Into the Woods

1. Devotion

Chapter 1

Devotion

Winnie

twelve years old

Sunlight streamed through the gently swaying leaves, dappling the forest floor in bright polka-dots that almost perfectly matched the bow swinging at the end of my braid. I’d salvaged the piece of ribbon from where one of my mama’s friends tossed it toward the trash can. She’d missed of course, but that was just how things played out when Mama and her friends were celebrating. That’s what they always called it when they got together and acted all silly.

When I was little, I had no reason to think it was anything other than that, but as I grew older, I knew their parties were nothing more than an escape. That they were drowning their screams of suffering as the lives they thought they’d be living died tragic deaths worthy of Shakespeare, or one of the thrillers Christophe had told me about.

I didn’t blame them for wanting an escape. Life in this town was shitty unless you were one of the elite families, and we had never been able to claim that title. But everyone needed a place where they could let their worries go, pretend nothing bad existed. A place where the world was nothing but sunshine and honey.

These woods were that place for me, but only for a few precious weeks of summer.

I shifted on the fallen log, anticipation making me restless and antsy. I’d woken up early, taken extra care twisting my blonde hair into a French braid—my newest skill—holding the intricate design together with the pretty scrap of ribbon.

I closed my eyes and concentrated, listening for any telltale sound that he was near.

We’d made plans yesterday, actual plans like a date. My first official date and it was with Christophe Robicheaux.

Every summer, for as long as I can remember, he appeared like a breath of fresh air and a hint of what the world outside of mine might hold. We were opposites in every way.

Christophe’s family was rich. Mine was dirt poor.

Christophe’s clothes were new and fashionable. Mine were old and dated.

Christophe’s burnished hair was always freshly trimmed. My locks were unbleached and wild.

Christophe left at the end of every summer to spend another year at the private all-boys school he attended—the one he lived at that cost more money than I could even imagine. Living the charmed life as the only son of a wealthy family. Attending parties. Playing sports. Traveling over holidays and seeing the world.

My public school and peanut butter and honey sandwiches couldn’t begin to compare to the lavishness of his life. But we were friends. Had been since he first sauntered into the woods that separated our worlds.

The snap of a stick had my eyes popping open and my heart stuttering in anticipation. Today was his last day before he left for another year. Would he ask me to be his girlfriend? Would he kiss me? My hands were sweat slicked, nervousness zinged through me as I checked to make sure my braid was still neatly in place.

As silence settled once again, I closed my eyes and tried to find calm with a deep breath. My hands on my belly, my shoulders rose as I breathed out through pursed lips, the honey-vanilla lip gloss that I splurged on at the dollar store mostly gone from the number of times my tongue had darted out in anticipation.

I was nervous.

I was excited.

I was ready and I was terrified.

“You waiting for me?” Christophe’s voice came from nowhere. Without a sound, he was right in front of me. Closer than he had any right to be with as silently as he’d approached.

I blinked, taking in the boy standing in front of me, but just out of my reach. Leaves rustled, parting in the gentle breeze, casting Christophe in shadow.

As the leaves settled, he came into focus. Navy-blue shorts crisply pressed and topped with a bright white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Copper hair artfully pushed back from his face, stunning icy blue eyes dancing over me as he waited for me to respond.

Christophe Robicheaux was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. He took my breath away and stole the words from my lips without even trying. That part was new and had gotten more and more pronounced over the last summer or two—ever since my best friend at school and I started giggling over boys. She said I had a crush on Christophe, but I knew different.

“Cat got your tongue, Win?” he asked, dipping his chin as he towered over me. There was a broad smile stretched across his face. Warm eyes and perfectly straight teeth thanks to the braces he’d worn in summers past.

With the way he’d grown so much taller than me and the way he was just so sure of himself, he was intimidating and comforting all at the same time.

A wave of shyness fell over me and it took so much more bravery than I’d ever known to squeak out a single word. “Yes.”

He cocked his head to the side, his smile settling to one side as a lazy smirk played along his lips. His brows rose as he asked, “Yes, the cat has your tongue?”

I shook my head, eyes wide, lungs holding my breath hostage. “I was waiting for you,” I whispered, my voice trembled, barely able to set the words free.

