Chapter 8 Gabe
Gabe
As we drive to town, the only thing I can think is that I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to have Taryn sitting in the passenger seat, her face turned to the window and her shoulders tense.
I don’t want to be looking at my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to say to her.
What I want is to be laughing with her about how unreasonable my father is and planning our next prank.
But that was the Gabe and Taryn from five years ago. I don’t know how we get back there.
I just know I want us to.
I ease off the gas a little bit as we hit the first stop sign in town and turn my mind to figuring out what we’re even doing here.
My dad told me to bring Taryn to town. Get to know her again and get some answers.
I don’t think that last one is going to happen.
I don’t have time to pick her brain for details she doesn’t want to give.
I just want to get back to the forest so I can haul that tree to the shop. Get back to work.
Keep living the life I built without the girl sitting next to me.
“Where do you need to go, anyhow?” I ask sharply. “More clothes?”
She pauses for a beat. “I have plenty of clothes, thanks,” she finally answers, mimicking my sarcasm. “But I have film I want to develop. And the house could use some more food. I don’t know how you two are surviving with what you have there, but it’s a scandal.”
My hackles immediately go up. “We survive just fine, actually. We’ve survived just fine for four years without anyone managing our pantry, and I’m guessing we’ll keep surviving once you’ve had your fill of the small-town life and go back to where you came from.”
I regret the words the moment they’re out of my mouth, but I don’t take them back.
“We’ll start with the grocery store, then,” I add. “It’s the only place you can get film developed.”
I pull through the stop sign and into town itself and can’t help the smile that touches my lips.
I’ve lived here my whole life, but the charm of the place never gets old.
Right now it’s dressed up for Christmas, which means it looks like a snow globe threw up on the place.
We don’t have snow yet—not enough moisture in the air for a storm—but that hasn’t stopped Hawke’s Wood from decorating.
Each light pole is wound with garland and lights, each sign decorated with freshly cut holly.
The kids in town always go into the forest at the start of December to gather pine boughs, holly, and mistletoe for their decorations, and I can see bunches of mistletoe tied to several light poles at the exact height of some of the younger residents of the place.
Snowmen and Santa Claus figurines made out of wood and cotton balls stand on the corners, and in the distance, a towering pine tree takes up most of the town square.
Even without the snow, it feels like we’re in a Christmas Village.
And I’m not the only one who notices.
“It looks exactly the same up here,” Taryn breathes, and when I turn, her eyes are shining with Christmas lights and what looks suspiciously like tears. She glances at me, her mouth caught in a smile. “Do the kids still gather their decorations from the forest?”
I answer the only way I can—with a matching grin. “Of course they do. They make a whole day of it, and the older ones fight to stay there all night.”
Her grin grows larger. “Remember that time we hid in a cave that we thought no one else knew about, thinking we’d get to stay out there all night?”
I huff. “Probably the stupidest idea we ever had, honestly. It was snowing so hard we would have frozen to death out there if they hadn’t found us.”
She giggles. “And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
I park in front of the market and she turns to face forward, then frowns. “What are the handprints?”
“Those are new this year,” I say, following her gaze to where a number of colorful handprints dot the window in front of us.
“Kids voted for their classmates at school to get to put up a handprint, then the whole school decorated each one. They’re going to do a drawing on Christmas. The kid who wins gets a prize of $500.”
Her brow creases with a frown. “How did they decide who they wanted to vote for?”
“They voted for the kids who need money the most,” I say simply. “Their parents are sick, or they’ve lost their jobs or have just fallen on hard times. The kids voted for kids who need a boost.”
She bites her lip, and I watch a single tear slide down her cheek.
My heart squeezes in a way that makes me think I might be having a heart attack, and I clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching over and wiping that tear from her cheek. I feel like I might die if I don’t touch her soon. Like my body will actually stop working.
Which is exactly why I can’t reach for her.
“That’s so Hawke’s Wood,” she whispers. “God, I miss this place.”
And that’s the danger here, isn’t it? She says shit like that, and it drives right into my soul and makes me question my entire life. Reaches into my chest, grabs my heart, and plays it like it’s always belonged to her.
The fact that she does it so easily terrifies me.
“Well, you’re the one who left,” I say sharply. “Let’s go get your film developed.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later we’ve dropped her film off, bought new film for her camera, and gone through the mind-numbing process of buying food—which included her going back and forth for a full five minutes about the best pancake mix on the shelf.
There were a total of three choices. And she took five minutes talking herself into one and then another.
I leave the market frustrated as hell but brighten up when I see the ice cream parlor across the street. “Ice cream,” I said simply.
“Ice cream?” she repeats.
“Yep. I want it, and you owe me.”
I grab her arm without asking, ready to drag her across the street, but drop it as soon as I realize this is the first time I’ve touched her since she got back. She doesn’t feel the same. She’s more solid. Warmer than she used to be.
The contact leaves my fingertips tingling like I’ve just touched a live wire.
And when I catch her gaze, I can see I’m not the only one who felt it.
She opens her mouth to say something, the crease of a frown starting between her brows, but before she gets any words out I hear someone shouting my name.
I turn, grateful for the distraction, and see a number of people heading our way.
My friends.
Thank God.
Jonathan, Miller, and Simon rush up, all bundled up against the cold and looking like exactly what they are: the hoodlums of town.
Jonathan and Miller are my cousins and friends, while Simon is unrelated to any of us.
