Like a Wildflower (Hemlock #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Joey

There’s no greater feeling than driving with the windows down, a cool breeze blowing through my hair, and a pit of existential dread sitting in my stomach.

To make matters worse, my phone is dead, along with my external battery. I can guarantee my older brother and sister sent out a twenty-person search party when my location stopped updating a few hours ago.

I’m not the best at calling or keeping them updated on my whereabouts, so we found a common ground with location sharing. If I’m lucky, my last known location registered somewhere after I crossed into Oregon, meaning that if I end up dead on the side of the road, they can easily find my corpse.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The bears may drag me into the forest before they find me. Does Oregon have a big bear population? How many states do? Should I be carrying bear spray on my travels?

I feel like I should know these things. The public school system clearly failed me in this respect.

Shaking off that train of unnecessary thought, I thread my hands through my auburn hair. It’s seen much better days, that’s for sure. I can’t remember the last time I ran a brush through it, and I’m about 90 percent convinced I heard a bird chirp in there yesterday.

With an exhausted sigh, I crank the knob on the stereo my brother installed. Then, with hands at ten and two, I drum along to the beat. As the forest flies by on either side of me, I absentmindedly murmur along to the tune that my Lord and Savior Stevie Nicks is singing.

Speaking of my Lord and Savior, I mutter a silent prayer that I come upon a gas station soon.

This road is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

I’m typically more of a landmark girl, though I wouldn’t mind having access to GPS.

Except even if my phone weren’t dead, I doubt I’d have service out here in the forest. The dense canopy of darkness that shrouds me now has gone on for mile after painfully long mile.

With every road marker I pass, the heavy pit of anxiety in my stomach sinks deeper. I’d love to say I’m usually more prepared than this, but the truth of the matter is I’m not.

Though I inherited my love of traveling from both of my free-spirited parents, who died unexpectedly a year and a half ago, my siblings are comfortable homebodies who never venture too far from our hometown.

I respect and admire that about them, and maybe there’s a small part of me that wishes I felt that way.

But right now, at thirty-one, I have no motivation to settle down.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I don’t belong.

I was the kid who was always picked last in gym class.

I was never chosen as a partner for the science fair and didn’t have a date to prom.

Though not being picked in gym class pissed me off the most. I was taller than most boys in my fourth-grade class, and I could serve the shit out of a volleyball.

In fact, I almost broke a kid’s nose once when I spiked the ball a little too hard.

The teacher wasn’t pleased.

I wasn’t that sorry about it. The twerp had it coming.

My parents were kind, gentle people who would trap spiders and free them in their garden.

The type of people who did all they could to avoid hurting the feelings of any living being.

I can relate to that. So when I explained what was happening in school, they comforted me and reassured me, but I could see the hurt in their eyes.

As an adult, I can look back and see how badly they wished they could take away my pain.

Since then, my life has felt akin to a game of kickball. I’m either getting picked last, using someone as a human shield, or being metaphorically hit in the face with the ball called life.

I’ve never felt like I belonged.

I’ll forever and always be the too much girl.

My hair is too wild, my clothes are too bright, my emotions are too strong, and my laugh is too loud. I’ve even been told that my expressions are too expressive.

Whatever the hell that means.

I’m a drifting soul, endlessly searching for the place where I fit in.

My safe spot.

A place where I can unapologetically be myself.

Have I found it yet? Obviously not.

Will I ever find it? God, I hope so.

If not, my siblings are in for a lifetime of torture. They’re the one bright spot in my life. They see me down to my very soul and have stuck by me. They support all my rights and my wrongs.

Even if that means they have to rescue me sometimes.

Like now. Oh, how I wish my sister Charlie would jump out of the woods like a feral forest creature and save me.

With another look at the fuel gauge, I note that the needle has moved awfully close to the one-eighth mark.

Frustrated tears slip from my eyes. I should’ve known better. My dad taught me to always keep the tank full in preparation for an unplanned adventure, but time got away from me and I forgot. Now I’ll be stuck here on the side of the road, hoping another car appears soon and will stop.

And hopefully I won’t end up murdered.

I can just imagine being murdered by a serial killer or eaten alive by a bear and then meeting my parents in the afterlife.

What a fun conversation that would be.

Nothing says “welcome to the afterlife!” like being scolded by one’s parents for poor planning.

