Chapter 23 Lily
Lily
“One double stack mushroom burger and fries,” I sing, setting the plate down in front of Old Man John.
He stares at me, slack jawed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re …” His finger drags slowly along his wrinkled jaw, thumb resting below his lip as his index finger continues to stroke in thought. “Happy?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe I’m just happy to be getting out of here soon.”
I glance at the old clock on the wall. It’s nearly noon, and my shift is almost over.
Mitch still hasn’t offered me more hours, so workdays each week are nearly nonexistent.
I now share my schedule with three of his relatives, but today I started at 5:00 a.m. and tomorrow I’m working a full twelve because someone requested a day off. I’ll take it.
Today, though, the plan is to meet Noah at 1:00 p.m.
I pull out the notebook paper Noah sketched on the other day. More like a hand-drawn map to an unmarked trail he says I have to hike. It feels like a date. Maybe it is.
I smile. Something shifted last week with Noah. Telling him everything about Bran, what happened, and that I wanted to move on. I’m not sure I conveyed it well enough, but I want to move on with him. I’m not scared with him.
Old Man John studies me, then wipes his face with his handkerchief. “It’s that Sullivan boy, I just know it.”
I shake my head but allow a smirk to twitch in the corner of my mouth, and that makes his expression light up.
After clearing a few tables and helping prep for the early lunch rush, I finally make my way into the kitchen to clock out. Untying my apron, I toss it in the laundry bin as Mitch approaches.
“Taking off?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.”
He rubs his big belly and pulls out a wad of crumpled paper from his baggy chef-pants pocket. “Found this on the floor in the bathroom. Looks like a page from that book you’re always writing in. Remember, do that on your own time, not the diner’s.”
My brains stutters, working to keep up with the words that spill from his mouth. Page from my book? My eyebrows knit together, and I blink, reaching out to take the ball he’s holding in his upturned palm.
“I-I didn’t—” My head tilts, like I’ll somehow be able to understand. I don’t write on the diner’s dime.
Mitch sighs and turns toward the line cook while I examine the paper.
Fingers trembling, I smooth it out. The creases create a shattered glass pattern, and the ink is smudged in places, but the words are still clear—my words.
It’s the poem I wrote about the bruises he gave me, but there’s more.
Two words that cause my breath to hitch and my stomach to drop, hollow and cold.
Shit.
No.
I reread the words, hoping it’s my mind playing tricks on me. That my brain is fighting against the healing of this past week, but the words don’t change. They don’t morph into something less cruel. They stare back at me, sharp and carving terror deep within.
My hands tighten around the paper to keep from dropping it. I wish I’d never seen this.
Fear curls around my ribs—I can’t breathe. This has to be a joke. Someone took one of my poems and is messing with me. I glare at the several guys cooking in the kitchen. Any one of them could’ve done this, right?
Why they would is a mystery, but they could.
I run to my bag, yank out my journal, and flip through it as fast as my shaking fingers can comb through the pages. There. Around the middle of the book, that page, this poem has been ripped out.
It can’t be real.
I look at those two words, Miss me?, and shiver.
What the hell is this? And better yet, what do I do about it?
Grabbing my jacket, I ball it up under my arm, sling my bag over my shoulder, and dart toward the back exit of the diner. I shove open the heavy metal door, and it slams against the brick wall with a clang.
The day is gorgeous, perfect for a hike, and the sudden burst of sunlight blinds me coming from the dim greasy glow of the diner. In a clumsy stumble forward, my shoes scuff the pavement, and I open up into a quick jog to my car.
The hint of spilled grease and stomach-churning tang of garbage from the overflowing dumpster nearby is thick, and mixed with the lump in my throat, I almost buckle to the ground with nausea.
Stop, I chide. Get it together. Don’t let this ruin you.
My fast breaths drown out the distant hum of traffic on Main Street, tourists in full swing this afternoon.
I fumble with the car door, grateful that Noah and I decided to meet there instead of him picking me up like he originally wanted.
It didn’t make sense. He was already working out there, and I now have a functioning car.
Thank God. I need the drive to calm down, to put this rattling note behind me.
Sliding the paper into my diner uniform pocket, I start my car and make the drive toward Yosemite, all the while making excuses in my head as to why I have this chilling note.