I’ve known them since I was born, which means they all knew Taryn when she lived here.
And they all saw how hard I crashed when she left.
Miller, the brawniest of us, looks her up and down once, his face registering surprise and then distrust, and Simon follows his example.
Jon, whose father is a lawyer down the mountain and who therefore has a somewhat more educated view of the world, at least schools his expression to be neutral, and I’m grateful for that much.
Miller and Simon are both blue collar to the bone, sons of the town mechanic and carpenter, respectively, and they’re going to be a whole lot less gentle.
“So, you’re back,” Miller says.
Taryn, who’s at least two heads shorter than Miller, looks up at him, and to my shock, manages to look deeply unimpressed at the larger boy. Fuck, she’s looking at him like he’s the one smaller than her, and I see that single eyebrow rise so high that I swear it’s going to hit her hairline.
“Your eyes still work, then?” she says calmly. “Good to know. Maybe you should use them to find some jeans that actually fit.”
She looks pointedly at his shoes, where the ratty ends of his jeans sit half an inch too short, and then turns her eyes back up to his gaze, looking for all the world like she’s just discovered rotting garbage in her kitchen.
I feel my own eyebrows rise in response. Miller’s one of the most popular guys in town, and no one ever insults him. He’s too charming. Too funny.
Too quick to use his fists on anyone that doesn’t like him.
To my surprise, though, he’s actually grinning at her.
He grabs her and pulls her under his arm, laughing. “Taryn, it’s been too fucking long,” he mutters. “Where the fuck have you been?”
I’m even more surprised to see that she’s laughing too, though she reaches up and tweaks his nipple to force him to let go of her.
He yelps and shoves her right into Simon, who takes a quick step away from her, his hands in the air and his eyes on me like he’s afraid I’m going to come to her rescue.
I’m not, but by this time everyone else is laughing, and I find myself joining in.
And for a moment, it feels like we’re all sixteen again and in the middle of some colossal prank that Taryn no doubt came up with. One where we end up sitting in the one-room jail at the end of town, getting a lecture from someone’s mom about how we need to grow up and learn to behave ourselves.
When my gaze clashes with Taryn’s, however, my smile dies. Because that version of Taryn left four years ago, and I’m not sure yet who this one is.
“What’s so funny?” a voice behind me asks, interrupting us. I turn to see Sammy Lennon standing on the sidewalk with one hip popped out, gum in her mouth and her hair in disarray. She looks like she just got out of bed—or out of trouble, which is far more likely.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Sammy isn’t related to me by blood, though she’s a stepcousin of a sort, being the stepdaughter of my uncle. But I don’t want her saying anything to her stepdad about me being in town laughing with my friends.
I don’t like the idea of that getting back to my father.
“We were just getting reacquainted with Taryn,” Miller says, still grabbing at my stepsister.
She avoids his grabbing hands and holds one out to Sammy. “Taryn Matthews,” she says simply. “Gabe’s stepsister.”
“Ex-stepsister,” I correct. I know my voice is cold and dismissive, but I don’t correct it.
I don’t want Sammy getting any ideas. The girl is more trouble than everyone else in town combined, and though she didn’t have much to do with us when Taryn was around, the last thing I need is for her to suddenly realize how complicated the situation is.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye, though, and watch Taryn step forward to shake hands with Sammy. “Former stepsister,” she agrees easily. “I’m only in town for a little bit.”
Sammy grins at her like she’s just met her new best friend. “Are you staying with Gunner and Gabe? Boring. If you need a break, come find me. I’ll show you around town.”
I watch, horrified, as Taryn returns the grin and says she will. Terrific. That’s the last thing I need: my ex-stepsister and my stepcousin becoming best friends. Telling each other all about their lives and running around making trouble for everyone.
Sharing their secrets about me.
“Actually,” I say, grabbing Taryn and pulling her toward me, “Taryn and I are just on our way to...” I look wildly across the street, trying to think of something that’ll get us out of here.
The ice cream parlor won’t work. Everyone will follow us there.
But the building next door will do just fine.
“The shooting range,” I finish. “I promised Taryn I’d teach her how to shoot. ”
Taryn glances up at me, her face plastered with suspicion, but I don’t bother to explain.
“We’ll see you guys later,” I mutter.
And the next thing I know, I’m looping Taryn’s arm through mine and dragging her across the street like we actually have a date at the shooting range. Like I want her all to myself or something, and everyone else is getting in the way.
I don’t see my mistake until we’re in front of the hardware store and she’s looking up with an expression that says she sees right through me and saying, “Teaching me to shoot? Why Gabe, how sweet of you. It’s the one thing you didn’t let me do when I was here before.”
She turns and walks into the hardware store, leaving me on the sidewalk with two thoughts in my head: One, I didn’t let her do it because the idea of her with a gun was terrifying.
And two, it’s ridiculous now to think that giving her a gun might have been the most dangerous thing possible.
Because I handed that girl my heart. Let her straddle me and grind down on my cock while my hands were buried in her hair, her lips sealed over my own.
I let her wrap her tiny fingers around my soul and claim it for her own.
I would have been better off handing her a loaded revolver and letting her point the thing right at my fucking head.
Gulping at that image, I take one step, then another, and follow her into the store and toward the back, where the shooting range is.
This is a no good, very bad idea. And I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of it now that we’re on this path.