by Penny Reid
“I know what you’re up against, but you’re not alone. Like you said, they’re not all-powerful. It might feel like it sometimes, but they’re not.”
I sniffled, closing my mind to his words. I couldn’t think about this. If I did, I was certain Razor would know about my disloyal thoughts. Maybe it was irrational, but I was convinced he’d know and he’d bring me in, and then I’d never be able to leave. He’d cut me all over, he’d cut my face like he’d threatened to do a hundred times, like he’d done to my brothers and their mommas. And then he’d—
Calm down, Scarlet. Build a wall. . . one brick at a time.
“Let me help you. Please.”
Damn Billy. I never should have come here, I never should have let him help me.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut tighter. “Please stop talking about this.”
The hand between my shoulder blades rubbed a gentle, small circle, staying far away from the exposed wound near my lower back. I barely felt it.
“Okay. Okay, I will. I’ll stop. But I want something in return.”
A laugh burst from my mouth and my eyes flew open. I found his face close, that small smile—which I now decided was a friendly smile after all—curving his lips.
“Oh? Really? What do you want?” My body was shaking, shivering. I’d give him anything, promise anything to get him to stop.
His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, looking torn for a moment, but only for a moment. “I want you to stay here at night, every night. In this house, in this room, with me.”
Chapter Twelve
*Billy*
“The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.”
Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince
Figuring out what Scarlet needed from me in order to make good choices was impossible because she was the most stubborn, most infuriating person on the planet.
“Hey. Billy.”
I moved just my eyes to her. She held a flashlight pointed at the tall stalks of dead flowers and grass; her gaze tracked the spotlight. We were walking across the field, taking her back to the woods because Scarlet wanted me to be crazy. Obviously.
After I’d cleaned her cuts and I’d told her my story—which I’d never told anyone or spoke about ever—she wanted to leave. She wouldn’t look at me. And when she did look at me, it was that same look from the first time she’d led me out of the woods and to the edge of the field, the same look she’d given me in my room moments ago, just before I’d cleaned her wound.
No expectations. I was nothing to her. She wanted nothing. She gave and needed nothing. Not a damn thing. Like it wouldn’t surprise her at all if this was the last time we saw each other, like she assumed it would be so easy for me if she just disappeared.
She’d wanted the bandage on, she’d wanted off the bed, and she’d wanted to leave, right now. It was like being punched square in the chest.
“Billy.”
“What?” I snapped.
Scarlet cleared her throat lightly. “What did the turkey on the table say to the deer head hanging on the wall?”
Already frowning, I felt my eyebrows pull together even more. “Pardon?”
“What did the—”
“I heard the question. I just don’t understand why you’re asking it.”
“It’s a joke, Billy. Just say, ‘What did the turkey say?’ Sheesh!” She tossed her red curls, which were long and loose down her back. In my bedroom, her hair had shimmered like copper and gold.
“Fine, Scarlet. What did the turkey say?”
Making a gruff sound, she quickened her pace, grumbling, “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Now she was marching instead of walking, her footfalls heavy and determined. Hanging back a few steps, I muttered curse words under my breath.
“I heard that. You kiss your momma with that mouth?”
I gritted my teeth. But bizarrely, I was also smiling. “Please. Explain to me why you won’t even consider it?”
“I like my camp and it’s not that cold.”
“Tomorrow night it’s getting down into the thirties. