Chapter 12 #3
Her words, “thanks for the save tonight,” ring in my ear.
“What did she mean by save tonight?” I ask.
“She called from a disastrous blind date and wanted a ride home. You moving up front?”
So, it was a date—just not with him. Up front? I glance toward the now empty seat. I guess it would be a bit silly to sit back here like he was some sort of chauffer.
Noah eyes me in the rearview mirror and I shuffle my boots, noticing the dried dirt that’s crumbled off them and onto his nearly perfect floormat.
Ignoring my mess, I jump out of the truck and dash up front, hauling ass to avoid being outside the warm vehicle for too long.
When I shut the door, Noah smiles at me. “Seat belt.”
I cast him a look but pull it around me and click it into place anyway. He lets out a chuckle, the weak light of the touchscreen highlighting the twinkle in his eyes.
He pulls out of the driveway and onto the road.
When the silence stretches between us as we make another turn, I ask. “So … you two aren’t a couple?”
He rears his head back, one hand resting casually on the wheel. “Morgan and me? No. Just close friends.”
“Cool.” I avert my gaze out the window.
I wonder if his mom wishes they were a couple. Ugh. Stupid.
As more and more of the night scenery goes by, I realize quickly we aren’t on the road to Yosemite, at least not the main one.
The seat belt digs into my shoulder as I crane my neck to get a look at the sparse signage.
My eyes flick from the dashboard to the windshield, my pulse thundering.
It’s only 7:30 p.m., surely I shouldn’t have to worry about him taking me out of town.
I should’ve never gotten in this car. Did he even call the tow truck? See, this is what I’m talking about. Law enforcement can get away with anything—people inherently trust them. It’s the perfect cover.
I am not opposed to flinging myself out of a moving vehicle. Perhaps the next time he stops, if he stops, I can ditch with a thanks, but no thanks.
My breaths rapidly intensify, coming fast and shallow. The air rushing from my lungs is amplified by the cramped space, and Noah looks at me, brows dipping into a deep groove. If only the damn radio was louder.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Uh, I think this is the wrong way. Shouldn’t you be going the other direction?
” I press my lips together, determined to stay calm, but my voice trembles, catching on the end of my question.
Each exhale scrapes against the back of my throat, the tension snaking tighter in my belly each second we continue the opposite way.
“Oh, sorry. No, no, this is the way to my mom’s house. I was on my way there for dinner when Morgan called, and I figured you might be hungry, too.” He studies me as best he can while driving. “Which I can see now was a poor assumption. I should’ve asked.”
I let out a raw, shaky breath. I guess that makes sense, but I grip the seat belt at my chest tighter.
“Is that okay? Going to my mom’s for dinner.
She—I don’t have much food at my place, and she doesn’t cook, but I ordered some takeout and had it delivered.
We may need to reheat the soup, though.” He smiles, but it dies when he takes in my expression, still haunted by the possibility of the horror my mind conjured up. “Dang it, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
It’s clear he has no idea why my reaction is so intense, but he seems concerned regardless.
There’s a measure of reassurance when he taps the map app on his screen and points to the green dot, the little blue dot veering closer as we drive.
“We’re almost there but say the word and we’ll turn around. ”
Well, that’s not going to happen. His dying mother wants to have dinner with him, and Mr. Nice Guy Ranger was late because he was playing Uber for a good friend. I’m not sure I can say no to that—I can’t.
“It’s fine,” I say. “But I’m not really dressed.
” I examine the dirty boots on my feet. Honestly, caring about what I’ve looked like over the past six years is a pastime.
I operate with grungy hiking hair that’s only seen dry shampoo for a week at times, and my outfit …
definitely not one I’d wear to meet his mom.
Not that I’m meeting his mom. Well, I am, but not like that. Agh. Why am I so flustered?
“You look great, and I promise it’s nothing fancy—soup and sandwiches from the Toasted Spoon.”
My stomach rumbles when he mentions the new restaurant in town.
I haven’t tried it. Moreover, I’m fairly certain Mitch would pitch a fit if he caught me spending my diner paycheck at a competitor.
Where the diner is vintage and homey, the Toasted Spoon is sleek and modern.
Of course, even if I wanted to eat there, I couldn’t.
Their prices for a sandwich and soup combo could buy me groceries for an entire week.
I dip my head in acknowledgement yet continue to watch the blue dot on Noah’s GPS get closer to our destination, unsure what to say.
“Where’d you hike today?” Noah asks.
“Mount Dana.”
He raises his eyebrows, as if he’s almost impressed. “Nice. That’s one of my favorites while Tioga Road is open. Used to run it. Now I can’t even find the time to get out to Sentinel Dome.”
I study him, my heart racing as he speaks my language. He’s a trail runner? “Yeah. Tioga Road is going to close any day, so I wanted to get this hike in before it does.”
“Mount Dana is no easy feat. You must be exhausted.”
I nod. I am, and sore. I consider myself a fairly experienced hiker, but today I forgot my trekking pole and my knees are particularly inflamed. However, I only shrug, glancing in time to see him grin at me.
The rest of the short ride is quiet, and when we finally pull into the driveway next to a garage, I’m grateful Noah suggested dinner. After Noah shuts the truck off, we both get out, and I search for the house. Only, there isn’t one.
“Ready for one last hike today?” Noah asks, face weakly illuminated by the two barn lights hanging off the garage. He gestures to the stone pavers that ascend into the night void. As I follow them up, there’s the faint glow of light. Perfect. The house must sit up the hill, a hundred steps up.
