37. Kaitlyn
THIRTY-SEVEN
Kaitlyn
I had no intention of staying.
At least that’s what I told myself.
When I saddled Two-tone this morning, I told myself that it was with the intention of emailing my professors to let them know what happened. That my horse stepped on my laptop and broke it and I’d been unable to attend classes, or even email them to let them know, until I got a replacement. Even though it’s the most Montana equivalent of my dog ate my homework I’ve ever heard, I told myself it’s the truth. It doesn’t matter that until I opened that box left on the front porch and saw the new computer, obviously from Went, I had no intention of emailing them anything. That I’d given up. Decided that fate wanted me here. Punished and tied to Brock. My future decided. A noose around my neck I had no hope of slipping.
This morning I woke up with Luke’s voice, ringing my head.
If fate wanted you here, it wouldn’t have brought him to Barrett.
“We don’t know that,” I whispered in the dark, watching the minutes countdown on my alarm clock, only a handful of them before it starts squawking. “Maybe fate is punishing me for what I did to you… to both of you.”
Don’t start that shit, Kaity. You know it pisses me off.
Abbey shifts around on the bed next to mine, so close I could reach out and touch her if I wanted. Even though there are plenty of bedrooms in this house, I can’t remember a time when we didn’t share one. I’ve never asked for my own bedroom and for some reason, neither has she. Looking away from her, I sigh. “All I’m saying is maybe fate brought Went here to show me a life I don’t deserve.”
You didn’t do anything to me, Kaity—or her. How many times do I have to tell you that what happened wasn’t your fault?
“About as many times as I have to tell you that you’re wrong.”
Just email them. Email your professors and tell them what happened. If they tell you tough shit, then you’ll know for sure.
“What’s the use?” I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling while Abbey mumbles something in her sleep. “Even if they do excuse my absences and let me take my finals, it won’t matter. It’s done. I said yes. I’m marrying Brock as soon as Dad gets back.”
That’s not fate punishing you, Kaity, and it’s not Dad. That’s you punishing yourself.
Because I don’t have an answer for him, at least not one that doesn’t make me want to scream, I decided to ignore Luke altogether.
Switching off the alarm, I start my day.
Somewhere between feeding Two-tone and his cohorts their breakfast and watching the sun begin to break over the horizon, I decided Luke was right. Not about his death not being my fault but the rest of it.
I’d email my professors, let them know what happened and call it closure. That way I wouldn’t have to spend the next fifty years of my miserable life wondering if there had been a way out for me after all. when they told me it was too late and that I’d have to retake the semester, I’d have my answer and so would Luke. We’d both know that I’ve been right along and maybe he’d finally shut up about it.
Getting to North-point, I sent a single email addressed to all of my instructors, explaining what happened. After hitting send, I made a pot of coffee and plated the cinnamon rolls I baked last night. Heading for the downstairs guest bath, I give it a quick refresh before tidying up the living room and unloading the dishwasher. By the time I was finished, they’d all replied.
Ms. Barrett –
We sympathize with your predicament and we’re happy to accommodate you. As long as you complete your final exams by the end of the week, you’ll receive full credit for the semester.
See? I told you so.
“Shut up, Luke.” Shaking my head on a quiet laugh, I feel my chest loosen and I’m able to take a full breath—the first since I fished my laptop out of the hay covering the ground in Two-tone’s stall and saw that it was beyond repair. “Nobody likes a smartass.”
Giving myself another moment of stunned silence, I opened my backpack to pull out my notebooks and got back to work.
After went leaves, I manage about five more minutes of actual work before I had to admit that looking up to find him standing at the kitchen counter, watching me didn’t just kill my concentration.
It destroyed it.
Are you sure that’s what killed your concentration? Maybe it was the feel of his hand wrapped around your throat. The pressure of his thumb against the line of it that made studying decidedly impossible. Maybe it was the way that devil black gaze of his hooked into yours, made it impossible for you to look away, a moment before he kissed you. Made you promise to stay when you both know that staying is the last thing you should be doing. That when you said yes, you were saying yes to a hell of a lot more than that.
Whatever it is, the sound of him jogging down the stairs has barely faded before I give up. Closing my laptop, I begin shoving my notebooks back into my backpack. Telling myself that leaving would be the smart thing, I zip it up and carry it to the back door, intent on being smart. He’ll be angry. Most likely hurt but he won’t come after me. If I leave, whatever’s happening between us is over.
I’ll never see him again.
Dropping my backpack on the bench next to the backdoor, I retrace my steps. Standing in front of the large, picture window that overlooks the lake I catch movement in the corner of my eye. Turning toward it, I catch sight of him as he rounds the far side of the lake, the gray and white flash of him flickering through the trees.
Standing here, I watch him—long powerful legs eating up the distance between us. Tattooed arms moving in unison. His beautiful face obscured by the bill of his battered ballcap.
Instead of taking the road that’ll lead him back to the house, Went continues to run, choosing the foot path that will carry him around the lake again. Backing away from the window, I check the mantel clock above the fireplace. It’s barely seven AM. Before Went took up residence, I was usually here until after nine, working on school or studying. Abbey isn’t even awake yet and even if she was and asking where I am, my daily chore list keeps me away from the house until well past noon.
No matter how much I’d like to claim to the contrary, there’s absolutely no reason I can’t stay.
And a million reasons why I shouldn’t.
Making my way back into the kitchen, I do all the things Went doesn’t want me to do. I dump the leftover coffee dregs down the drain and rinse the carafe before readying the machine for tomorrow. I put leftover cinnamon rolls back in their plastic container and set it aside before wiping down the counters with the kind of frantic energy that tells me just how nervous I really am.
Nervous because Went kissed me before he left.
Nervous because he can’t run around the lake forever.
Nervous because he’ll eventually come inside and I don’t know what happens after that.
Nervous because I do know what happens… I’m just not sure I can survive it.
No, Kaity—what you can’t survive is a lifetime as Mrs. Brock Morris. What you can’t survive is the future they have planned out for you—not without something to hold onto. Something good to remember. A few weeks of freedom before you let them lock you away.
Forcing myself to stop my anxiety fueled binge, I lay the dishcloth over the side of the sink to dry. Wandering back over to the window, I see Went. Finished with his run, he’s standing at the end of the dock. Reaching up, he pulls his hat off and drops it at his feet before toeing off his running shoes. Kicking them aside, he reaches up again, this time snagging the back of his shirt at the neck to drag it up, over his head.
Holy shit.
How is it possible that the back of him is even hotter than the front? Seemingly endless swirls of ink, stretched over golden skin, I watch, breath caught in my throat, as the muscles in his shoulders bulge and stretch while he turns, aiming a long, over the shoulder look at the house like he’s trying to figure out if I’m watching or not.
Feeling like a peeping Tom, I take a step back, only to immediately step forward again. Closer this time, nose practically pressed to the glass, I nearly swallow my tongue when Went, still looking at the house over his shoulder, lifts a hand and crooks a finger in my direction.
Come here .
Dropping his hand, Went hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats. Pulling them down, he steps out of them—giving me spectacular view of his bare ass—before he dives off the end of the dock and into the water.