26. Chapter 26
twenty-six
Skye
It’s barely eight, still light out, but I’ve already turned on every lamp in the house—the kitchen, the foyer, the living room, even the upstairs hallway and bathroom.
My bedroom’s fully lit too. The TV is on, tuned to some housewife reality show I’m not actually watching.
It’s just noise so I’m not alone with the quiet.
This morning, my parents left for Florida. They almost didn’t.
It’s been ten days since my intimate encounter with that soccer ball, which resulted in only a mild concussion, according to the doctor my mom schlepped me to that same evening.
Still, my parents were worried enough about me that they were ready to cancel their travel plans.
For a second, I considered taking them up on the offer.
Anything to avoid being home alone. But I couldn’t in good conscience let my mom miss her college best friend’s wedding, even if it was already her third.
And in all honesty, I feel pretty much back to normal.
I rested a ton, barely even left my dark room the first couple of days.
But by Tuesday, the headache was gone. By Wednesday I was back helping my mom in the office, and on Thursday, I went back to Riverfront where Boston somehow managed to hover and avoid me at the exact same time.
Things between us felt strangely… careful.
So now I’m alone.
And it’s exactly as awful as I knew it would be.
I try to be normal. I make dinner, eat half of it, and leave the rest in the sink. Stop being dramatic, I tell myself for the tenth time this evening.
Still, I can’t find rest.
I pace, then sit. Then stand again.
If only my dad wasn’t deathly allergic to pet dander. Then maybe we’d have a dog. Even something small and yappy would help. Maybe just a tiny terrier to keep me company. Honestly, though, I’d prefer a Doberman—sleek, alert, protective. A little menacing. Definitely loyal.
I almost laugh at the thought that the dog, at least, would’ve stayed.
Archer didn’t.
He did stop by this morning, already dressed in camo, but only long enough to plant a kiss on my cheek and tell me to text him if I was scared. Totally pointless. We both know he won’t have cell reception in the wilderness. Even if he did, he’d set his phone to silent so as not to spook any prey.
“You’re a big girl, Skye,” he told me yet again, laughing like my fear was something cute I do for attention. “You’ll be fine. Just, maybe try not to get pummeled by any balls.”
Fine.
Yeah, right.
That’s what I thought two years ago, too—the last time I was by myself at night, when things turned out very much not fine.
A sound carries down the stairs.
It’s soft. Barely there. Probably just the house settling or the air kicking on. I know that.
Still, I freeze, listening. Every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for my brain to send instructions. Fight or flight? What’s it gonna be?
The house feels too quiet all of a sudden. Too aware of me.
You’re fine, Skye. You’re a big girl.
Another creak. My pulse climbs higher, my breath shallow with fear.
Worried gray eyes flash through my mind. A warm hand on my jaw.
That’s when I realize I don’t want to be brave.
I want to feel safe.
Before I can think too hard about it, I grab my phone and keys, then walk to my car without turning off a single light. I just want out. I need air, motion, distance from this house that feels like it’s watching me.
Minutes later, I pull into the parking lot at AJ’s. I throw my car into park, then step out and march across the parking lot like a woman on a mission.
I shove the door to the restaurant open. Clearly too hard, because it slams into something solid.
A twenty-ounce cup of Coke flies through the air and spills down the front of its victim.
“Oh no!” I gasp, instinctively wiping at the drenched shirt in front of me.
“Stormy?”
I look up. And up—and immediately combust.
“Boss!” I say, mortified. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
Boston stoops and grabs the empty cup. When he stands, his shirt is plastered to his torso, nearly transparent, outlining every dip and swell of lean muscle. And now that I’ve noticed, I can’t un-notice.
“You could’ve just said hi,” he teases. “Didn’t have to assault me with my pop. Unless this was payback for the soccer ball incident which, you know, wasn’t really my fault.”
“I’m really sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t know you were, like, right there and—”
Boston laughs, shaking his head. “Hey, it’s okay. Shit happens.” He looks around. “What are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, then close it again sheepishly.
I sigh. “I… I don’t want to be alone.”
His eyebrows rise. “You’re alone?”
I nod. “My parents are out of town. They’re in Florida for a wedding, and Archer went—”
“Hunting.”