Noah pauses, waiting for me to go first, but I shake my head. The corner of his mouth lifts and he moves first, while I follow.
A gentle, playful breeze kicks up around me as I walk. The crisp air carrying with it the scent of petrichor that honestly makes me want to write. This transitional period between seasons is one of my favorites, like fall is nearing its end and winter is beginning.
The pleasant smell is disrupted by the jarring smell of trampled grass and hay mixed with traces of manure. I make a face.
At the top, the pathway of steppingstones leads into a thigh-high fence separating the hillside from the overgrown front lawn.
From what I can see, which isn’t much, the grass sprawls in wild disarray.
Clumps of dandelions are scattered throughout the yard, and the raised wooden flowerbeds are now overrun with wayward weeds and foxtail grasses, spilling over the sides and into the grass.
I can imagine it, though, what it looked like when properly maintained.
Noah unlocks the gate, and we step through, following what used to be another stone pathway that’s now sunken into the ground where grass has claimed it.
Three steps lead to the porch, which wraps snugly around the small house, and I realize it’s elevated on thick stilts, perched on the hillside and overlooking below. I can’t see the rolling expanse.
I shuffle my backpack to my left shoulder, uneasy as Noah opens the weathered front door and pokes his head in. “Mom?” he says, continuing inside and then holding it open for me.
The kitchen meets me to the left as we enter, the older cabinets a cardboard brown color, and the countertops in desperate need of updating.
A petite window looks out over the front lawn from the sink, and directly across from that is the refrigerator.
A circular table with four chipped Windsor chairs tucked around it sits off to the side, a plastic tablecloth full of sunflowers spread over the top.
“Mom?” Noah says again. He props a hand on one of the chairs and kicks his boots off, placing them on a black weathered mat near the front door. I follow suit, lining mine next to his as the squeaky wheel of Ms. Sullivan’s oxygen tank comes around the corner.
“Damn it, Noah. Was starting to get worried about you. Are you okay?” she asks, shuffling over to offer him a weak slap to his biceps. Her expression falters when she notices me beside him.
Her dark circles are even more apparent this evening, the purple sagging over her cheekbones.
She has on a plain white T-shirt, the hem hanging past her thighs, and baggy jeans swallowing her thin legs.
What surprises me, and makes me internally grin, are the fuzzy yellow socks on her feet with the repeating image of a middle finger.
“I’m sorry. Morgan called and needed a ride home. We ran into Lily on the way at the gas station. Luckily, we were there because her car wouldn’t start.” Noah doesn’t mention his newly acquired knowledge about me not having a place to stay, or the fact I’m living out of my car.
I step forward, as if this may be my cue to say something, but I don’t know what I should say—it’s rather awkward. Of course, Ms. Sullivan doesn’t even hesitate before she grabs for my hand to usher me into the living room.
It’s a smaller space with shaggy carpet and a rickety recliner. An old TV with antennas sits on top of a peeling console. Plus, the loveseat has a floral pattern that screams, I was designed in the ’80s!
This entire house is the opposite my parents’.
They’d renovated an old plantation in Ruin, Mississippi, before I was born and kept updating a room every year.
The property mimics an estate with lush gardens and giant magnolias.
Columns, planters filled with ferns, and potted flowers spill out onto the front porch, woven between composite rockers. It’s grand, opulent even.
I know how it looks to the outside world, to my parents’ friends back home.
Spoiled daughter runs away from a life full of bonfires, farmer’s markets, charming Southern parties, and droves of friends.
My mother mentioned in one of her famous emails that she and my father were the subject of nefarious rumors.
Why would the youngest Parker run away from such a good life?
What my mother can’t comprehend is that it wasn’t about her at all.
That it’s not about the wealth or treasure you can collect.
Those things can’t shield you from the darkness lurking at the edge of your soul.
You cannot buy your way out when evil stirs—money doesn’t thwart the shadows that thrive in quiet corners.
In fact, I’d argue it’s a beacon for it.
This house hasn’t been updated or blanketed with outlandish wallpaper of twigs or birds. Its simple cream walls and modest furniture are friendly and inviting, and I wonder if Noah grew up here, or if this was where his mother downsized to when she was diagnosed.
My thoughts get interrupted when Ms. Sullivan dips her head toward the tacky couch, and I sit, examining the pattern on either side of me.
“It looks like shit,” Ms. Sullivan says. “But it’s comfortable and was cheap. Noah took his first steps toward that couch when he was only thirteen months old. I don’t have the heart to part with it.”
“I get it,” I say.
She shuffles over toward the recliner, a Minky Blanket spread over the headrest, and turns slowly, careful not to twist her oxygen tubing before she bends to sit.
Her movement reminds me of my great grandparents in their nineties when they were alive. She’s clearly not that old, but she’s weak, fragile.
My eyes soften as she struggles into the seat, and I’m not sure if it would come across condescending if I offered to help her or not, so I remain quiet. Although, I can’t help the down-turned corner of my mouth watching her discomfort.
“Now don’t you go giving me that look. I’ve had one too many people look at me with pity. Those silent unspoken sympathy looks, like they feel bad for my unfortunate circumstances. I don’t need that from you, too.” Her tone is stern and snippy, and I quickly wipe the expression off my face.
Instead, I follow her wrinkled blue jeans down to her socks, and smile. “What are you talking about? I was just admiring your socks.”
She grins.