I wipe the stray tears that have fallen from my eyes and keep my gaze focused on the right side of the road, willing a gas station to appear. The sun has officially dipped below the horizon and the damp roads are dark in the midst of the forest, the only light coming from Poppy’s headlights.

When another set of headlights flashes in my rearview mirror, a mixture of hopefulness and panic settles in my stomach. The vehicle approaches quickly, and when it’s so close I can barely see their headlights, they honk.

What. The. Actual. Fuck? This isn’t a good sign.

Looks like I might actually say hi to Mom and Dad tonight.

Sweat beads on my temple as my heart pounds in my chest.

The vehicle swerves into the opposing lane and zips up beside me.

I keep my eyes fixed on the dark road, careful not to make eye contact with what must certainly be a serial killer.

“Joey, pull over!” a deep voice yells.

My stomach lurches. How does the killer know my name? Oh god. How long have they been following me?

“Josephine Iris Thorne. Pull over now!” the man bellows.

With my hands white-knuckled and shaking on the steering wheel, I slowly look over at the car alongside me. The anxious breath I was holding expels from my chest when I discover the identity of the driver.

My brother Jack.

Immediately, I slow down. Once I’ve pulled Poppy to the side of the road, my brother pulls up behind me and climbs out of his car. As he stomps toward me, his movements angry, I wince.

At my window, he knocks.

Rather than roll it down, I keep my focus fixed ahead and shake my head.

He lets out a grunt. “Roll it down, Joey.”

Oh, he’s pissed.

I stay silent and don’t move. Like a fawn when it senses danger. It lies down, doesn’t make a sound, and refuses to make eye contact.

Jack knocks on the window again. “Roll the window down. Now.” He grits the last word out through clenched teeth.

I inhale deeply, then let out a resigned sigh. My hand inches toward the crank and slowly rolls the window down. “Oh my god,” I chirp, hoping my cheerful tone will discourage his anger. “What are you doing out here? You’re looking so. . .rested!”

His face is blank as he stares back at me. Not even a twitch of the mouth. Bro’s got a poker face that would make professionals weep.

Swallowing down the anxious lump in my throat, I blink, breaking the stare down. “How did you. . .uh, find me?”

His eyes are the same color as mine. As Charlie’s too. Except his are a little more distressed under the moonlight. “Looked at your location,” he huffs. “Saw it wasn’t moving. Drove up and down the road knowing you’d eventually pass through this part.”

“I’m always flattered when you and Charlie stalk me,” I say, beaming. “It’s exciting. Like living in a thriller movie. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly over my behavior already. “Between your poor planning and Charlie’s lethal scowl, someone has to be the levelheaded one in this family.”

Okay, he makes a fair point. I’m not the best planner, but that’s only because I believe things will work out the way they’re supposed to regardless.

You know, fate and all that.

Could a little preparation lead to a more preferable outcome? Yes. Will I do that going forward? Eh. I’ll try.

Also, is he calling himself levelheaded?

“You? Levelheaded?” I scoff. “Did you and Charlie vote on this without me?”

He sets his hands on his hips, a small huff of air escaping him. “You really don’t think I’m levelheaded?”

I blink slowly. “You organize your socks by color and get weirdly excited when a new vacuum comes on the market. I think that’s tipping too far to the other side.”

“How do you know about my sock organization?”

One time I babysat Lucy, his daughter, and let her have ice cream for dinner in exchange for embarrassing information on him. She stayed up till midnight screaming and jumping on the furniture like a possessed demon, but it was worth it. I gathered enough intelligence to last me years.

“I plead the fifth.” I lift my chin, my expression as blank as I can manage.

“Of course you do.” He leans in, assessing Poppy’s fuel gauge. “You miscalculated again, didn’t you?”

My shoulders sag. “Guilty.”

He lets out another disappointed breath, his flannel-clad chest deflating. He should probably go to the doctor to get checked for asthma or COPD. Maybe he’s inhaling too much sawdust.

As the baby of the family, I should get a pass for my minor lapse in judgment. Usually my miles-per-gallon calculations are pretty spot on. I must have messed up somewhere a couple hundred miles back.

“There’s a spare tank of fuel in my truck. I’ll be right back,” my brother says. The gravel beneath his boots crunches as he walks away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Slumping against my seat, I drop my head back. Though I can’t help but smile.

Despite my love for traveling, it feels good to be back home.