“Good,” he said, extending his hand between us, palm up. An offer. A request. A silent demand that I gave in to without a single thought as I wiped the sweat from my hand and placed it in his.

He pulled me to standing, hands landing squarely on my shoulders. He held me in place, not giving an inch of space. His body crowded mine, his cologne crisp in my nose. He was so much taller than me, I had to tilt my head so far back, it hung between my shoulders, the end of my braid brushing low on my back.

“I like that—knowing you’re waiting for me. What were you thinking about with your eyes closed and your face lifted to the sun like that?” His voice was deep and sure, any sign of the way it had cracked when we’d first met was gone. The hint of freshly shaved whiskers were barely a shadow against his pale, clear skin.

He was so out of my league.

So fancy.

So much older.

But, once again, he was here in our woods with me.

“I-I brought us a picnic,” I offered, but he bit his lip and shook his head.

“Not what I asked. I want to know what you were thinking. What put that secret smile on your face? What had you pressing your hands against that pretty red shirt like you were trying to hold back a flock of butterflies?”

Each question held a hint of knowing, like he could see inside me. Like he already knew the thoughts skittering around my silly head. Like he was teasing me.

My cheeks flamed, hot and red.

Oh my God, did he know I wanted him to kiss me? Did he know how long I’d been in love with him? How many pages in the cheap spiral notebook I used as my journal were covered with hearts around his name and mine? How many times I’d practiced writing our names?

Winnie L’Ourson my stomach churned as the butterflies turned to snakes tying themselves up in knots.

The closer he moved to me, the softer his eyes became. And when his warm breath hit my cheek, I panicked, afraid that I’d somehow missed the moment. I turned to face him as his lips connected low on my cheek—but with the way I jerked, it was more like the corner of my mouth. My lips…

Christophe had kissed me. On. My. Lips.

He pressed his mouth to the edge of mine, his lips firm and soft at the same time. Like nothing I’d ever imagined.

I was stunned. Excited. Thrilled. But utterly shocked that he’d kissed me at all. And I was devastated that it was over way too soon. My fingers uncurled from where I’d had them fisted over my stomach, holding back the writhing serpents, and went straight to my mouth, as if I could capture his kiss and hold it there forever. The bubble of my crush—my first true love—expanding until it burst.

Christophe stepped back from me, surprise or maybe regret marring his perfect features. He shook his head as his eyes darted toward the picnic basket I’d brought with me. “I gotta go, Winn. I can’t stay. But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” He took another step back, and then another putting more space between us.

Confused, I stuttered, sounding a little like my best friend, “W-w-what? W-why?”

He couldn’t go, not yet. He was supposed to be here for another week. He never left me this early in the summer.

“It’s for school. I have orientation for college before classes start next week,” he said as if it was a universal truth. Something that everyone got to do. But it wasn’t. It was just another thing that separated us, one more experience that set his world apart from mine.

College was nothing more than a fairy tale for me. A pipe dream that would never become reality; it wasn’t like it was important to my mom and dad. All they cared about was their bar and partying and their skeevy friends.

Bright blue eyes searched my face, a soft smile pulling at Christophe’s lips—the ones that had just been on mine. His head canted to the side as he asked, “Was that your first kiss, Winifred L’Ourson?” His question was laced with a hint of something—teasing? Novelty, maybe? And when I didn’t answer, but only pressed my fingers to my lips even harder, his mouth pulled up higher into a crooked smile. “I like that—being your first kiss. It makes this even more special,” he said as he latched a silver chain around my wrist. The cool metal slid low, dragged down by a silver charm that was silently synonymous of our summers—a honeybee, fat and lazy, buzzing with perfect happiness.

“Be good for me, Winn.” His thumb flicked at the honeybee and then pressed it gently where it rested against the tender skin at the inside of my wrist. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised.

Then he turned and disappeared through the trees.

As I pulled the tiny knife from my pocket and dug its point into the unmarred bark of the gnarled oak—our tree—it never crossed my mind that would be the last time I’d see Christophe Robicheaux for a very long time.

It was the first summer he left me early.

He was my first love.

My first kiss.

The first to break my heart.