Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Dylan wasn’t meant to have stayed more than a few days, at most. He wasn’t meant to allow his attention to be caught by a lightning-fast horse. And he certainly wasn’t meant to be swimming in the Redemption River with Willow Carter.
He should have been long gone. Taken what might have been left behind in the house and got out of there.
But the stupid thing was, there was something about her striding onto his property over a decade since he’d last seen her, all sleek and grown up, that had piqued his interest. Even the darn dog liked her, and, whatever he might have let Willow believe, Elvis didn’t like anyone.
The river was icy but once you were in, it wasn’t so bad.
He had to feign being fine with it, anyway, so that Willow would follow him in.
He watched her, trying to hide his amusement as she stood ankle-deep in the water, glaring at him as she shivered.
He splashed her. She cursed at him. He laughed. “Just get in!”
She dived, cutting under the surface. If he was honest, he’d half assumed she’d back out.
When she rose, her hair was all slicked back, droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes.
“Oh, my goodness!” she said over and over as she swam to warm herself up.
Then finally she relaxed, lay on her back and paddled with her hands.
“Okay, I’m okay now.” She looked around. “It’s quite nice actually.”
Dylan swam lazily; he could almost describe himself as warm now.
“Hey, there’s a rope swing!” Willow pointed toward the old bit of rope hanging from a branch.
“I wouldn’t trust that, if I was you.” He looked uncertainly at the tatty bit of fraying rope that he remembered his brother tying up there one summer.
“Why, are you chicken?” she replied with no hesitation. There she was, all self-assured now. Wouldn’t have challenged him like that in the past.
He thought of her, all big doe-eyes coming out of the changing rooms with her cute silver kit bag over her shoulder and her curls all neatly tied back.
He thought of when he’d brush past her in the school hallway and feel the moment for the rest of the day.
The time they’d found themselves sitting side by side during a speech by the principal, Dylan had been bored and intrigued enough to see if she’d pull her hand away if he put his down next to hers, and when she didn’t, he’d let his fingers inch closer, bit by bit, till his little finger just hooked over hers.
They didn’t look at each other, she made no acknowledgment that he was even there, but he could feel their fingers touching, fierce and fiery like a burn.
Dylan didn’t deign to reply to her challenge, just swam to the bank, hauled himself out of the water and headed for the rope.
Willow watched, grinning, hint of a dimple in one cheek.
She was swimming in her vest and shorts.
He tried not to let his eyes linger on her too long.
Every second he was with her, he knew he should call time, but there was something about her being off-limits, something about those memories that woke the parts of him long since buried.
He tested the rope a couple of times. “If this breaks and I die, it’s your fault,” he called over to where she was treading water.
“You don’t have to do it to impress me, Dylan.”
He imagined if this Willow had been the one at high school, maybe she’d have been the one to drag him under the bleachers and press her lips to his, not vice versa.
The sparks that flew between them might have ignited into something more than just a few clandestine moments.
But he was a pretty different person back then, too.
He looked at her incredulously. “You just called me chicken.”
She laughed, all white teeth and wide smile, freckles scattered over her nose. Being with her felt dangerously natural.
To stop thinking about her, he swung on the rope, the branch made an ominous creaking noise, but it held fast. When he landed in the cold water it reminded him of being there with his brother.
Times spent out here when he’d pretend it was just the two of them, that they lived wild and free. Just for a little while.
“Your turn,” he said as he surfaced, slicking his hair back, wiping the water out his eyes.
Willow swam to the edge and climbed out. Dylan tried not to watch her too obviously. Long dancer’s legs, white vest see-through from the water, coppery hair lying in tendrils down her back. He dunked his head under the water again.
Willow landed beside him with a splash. Came up gasping. “That’s so fun!”
Dylan laughed. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
She seemed suddenly aware of their nearness and took a couple of swift strokes away—not so different after all, he noticed.
“Shall we swim for a little bit?” she said and started to breaststroke away without waiting for an answer.
Dylan swam, imagining his brother watching. He’d be horrified, shake his head at the sight of a Carter, like have you lost your mind?
Dylan squeezed his eyes shut for a second to make the image of his brother disappear.
Willow was up ahead, gliding under the drooping, vibrant green leaves of a weeping willow and gesturing with her hand first to the tree then herself said, “Willow. Willow.”
“Willow’s Willow,” Dylan replied, annoyed because now he’d never look at that tree again without thinking of Willow. Not that he intended to come here again.
As he swam through the curtain of leaves, he saw that Willow had climbed out and was sitting on the grassy bank. “I need to give my leg a rest.”
Dylan stayed in the water, half floating in front of her. The sun shimmered through the leaves, the light the color of fresh limes. It felt otherworldly, enclosed, away from reality. He watched her sitting there, delicate against the rough, gnarled tree trunk. “Your hair’s gone curly.”
Willow immediately pushed her wet hair back from her face. “It’s so annoying.” The curls sprang back around her forehead.
The sunlight flickered over her face. He remembered tucking those curls behind her ear, holding her close to him, seeing similar lines of sunlight on her skin through the rows of the bleachers.
She pulled her legs up and wrapped her hands round them, shivering now and seemingly conscious of being on view. “So why aren’t you staying?” she asked.
Dylan took a couple of strokes toward the bank, climbed out and sat down beside her, pushing his hair back and swiping the water off his face.
“Too much history,” he said, meaning it to sound flippant, but as soon as it was out his mouth it sounded much less so.
Maybe it was impossible to hide how much he hated that house.
He felt Willow’s gaze on him and didn’t turn.
To his relief she didn’t push it. Instead, she said, “I know what you mean.” Which baffled him because he would say that Willow’s life had been served up to her on a silver platter. She was Little Miss Perfect with a bow in her curls and cute satin ballet shoes.
Elvis appeared then, his bearded snout pushing through the curtain of leaves to see what was going on.
Willow laughed at the sight of just his head surveying them, then as the rest of him followed through the curtain, she said, “So who was it who named him Elvis?”
Dylan reached out his hand to give him a stroke.
“My mom,” he replied. “Her and her husband bought him for their kid, but it turned out he didn’t like kids.
” The dog didn’t like it much in the lime-green darkness of the tree and after sniffing about a bit, disappeared back outside.
Dylan glanced at Willow, light still dancing over her face.
“Elvis doesn’t like anyone,” he admitted.
Willow gasped. “You said he did!”
“You said he did.”
She pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “You let me believe it.” Then she smiled to herself, leaning back on the grass, teeth chattering a little bit. “Elvis likes me.”
Dylan leaned back beside her, brow arched wryly. “Can’t think why.”
She glanced across, shook her head. “Me neither.”
She’d said it modestly, just a joke, all the same he found himself wanting to say he knew exactly why.
But he couldn’t say anything, because just the way she was looking at him in that moment with her laughing eyes and elfin face, pale freckled skin, he found his breath lodged in his chest. Her smile seemed to make the air between them shrink to nothing.
She is not for you, Dylan Hawkins. Not for you.
As if the universe were cementing that fact, they suddenly heard a little girl’s voice say, “Hey look, Daddy, there’s a dog!”
There was a laugh, then a man replied, “That is one ugly-looking dog!”
Willow shot upright. “Oh, no, that’s Brodie!” Her voice was a panicked whisper. “Don’t move.” She flattened her hand on Dylan’s stomach, holding him in place.
Outside the willow canopy, Elvis barked.
Usually, Dylan would be focusing on the fact that someone had insulted his dog, but all he could think about was her hand on the bare skin of his stomach; see her long, manicured fingers, the droplets of river water, feel the beat of his own heart.
“Who do you think it belongs to?” the little girl asked.
Dylan felt the pressure of Willow’s hand increase as she panicked.
“Don’t know…” Brodie again. The trailing off of his voice seemed to suggest he’d realized whose land it was on the opposite side of the river to them.
Dylan couldn’t take his eyes off Willow’s hand, her wrist, her fingers, as entranced as Willow was frozen in fear.
“Come on, keep up, this is meant to be a hike!” Brodie’s voice was quieter now, further away.
“Wait for me! My legs are shorter than yours!”
And they were gone, their laughter and jibes at one another disappearing into silence.
Willow moved her hand away, shoulders slumping with a sigh.
Dylan felt the cool loss of her touch. Wished for a second that Brodie and his kid had settled in for a picnic.
“That was close,” she breathed.
He nodded. “Yes, it was.” It was far too close. And yet, at the same time not quite close enough. He pushed himself up and headed back to the water. It seemed colder now than before. “We should get going,” he said, unnerved by how easily he’d been drawn into this.
Willow seemed equally unsettled, slipping quietly back into the water.
When they got back to the bikes, she seemed to have returned to polite mode. Yanking on her sweatshirt and squeezing her hair dry, she said, “When are you heading off?”
He should have said tonight—got the heck out of there fast as he could—but instead he said, “Sometime tomorrow, probably. Come and say goodbye if you want.”