Ten
TEN
Bea
B y the time we parked under a carport behind the main house at Meadowbrook, mud dripped down my face. I gagged as it leaked into my mouth.
“Hang tight, I’ll help you.”
He came around to my side, opened the door, and grabbed my hands, guiding me out of the truck. Mud seeped into the corners of my eyelids, and I hissed a painful breath; it burned like fire. Scribbs told me to keep them shut, so I let him lead me as I slowly picked my way across gravel like a wobbly newborn calf.
“Alright. I’m gonna spray you off. Lemme have that purse.”
I blindly thrusted it his general direction. He took it then placed my hands against a brick wall. “Don’t move,” he warned. I heard a squeak, squeak, squeak and a release of pressure. “Here comes the water. Three, two, one.” A stream blasted me in the back. I screeched because it took me by surprise, but the water was deliciously warm and chunks of mud detached from my skin and skirt. After a while, he handed me the hose and I ran the water over my face and hands. Practically jet-streamed it into my eyes. Scribbs watched, interjecting to point out places still covered every once in a while .
“Get under your ear.” He opened and closed his hand a few times to signal me. “Here just hand it back.”
I passed him the hose and he pinched the end, running the water over the back of my neck and shoulders and behind my knees. I felt the softest brush of his fingers in multiple places.
I stayed facing the wall. As the muddy water dripped from my body and pooled at my feet, a million insecurities rose from my heart. Hair stuck to my neck, cheeks, and forehead. Translucent blue fabric clung to my skin, accentuating my soft midsection. My black underwire bra was like a neon sign at the moment. My skirt sagged, hanging lower on my hips than it ought. Panic shot through me.
The bright porch lantern poured light over us.
Oh, help me!
I didn’t want to turn. I didn’t want to face him like this . As if driving into the mud wasn’t bad enough, now I looked like a wet rat. I searched for my voice, looking at him over my shoulder. “Did we get it all?”
“Turn slow.”
I groaned inwardly. I wanted to refuse, but I was about to march my muddy drippy self into his guest room. Could I really keep him from double-checking?
I turned. Actually twirled, quick-like, with my eyes shut tight and arms tucked in.
“I said slow!”
I swallowed and twirled one more time, my toe pressing a divot into the soft driveway. When I stopped, we were face to face, looking at each other. Time seemed to glitch. Neither of us looked away.
His eyes—I could see them now. Slate gray, intense, and seeking. A spot of hazel heterochromia in his right eye interrupted the flat gray. The complicated color stole my breath away. It made me wonder what his beautiful eyes had seen, how they’d taken in the world.
As I stood there, an expression I couldn’t put my finger on furrowed his brows. He frowned in confusion. His thumb slipped off the end of the hose, leaving the water to jet full blast at the ground, pounding a crater into the gravel .
All warmth fled from his voice. His question was breathy, shaky. “What—what is your name again?”
Strings. I wanted to scream it.
“Bea Thompson.”
He dropped the hose and stepped closer, his frown deepening.
My voice turned breathy, mirroring his. “What?”
His gaze bounced between my eyes. “You…remind me of someone. You look vaguely familiar, too.”
My heart flipped.
A tight swallow moved his neck and jaw. “I know you, don’t I?”
Under his scrutiny, my cheeks flamed. I swallowed hard, too, and then, for lack of words…nodded.
Yes, you know me.
He reached out, plucking my left hand into his. His fingers slid down mine, lingering on the tips—my calluses—before letting my hand drop. He took a quick step back, whispering, “It’s you. Holy shit. You’re…”
I barely recognized my own voice. “Yes. It’s me.”
We breathed my nickname in unison. “ Strings .”
Except I was smiling. He was not.
He shook his head a few times like he couldn’t believe I was standing there. My lifted cheeks slowly fell as I watched him pace away. He stopped, looked back at me and my heart spiraled. The warmth rolled away from his expression as his face hardened in agitation. What I was feeling—elation, relief—was one-sided, and the realization was a dagger dragging through my midsection.
His quiet question bordered on accusation. “ What are you doing here?”
My heart hit the gravel. Out of all the things I imagined happening tonight, being unwelcome didn’t even cross my mind. We weren’t just friends. We were best friends. And he looked…upset?
“I…needed some time away?—”
“So you came here ? Why?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came. How could I answer that question in a single line?
Every insecurity I'd ever footed came clawing up my esophagus. Nothing about this moment had gone the way I planned. Aware of my sopping wet clothing, I attempted to discreetly create space between my shirt and my skin, pinching it away from me. The fabric suctioned with a noisy schlupp and created a flattering air bubble between my belly and boobs.
Unfortunately, the action only served to draw his attention. His gaze dropped to my body then bounced toward the night sky like the image of me burned his retinas.
I wanted to die. Someone please come kill me.
Where was that bear?
Or a coyote. A mountain lion. Any wild animal would do.
He looked at everything but me then sighed as he ran a hand down his face. “Uh, lemme get you a towel, and I’ll be right back.”
My emotional strength spun down the drain like someone pulled a plug. Tears swept over my vision. I sniffled, fighting them back. I could not cry yet.
It took him several minutes to come back and offer me a fluffy towel. I quickly squeezed out my hair then wrapped it around my shoulders, thankful for something soft to hide behind.
He cleared his throat, cautiously chancing a glance as he handed me my purse. I looked back up at his face, unable to help myself.
His expression was blank, his thoughts hidden away.
He shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets and jerked his head toward the side door. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”
Apparently, we weren't going to talk about the fact that we were best friends and hadn’t spoken in ten years.
Every silent step made me feel smaller, more ridiculous than the step before. Why did I let Paula’s stupid picture mess with my head? Why did I come here? Why was he so perturbed to see me?
The end of our letter writing was painful, but it was natural. I figured he just got too busy or he outgrew me. Did we leave off on a bad note? If we did, I couldn’t remember. I wracked my brain as I followed him through the side door, into an outdated kitchen, and down the left hallway.
We stopped at a bedroom with an adjoining bath. Simple, aged decor graced the space but at least it was clean. I immediately noticed the plug-in air freshener in the wall. The room smelled like vanilla.
I didn't look up at him. The welling tears would fall.
He waved toward the meager accommodations. “Here you go. I stuck some clothes in the bathroom.”
“Thank you.” I said, quietly.
He stepped away, prepping to quickly retreat. But I stopped him. “Wait.” In my haze of confusion, I’d almost forgotten to ask. “What’s your name?”
He gave an answer without meeting my eyes.
“Samuel Taggart. Everyone calls me Tag.”
Tag .
I blinked against the renewed warmth in my eyes and swallowed the squeeze rising in my throat. Oh, how long I'd ached to know his name. Why did learning it affect me this much?
I let Tag land in my heart and attach to my memories.
Him crying in the hayloft. Tag .
Him requesting American Pie. Tag .
Him naming me Strings. Tag .
The pressed bluebonnet he sent me for my birthday. Tag .
“Tag. Thank you.”
He nodded once then disappeared down the hall.