10. Lucie
Charcoal stained her hands.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had used the brittle, dark element in her paintings. Lucie sat cross-legged on the floor of her soft pink room, hunched over a sheet of thick paper as she dragged the crumbling charcoal, flaking off into a fine dust.
That was how she felt—dark. Fragile. Worn thin. On the verge of breaking down with the slightest pressure.
Tears flooded her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time. But she forced them not to fall. It would ruin the scene she was working on.
The events of last night replayed in her mind.
Lucie had been staring at the one-hundred-dollar bill Finn had given her, thinking about the fresh sketchpads, canvas, and new paintbrushes she was going to buy.
Those happy thoughts were shattered by her father’s shouts, accusing her of stealing from the register.
No matter how much she insisted she hadn’t taken it, the truth slipped out—the Ranger had given it to her.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it. She wanted to protect him.
But that only made things worse. Her father grabbed her arm, his grip tight and punishing, as he demanded the Forest Ranger’s name.
Lucie couldn’t give him one. He couldn’t have that one precious bit of knowledge; it was the only way she could protect him.
She barely knew anything about him, not really.
He was just a Ranger. A kind stranger passing through.
But he’d been nice to her; that was more than she could say about anyone else in her life.
When she couldn’t give her father an answer he liked, he stormed out of her room with her money, intent on drinking it away.
Lucie hadn’t bothered to cover up or wear makeup that day. A slight “eff you” to the man who had given her the bruises peppered across her body.
There was no point in putting on a mask when she barely had the strength to roll out of bed. She didn’t know why she kept covering up and wearing long T-shirts. Let them all see he was hurting her. What a monster he was. It wasn’t her fault. She was tired of protecting him.
She knew the best makeup shades—green concealer to hide red bruises.
Peach tones, when it started to heal and turned yellowish, to camouflage its appearance.
Neutralizing colors. Colors opposite each other on the color wheel.
She knew the right colors to put under her eyes.
The right amount of blush and bronzer to make it look like she was sun-kissed, when in reality she never left these four walls.
Art was everything to her, and she was her first canvas.
She hadn’t been able to get out of bed that morning, and her father must have felt some twinge of regret because he didn’t come and make her work all day, which she was grateful for.
She didn’t think she could plaster on a smile, ask how everyone’s day was, and not have the question repeated back to her.
She thought that if someone had asked her how her day was going even once, she would have told them everything. But nobody cared. And nobody asked.
Right on time, Lucie heard her father’s heavy slam of the front door. A glance at the clock told her he was on his way to the bar to watch the game with his buddies.
Lucie’s grip on the charcoal tightened as she shaded a dark sky on the page. The lines were heavy and uneven. Uncontrolled. Unloved.
Her hand trembled as she pushed on—needing to get the feelings out. It was as if all the weight inside her soul poured into the lifeless drawing. Every line and smudge was an echo of what she couldn’t say out loud.
“Lucie,” her name came from her window, muffled. She clamped a hand over her face to stop the scream from escaping her throat.
A man was outside her window.
Her heart raced. Had her bad thoughts about her father materialized him on her balcony?
It took her a moment to register who was outside her window. She blinked a couple of times at the waving figure behind her gauzy curtains.
The Ranger.
“What are you doing here?” she whisper-shouted.
“I missed you today. Can I come in?” he replied, as if he were waiting at her front door, not off the freaking balcony.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her red hair was tied up in a messy bun. There wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face. Her spaghetti-strapped pink satin PJs with little hearts showed every inch of her marred skin.
This can’t be happening. Please tell me this is some horrible dream. She pinched herself. Yep. It was happening. This is the worst possible time for him to come.
“Ummm . . . just a minute,” she called out, trying to flatten down her hair.
Embarrassment coated her insides like spilled paint. She could have told him to leave. Lucie knew he would leave if she said the word, but she missed him, too.
What would he say about the bruises? He would think she was weak. He was meant to fall for a girl who was strong like him, not a soft, fragile painter with no future.
Working quickly, she rubbed her fingers across her face, smearing the charcoal on her skin to hide the bruises. The dark streaks were messy and uneven, but it would have to do.
