I shook my head slowly at the memory. “She wasn’t in great shape those first couple years after my dad died. We lived with Pop-Pop and Grandma. They didn’t have a lot of room. My mom and I shared a bedroom for a while.” I trailed off, remembering hearing her cry herself to sleep.
So many nights, I’d joined her, silently weeping in my own bed. As much as I’d loved my grandparents and my mom, I’d hated everything about being in Oregon. I’d hated leaving home, hated being without my father, hated losing my friends and going to a new school. Everything had been in pieces.
I drew in a slow breath and let it out. “Pop-Pop ended up building onto their house, and I got my own room. We were going to move out, but then Grandma got sick, and we stayed. I guess we just never unpacked a lot of this stuff.”
I dug through the bin, lifting out old, thin cardboard boxes of puzzles, looking for that copy of Treasure Island from my father’s code. Instead, I found a layer of stuffed animals. I reached in and pulled one out, finding an owl with amber plastic eyes, bushy eyebrows, and pointed ears.
“My father bought me this,” I said, my words rough, my throat tight.
Wet heat prickled in the backs of my eyes, and I blinked, feeling Sterling’s hand land on my shoulder.
“He—” I opened my mouth to tell her my father had won me this at a town fair. The owl had reminded me of the one on a poster at the library that I loved when I was a kid.I’d seen it at the fair and wanted it, and my father had paid over and over for handfuls of darts until he’d popped enough balloons to get it for me.
I wanted to tell her, but my voice strangled in my throat. That wet heat gathered in my eyes rolled down my cheeks. My shoulders hitched as I tried to breathe.
Sterling’s arm slid around me, her cheek against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Forrest,” she said. And I felt the heat of her own tears leaking through my shirt.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on until the storm of emotion drained away. When my chest loosened and my eyes dried, I brushed the heels of my palms against my cheeks, embarrassed to have lost it like that in front of her.
“Sorry,” I started to say.
She pressed her lips to my temple, then to my cheek. “Don’t be sorry, Forrest. You loved him. I’m so sorry you lost him.” Her lashes were spiky with tears, her eyes as bright as sapphires.
I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but now wasn’t the time.
“I didn’t think this would be so hard,” I said, looking at the storage bin between my feet, filled with the remnants of my childhood. “I feel like a jerk for putting my mom through this.”
“You’re not,” Sterling said, “though I get why you feel that way. This is the legacy your father left for you. Of course, you want to follow it. It’s yours. And I understand why it hurts her that you have to. That doesn’t make you wrong.”
“No,” I agreed, “it doesn’t make me wrong.” A knock sounded on the door, and I looked up to see my stepfather, Jerry, his graying hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wore a pair of leather thong sandals on his feet and an untucked, faded chambray shirt over a pair of jeans, so like my mother’s, I was sure I’d been right in guessing where hers had come from.
“Good to see you, Forrest. Sterling,” he said with a welcoming nod. “Looking forward to getting to know you. I’m Jerry. Emily says soups on. She made a strawberry rhubarb pie for dessert to go with those ginger snaps.”
He didn’t comment on my red eyes or Sterling’s spiky lashes, and none of us said a thing about my mom’s puffy, bloodshot eyes when we got to the kitchen. There were times when my family’s ability to ignore reality grated at me. This was not one of them. We all needed a break.
Dinner was easier than I thought it would be. We didn’t talk about why we were there, or my father, or the fact that all of us had been crying. Instead, my mom and Jerry gave Sterling a friendly third degree, and she played along, charming them both. She told them about working for her sister Quinn in the guide shop, the thriving artists’ communities in western North Carolina, and her new career goals, managing to fill them in while avoiding any mention of ciphers or clues or why we’d been in Atlanta.
Then we got to everything I’d been doing in the last year, which sadly wasn’t much other than work. But I loved my job at the inn and went into detail on a few of the projects my mom knew about.
Before I realized how much time had passed, I looked over to see Sterling, her jaw wide in a yawn.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s only eight here, but it’s late for me. It’s been a very long day.”
“You two need a good night’s sleep,” my mother said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You can get to business tomorrow. How long can you stay?”
I looked to Sterling, who answered, “I have to be back at Heartstone Manor in eleven days.”
“Well,” Jerry said, “you’re welcome here for as long as you have.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
“Jerry put your things in the guest room,” my mother said. “I’ll see you both at breakfast bright and early.”
“The chickens will have us all up at dawn,” I explained to Sterling as we climbed the stairs. My mom and Jerry’s bedroom was on the first floor, and I was grateful for the distance.
Sterling disappeared into the attached bathroom as soon as she’d opened her small suitcase. She emerged from the shower with her hair dry, piled on top of her head in a messy bun, strands of gold falling around her damp shoulders.
“Flying always makes me feel gross,” she said.