Best case? Some of the line cooks were snooping through my bag and came across my journal then took the joke too far.
Worst case? He wrote it.
It’s during the next thirty minutes on the road I decide to show Noah the note. He’s friends with the Pinebrook sheriff, and though I don’t trust him, Noah might be able to get some information from him. Maybe they’ve seen someone matching Bran’s description.
I doubt I’d recognize him. I’m sure he’s grown, changed—I don’t have connections to Ruin, and I don’t do social media, so hell if I know what he’s up to. Frankly, I don’t care to know.
But if he’s found me …
I shake my head and pull out the directions Noah scribbled down for me. I won’t let this take away from my time with Noah today. Mentally, I can’t.
Following his chicken scratch, I make my way to a dusty pull-off, half hidden by towering pines and boulders pushing through.
No sign, no maps, only a narrow break in the tree line where the underbrush is worn down to hint at a path.
Surprisingly, there are a handful of other cars pulled off as well, and I spot Noah leaning on the end of his tailgate, Max heeled at his side, alert.
Noah glowers, scanning the vehicles and passing traffic, but when he sees my car, a smile breaks out over his mouth, wide and unguarded.
My insides melt.
As I pull in beside his truck, the air feels lighter, the moment between us setting eyes on each other and actually speaking suspended like sweet honey dripping from a spoon. The worry from earlier, the fear—it’s all stripped away. I’m safe with Noah and Max.
Max whines at my driver’s side door, and Noah’s muffled laugh seeps through the car as I watch him round the back through the rearview mirror.
I roll down my window. “I have to change,” I tell Max, but Noah nods snapping his fingers and commanding Max leave me alone.
Over the years, I’ve become a professional at changing in my car. Caught in a rainstorm on a hike? No problem. I’d change into dry clothes in my car. Late for a shift at the diner? No issue. I’d finagle my uniform up and over my body sprawled out in the back seat.
But as I pull out my hiking pants and long-sleeve quick dry shirt, I’m suddenly nervous. The mere thought of Noah being on the other side of my car as I peel off my clothes …
Why do I wish he was the one doing it?
Quickly, I change and shove the poem in my pants, anxious to spend time with Noah and curious about this unmarked trail. When I finally step out of the car, Max runs over to sniff my hiking boots, and when I look up my stomach dips.
Noah is full-on smiling at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re beautiful, Lil.”
I move to shove him, and he playfully dodges me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into him.
It’s natural for me to wrap my arms around his waist, the cotton of his shirt warm and comfortable against my cheek.
His muscles underneath are hard, solid, and the clean scent of cedarwood and the faint freshness of evergreen air fill my nostrils.
I close my eyes, inhaling, and I swear he leans his nose into my hair and does the same.
When he pulls away, he offers a kiss to my forehead.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Always.”
“Max, Hier. Fu?.”
Dutifully, he heels to Noah, and we step onto the trail.
It’s one of the most calming things and the world changes instantly.
The hum of engines fades behind me, swallowed by the thick woods.
Sunlight weaves through the trees, shifting patches over the thin ribbon of dirt beneath the jagged rocks rolling over the pathway.
The trail itself is uneven and more of a suggestion than the typical path I’m used to. It rests between exposed roots and clusters of wild ferns and weeds.
Noah leads the way, and I take the opportunity to examine his cargo-like hiking pants from behind, and I bite back a smile appreciating his backside like a creeper. Max glances at me like he’s caught me.
“So … where does this go?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
I huff, and Noah smirks at me over his shoulder. “It’s not too long. Thought you might need a good hike. I know you haven’t been able to go as much with watching my mom. Thank you, by the way.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I skip over a large root.
“She’s filled a void I didn’t realize I was missing.
” I’ve missed that familial feeling, the feeling that there are people who have your back no matter what.
Being around Ms. Sullivan has made me think of my mother more and more over the past few months.
“Do you miss your family?”
I keep focus on each of my steps. “Yes, but I don’t know how to reestablish a connection. Well, a genuine one. How do I answer their questions about leaving years ago and trekking across the U.S. without telling them the truth?”
My head snaps back and I freeze with how my worry rolled off the tip of my tongue so easily.
“And you don’t want to tell them?” He veers toward the right and somewhere in the distance, the faint rush of water drifts toward us.