“Yeah. He was supposed to stay with me so I wouldn’t be all alone, but… well.” I shrug. “I don’t like being alone.”
“So, you came here?” he asks, like the thought doesn’t quite compute.
I nod again. “I thought maybe I’d grab some food. Be around people.” My cheeks warm. “And… maybe hang out with you while you work.”
His face lightens, lips tugging into a smile. “Sounds boring.”
I shake my head. “Sounds really nice.”
The smile slips into something almost startled. Like I said something he wasn’t prepared to hear. For a second, he just looks at me.
Then he clears his throat. “Well, unfortunately I’m about to head out.”
“Oh.” The disappointment escapes before I can stop it. I recover quickly. “That’s alright. I can still order dinner. Maybe take it home. Watch terrible reality TV until I fall asleep, or… not,” I trail off, forcing a grimace of a smile.
Boston studies me. The bravado I walked in here with starts crumbling under the weight of his attention. “You’re really scared, huh?” he asks quietly.
The question shouldn’t result in a fat lump in my throat, but it does anyway.
I look away. “Maybe a little.”
“A little?” he repeats.
I gesture vaguely. “My parents are on the other end of the country. Archer’s in the middle of nowhere with no cell reception. The house is huge. Every noise sounds like the beginning of a murder documentary.”
That earns me a laugh. Then his eyes soften. “You haven’t eaten yet?”
“Not really.”
Boston glances at the door, then back at me. He sighs. “Alright.”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Let’s grab you some food and then, if you’d like, I’ll come to your place for a little bit. Hang out? Make sure everything’s good?”
“Boss, I…”
The words catch in my throat.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’ll just need to change.” He looks down at his shirt. “Unless you think that wet t-shirt look’s making a comeback.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
I make my way across the restaurant to the take-out counter, Boston following close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“Hey, Boss!” a waitress says, appearing behind the counter. Her name tag spells Maya in bolt, black letters. “What are you still doing—oh.” Her eyes widen at his state. “What happened?”
“I accidently made him spill his drink.” I grimace.
“Oh, well, that’s too bad,” Maya says with a vacant nod as her eyes roll over Boston’s chest… and linger.
The back of my neck prickles.
“Can he get a refill?” I ask, sharper than I meant to.
“Oh, yeah.” She blinks. “Of course.”
She’s already reaching for a cup when I add, “I’d also like to order some food. For both of us.”
Boston tries to protest. “No, Stormy, you don’t—”
“I do. I attacked you with a door and a Coke. What do you want?”
He opens his mouth as if to argue, then just grins. “Cheeseburger?”
“That’s it? One tiny burger?” I size him up, taking the opportunity to let my eyes roam. Just for a second. “You’re more than a foot taller than me and weigh what, a hundred and eighty-five pounds? Don’t you need more food than that?”
He shrugs.
I turn to Maya. “Two large deluxe cheeseburger combos. And a large Coke. Please.”
She glances between us. “Two checks?”
“One,” I say firmly. I owe him at least a meal after… everything.
She leaves and I turn my attention back to Boston. He tugs at the damp shirt sticking to him, and even though I make a conscious effort not to look, my eyes keep drifting to his chest.
Heat flashes low in my belly.
Not helpful.
I clear my throat and try for a conversation. “Don’t you usually get off later?”
Something shutters behind his eyes. “Slow night,” he says simply.
Now that he said it, yeah, AJ’s is considerably less packed than I’m used to seeing on a Saturday.
“That’s not so bad, though? Gives you some free time. Who wouldn’t want that on a weekend.”
Boston makes a noncommittal sound, then switches topics, asking me about my head instead.
Ten minutes and an unsolicited lecture on concussion recovery later, we’re walking back across the parking lot, food and drinks in hand.
The summer heat has finally started to ease, leaving behind a warm breeze that stirs the trees lining the edge of the lot.
Boston stops beside his car.
“Let me grab a shirt really quick,” he says, handing me the paper bag and drink carrier.
“You got a whole change of outfit in your car?” I ask as he pops the trunk. It glides open.
“Looks like we have that in common. I’m currently lugging around three different hoodies and at least two pairs of shoes. Nothing to cover the lower half of my body, though,” I joke, but it doesn’t land.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I peek around him. “What?”
He’s already reaching up, quickly pulling the trunk shut.