I couldn’t resist reaching out to touch all that damp, smooth skin, but I didn’t linger, heading for my own quick shower before joining her between crisp white sheets.
“This day has been about a million years long,” she said, turning into my arms.
“At least,” I agreed, rolling, gently pushing her onto her back.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “We’re in your mother’s house,” she said.
“I know, but she and Jerry are all the way downstairs, and I’m pretty sure you know how to keep quiet.” I pulled her out of the straps of the camisole she had chosen to sleep in, dragging it down from her shoulders to hook under her full breasts. “Can you?” I asked, looking up into her eyes shadowed in the near dark.
I saw her face shift as she smiled down at me. “I don’t know,” she said. “Can I? I guess we’ll find out.”
Braced on my elbows, I pressed her breasts together, squeezing the tips of her nipples until her head dipped back. I surged up to bite her throat, tasting the vibration of her moan before I kissed her.
“Shh,” I reminded her and fell into the kiss, her mouth mobile and eager, as needy as I was.
I kissed her until I couldn’t breathe, then moved down her body, tracing the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the side of her breast, sucking the hard peak of her nipple until she squirmed beneath me, letting out a squeak when my teeth grazed her sensitive skin.
I lifted my head to whisper, “Shh.”
Sterling growled, the lust and rebellion in the sound sending a spike of desire straight to my cock. And I slid down, dipping my tongue into her belly button, from one hip bone to the other, and then down to taste the salty, slick heat of her.
A groan rumbled in her chest, and I lifted my mouth, kissing her inner thigh. “Uh-uh,” I said, and she raised her arm, covering her mouth and rolling her hips up. I got the message. She’d keep herself quiet if I got back to work.
More than happy with that arrangement, I dipped my head, slid a finger in her tight heat, and sucked the pearl of her clit into my mouth. Her body shook with the effort to stay quiet.
She tightened around me, a high, desperate sound escaping as I drove another finger inside and lifted my mouth to press my palm against her clit, fucking her with my fingers, almost losing it as she tightened around me in fast, hard pulses of orgasm. Her body relaxed as my fingers slid free, the only sounds were her harsh breaths and the thud of her heartbeat. Finally, she whispered, “I think you killed me.”
“Complaining?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Never.” I wasn’t expecting it when she sat up, closing her hands over my shoulders and pushing me down on my back. “My turn,” she said. “I proved I can keep my mouth shut. Can you?”
Then she was between my legs, her mouth closing over the tip of my cock, her quick tongue licking, her fingers wrapping around the base to squeeze hard. My vision whited out, and I let out a low moan. A second later, the bed shifted, and Sterling sat up.
“Uh-uh.” She wagged a finger at me. “Remember? Quiet,” she reminded me, a hint of glee in her tone.
This was payback, and I was in for it. “I’ll be good,” I promised.
Unlike Sterling, I didn’t cover my mouth. I clenched my teeth together and reached down to thread my fingers through her soft hair, feeling the hum of her throat as she sucked and licked and brought me closer and closer to the edge until she pulled me over, taking everything I had.
When I could breathe again, she crawled up my body and slid into my arms, her thigh splayed over mine.
“That was hot,” she said against the side of my throat.
“Fuck yeah, it was,” I agreed.
“Wake me up later, and we’ll do that again,” she murmured as she slid into sleep against my shoulder.
Hours later, deep in the night, after making sure I put on one of the condoms I’d brought, I drew her to the surface with kisses. Touching, tasting, I filled her slowly, her legs wrapping my waist and her arms around my shoulders. It was slow and sweet and silent.
I didn’t remember falling asleep again, just Sterling in my arms and then the bright light of morning. The light stabbed my eyes, softened only by the scents of coffee and bacon.
I rolled over to see Sterling, her cheeks flushed, her lashes barely parted, lips still swollen from our kisses in the night. “I’m starving,” she whispered.
“Me too. And my mom makes a killer breakfast.”
My mother seemed like herself again, her eyes clear, her hair in a loose braid. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, her feet bare as she flipped bacon and buttered homemade sourdough toast. Sterling poured coffee, and the four of us stuffed ourselves full.
Food consumed, I sat back, sipping my coffee, about to suggest to Sterling that we head out to the garage when Jerry laid a hand on my shoulder.
“I know you have plans for the day,” he said, looking to Sterling, “but can I borrow you for a minute before you get started? I got a shipment of supplies yesterday. I could use some of that young muscle bringing it to the studio.”
“Of course. I’ll be back,” I said to Sterling, wondering if she would mind me leaving her alone with my mom.
“We’re good,” Sterling said before I could ask.
I looked at my mother, sending her a silent plea to keep her embarrassing stories to herself. Hoping her answering wink meant that she would, I followed Jerry out the door.