Chapter 36
RUE
I stare up at the night sky, the stars littered across in a way that’s familiar but also foreign. It reminds me of the night Noah and I walked to Glenrio. There were so many stars above us then.
And now we’re right back under the Texas skies.
I sit on the top step of the back porch, my knees pulled to my chest to ward off the night chill. The silence of the property is something else, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. It’s peaceful, but I do miss the way the wind whispers through the trees.
I miss the trees.
But I push that away. Out in the yard, Bullet is sniffing the perimeter of the rusted wire goat enclosure. Just hours ago, he was a puppy again, sprinting through the brush and chasing birds. But now, as he turns and slowly plods his way back toward the porch, the burst of youth is entirely gone.
He reaches the bottom of the wooden steps and stops. He lifts his front paw, hesitating. His back legs tremble visibly in the pale moonlight. He lets out a soft, frustrated whine, unable to muster the strength to climb.
A sharp, icy pang of panic grips my chest.
“Hey,” I gasp, scrambling down the steps. “I've got you, buddy.”
I scoop his thirty-pound body into my arms. He feels heavier tonight, his joints stiff and protesting as I pull him against my chest. I bury my face in his soft, floppy ear, forcing the rising lump in my throat back down.
He just overdid it. He chased those birds too hard, and now he’s sore. That’s all. He just probably needs to rest.
I carry him up the stairs and back inside, gently setting him down on the faded living room rug. He immediately circles twice and collapses into a tight, exhausted ball.
Giving him one last pet, I leave him to sleep and follow the faint, unexpected scent of roasted coffee down the short hallway.
Only a single, dim bulb is on over the kitchen table. Noah is sitting beneath it, shirtless, wearing the fresh pair of jeans from his duffel bag. His dark hair is a messy, sleep-tousled halo, and the stark white bandage on his left bicep is the only thing ruining the picture of perfection.
He’s pushed Bill’s junk mail aside and has the map I bought from the gas station spread out flat, tracing a line with his index finger.
It looks so incredibly normal. And if I try hard enough, I can almost pretend this is our house, and we are just planning a weekend road trip.
“Hey, so… You figured out the coffee maker?” I say softly, leaning against the doorframe.
Noah looks up, his pale blue eyes instantly finding mine in the dim light. “Yeah. It’s terrible, but it has caffeine. Poured you a mug.” He nods to the counter.
I grab the cracked ceramic mug, taking a sip of the bitter, black liquid, and walk over to stand behind him. I wrap my arms loosely around his neck, resting my chin on his bare shoulder. He immediately leans back into my touch, his good hand coming up to cover mine where it rests against his chest.
“What’re you looking at?” I ask, looking down at the map.
“I don’t know really,” he taps a spot in the Texas Panhandle. “If we can eventually get our hands on a car that won’t flag as stolen, we just need to get back to I-40. We can take it straight through New Mexico. Or maybe take this route.” His finger traces from Hereford, taking a southern road.
“Then there’s Maricopa,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his finger stops on the town. “If I can just get to Maricopa, the coyote can take it from there.”
I stiffen. The warm, domestic bubble instantly pops, leaving me freezing in its wake.
If I can get to Maricopa.
“You mean we,” I correct him, my voice dropping, my fingers tightening against his collarbone. “If we can get to Maricopa.”
Noah goes still, his arm locking as his finger remains on the map. He doesn’t correct himself.
He doesn’t say yes.
“Noah,” I step back, dropping my arms from his neck. “What do you mean, if you can get to Maricopa?”
He lets out a heavy breath, turning in the chair to face me. “Rue... I’m just talking. It’s been a long few days. But you do not have to do this either. You have a whole life—”
“My whole life is right here!” I explode, the desperation clawing its way up my throat. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t care what this coyote in Arizona says, I’m going with you.” My voice cracks, and I fight the urge not to reach for him, prepping for his cold, detached self.
But he doesn’t unleash that on me.
Instead, he steps forward, his good hand wrapping firmly around the back of my neck. He pulls me flush against his bare chest and crashes his lips down onto mine.
It’s a harsh, desperate kiss. He swallows my gasp, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting like dark coffee and possessive heat. He backs me up until my hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter, entirely distracting me from the argument he refuses to finish.
And ugh, it works.
My anger melts into a pool of blinding submission. I reach up, tangling my hands in his dark hair, kissing him back with every ounce of fear and toxic devotion I have for him.
When he finally pulls away, we are both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“Don’t fight with me today, Rue,” he rasps, his voice a raw, gravelly scrape in the quiet room. “Please. Just... let’s enjoy this for a few days. I’ll put the map up.”
A tear slips hot down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. “Okay,” I breathe out, forcing a shaky smile. “Okay. No fighting.”
“Good girl,” he says, kissing my forehead, and then starts folding up the map.
But even then, I still need a distraction—and one that’s not Noah’s body. I need to keep my hands physically busy, so my brain stops reminding me that this farmhouse is a temporary illusion and that I am on borrowed time.
I pull away from him, my eyes frantically scanning the kitchen. The counters are sticky with old coffee rings. There is a layer of dust on the baseboards, and the sink smells like sour mildew.
It’s despicable in here.
“What are you doing?” Noah asks, watching in utter confusion as I open a cabinet under the sink and pull out a half-empty bottle of all-purpose cleaner and a rag.
“I’m cleaning,” I state matter-of-factly, spraying a generous amount of the harsh, lemon-scented liquid onto the counter.
“Rue, honey, this isn’t our house,” Noah says, his brows pulling together in a baffled frown. “We’re squatting in a fugitive hideout. You don’t need to do chores in the middle of the night.”
“I doubt it. And it’s disgusting in here,” I argue, scrubbing violently at a coffee stain until it lifts. “If I’m going to live here for a week, I’m not doing it in filth.”
Noah lets out a bewildered laugh. “Bill is going to notice if his house is suddenly sparkling clean when he gets back from scout camp. You’re going to leave a trail.”
I pause, the rag suspended over the linoleum. The logic is sound, but…
“I’ll make it messy again before he gets back,” I tell him with complete, deadpan seriousness. “I’ll put the dust back. I’ll even spill some coffee on purpose. But right now, I’m cleaning this place. We’re going to catch something otherwise.”
Noah just stares at me for a long moment, a mixture of amusement and utter disbelief washing over his face. He shakes his head, an actual, genuine smile breaking through his rugged features.
“You are out of your goddamn mind,” he chuckles, leaning back against the refrigerator to watch me.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I snort, spraying the sink.
And as I scrub the grime away, the frantic beating of my heart finally slows. For right now, in the dark, I am just a girl cleaning her kitchen, and he is just a man watching me.
And that is exactly the delusion I need to survive.