Like he doesn’t want me to see the contents.
But he’s not fast enough. My gaze already caught on the rolled-up sleeping bag and the folded blanket, then flicked to the propane cooker before landing on the red plastic shopping basket holding a jar of peanut butter, canned fruit, crackers, and several bottles of water.
The trunk shuts and I stand there, blinking.
The image doesn’t quite compute.
My brows crease. “Do you do a lot of camping?”
Boston goes still. Too still.
I tear my gaze away from the closed trunk and look at Boston. My stomach drops. Not only because of the long pause before he answers, but because of the way he looks at me. Like he’s bracing for impact. He gives the tiniest shake of his head. “No.”
That’s it.
Just no. Not occasionally. Not once in a rare while. Just no.
My brain is working, cogs clicking, wheels spinning, desperate to arrive anywhere but the conclusion lurking at the edges of my thoughts.
I force a smile. “Anyway, do you want to stop by your place to change before we head to my house?”
Boston doesn’t answer, silence stretching thick and uncomfortable.
My pulse starts to climb.
“Boss?”
His jaw tightens. “Not really,” he says so quietly, I almost miss it.
“But… you need to change,” I say, matching his volume.
“Yeah,” he breathes, then swallows hard.
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“Boss?” I whisper and reach out to him, resting a hand on his forearm. It feels cool despite the warm summer breeze.
His eyes close, a heavy, resigned sigh escaping his chest.
And that’s when everything clicks into place.
His disappearance.
Three jobs.
His things. Things that hint at wilderness. At camping. At… survival.
“Boss?” I try to swallow the jagged lump in my throat. “Where do you keep your clothes?”
For a long moment, he just stares at the pavement between us. Then, “Usually in my trunk.”
I inhale a shaky breath, looking between him and his car, then back again.
“Usually?” I repeat weakly.
His throat bobs. “Yeah.”
“And right now?”
The silence that follows is unbearable.
A car pulls out of the parking lot. Voices float over from the restaurant, and somewhere in the far-off distance, sirens wail.
Boston drags a hand over the back of his neck. “At Jake’s.”
The knot in my throat grows. “Why?”
His eyes meet mine—gray and exhausted—looking like someone who’s spent a very long time carrying something alone.
“It’s where I’m staying.”
My chest tightens, but I nod. I already knew. I think I’ve known for the last minute and just haven’t wanted to admit it.
His gaze drops to the asphalt. “I don’t have a home, Skye.”
“What do you mean you don’t have a home?”
“I don’t have a home,” he repeats. “I just have—” He gestures at the car.
“You live in your car?” My voice comes out small. Cracked.
How is that possible? He works a ton. He drives a nice car. His clothes are always clean. So is he. He smells of wilderness and rain and safety. How can someone without a home smell like that?
Boston nods.
My throat tightens as I begin to put it all together. “Since you were seventeen? When you disappeared?”
“Mostly, yeah.” He swallows. “Before I got this, I stayed at shelters if they had a bed.”
I knew he’d been through something terrible. I could just tell. “And if they didn’t?”
He exhales deeply. “Stormy—”
“And if they didn’t?” I urge.
“Then I’d sleep wherever I could find a safe spot. A bathroom, behind a dumpster, whatever. Right now I’m at Jake’s, which is honestly the best I’ve had in a while. A real bed.” One corner of his mouth tugs into a smile. It’s definitely for my benefit, because his eyes don’t follow suit.
A tear slips free before I can stop it, but I wipe it away quickly. If he’s not falling apart, neither am I.
Boston notices anyway. “Stormy.” His thumb brushes beneath my eye, catching the lingering dampness on my cheek. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m broken.”
My chest aches. “I’m not looking at you like you’re broken.”
He chuckles. “So, these are tears of joy?”
“Totally,” I croak.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
I hate that I can’t fix any of it.
Then I glance at his soaked shirt. This I can fix.
“You still need clothes.”
A huff of laughter escapes him. “Yeah.”
“Then let’s go get you some.”
His gaze drifts toward the darkening sky. Then toward his car. Then back to me.
“Alright. Let’s head to Jake’s then,” he says as a flicker of dread crosses his face.
We climb into our cars and pull out of the parking lot, Boston's taillights glowing red in front of me.