She combed her fingers through her hair and pinched her cheeks to bring color back. Then she tied on her fluffy blue robe, hoping to cover the rest of her bruises. The fabric clung to her sweaty skin. Even at night, the air was too humid.
Fumbling with the only lock in her room, a cool breeze caressed her face as she opened the balcony door.
Wow. Did he get hotter since the last time I saw him?
All six-foot-four of him stood on her balcony, looking sheepish, holding a brown paper bag with grease stains on the bottom. The most heavenly concoction of bacon and cheese smell wafted over to her.
“Hi,” she said lamely, fixing her hair again. “What are you doing here?” More importantly, how did he get up here? She crossed her arms over her body to stop her stomach from growling. She hadn’t eaten anything since her lunch break yesterday. The kitchen was through the general store.
“You weren’t at the shop,” he said, peering through the hair that fell in front of his eyes.
“Oh yeah, my dad gave me the day off,” Lucie said, rubbing her arm. “No big deal.”
“Can I come in?” he asked, his amber eyes melting away all her worries.
What problems? What worries?
Without saying a word, she moved her body, frantically motioning him inside. He still didn’t move.
“This might sound dumb, but I need to hear you say yes. You can tell me to leave if you want. I just wanted to drop off some food and see if you were okay. I only want to come in if you want me to.” His voice was soft, his eyes scanning her face, taking in the smudges and the way her body was hunched over.
“Yes, please come in. I’m fine. Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” she said, pulling the robe tighter. “I didn’t think any strange handsome men would come climbing into my bedroom,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood, plucking a leaf out of his hair.
She’d always dreamed of climbing down that tree and running off, but she was afraid she’d fall and break her arm. Somehow, he’d made it up the tree with ease, like he was a vampire from the Pacific Northwest.
“You think I’m handsome?” he said with a half-grin that made her heart clench, though he still chose to stay outside.
“A blind woman could tell you’re handsome,” she scoffed, ushering him in. The scent of leather, eucalyptus, and mint enveloped her as he squeezed past, his chest nearly brushing her face.
He reached out his thumb to brush her cheek.
She flinched.
Worry furrowed his eyebrows, and panic drew his hand back.
“It’s just charcoal,” she whispered, offering him a smile she had practiced many times in the mirror.
“If you say so,” he whispered.
His concern was like a spotlight, illuminating everything she so desperately wanted to hide in the dark.
Now inside, the Ranger looked around her room, taking in every detail.
Lucie stood there, mesmerized, as she watched his fingers brush the edge of her easel.
He ran his fingers over the blanket on her bed, then over the charcoal smudges and bits of unfinished sketches scattered across her floor.
He picked up a worn-out conch shell from her nightstand, turning it over in his hand.
It was small, but the most precious thing she owned.
He handled everything he touched with reverence, and Lucie couldn’t help but feel a surge of unexpected emotion.
Despite everything—despite the chaos in her life, the bruises she tried to hide, and the dark thoughts clouding her mind—tension left her body.
Here was someone who looked at her things like they meant something. Like there was a story in every artifact she had curated.
Goosebumps slid up the back of her neck. She had never had a boy in her room before. There was a snowflake’s chance in heck she was supposed to do this.
If her dad found out, she would never hear the end of it. He might do something drastic, like putting bars on her windows.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I just hoped for the best,” the Ranger said, settling onto her rug as if he’d been there before.
Lucie sat cross-legged on the rug next to him, folded her arms, and played with the soft fabric worn and frayed under her fingers.
He settled down beside her, leaving just enough space between them to be respectful yet close enough to be comforting.
The second he opened the bag, her mouth began to water. Could miracles come in the form of grilled meat and fried potatoes?
The Ranger passed her a tinfoil-wrapped burger. She unwrapped it slowly, her hands trembling as she pulled it from its wrapper, trying her best not to inhale it in one bite. The smell was warm and familiar, the taste of grease and salt grounding her in the moment.
Never. Ever. Had a burger tasted this good before. Where did he get it?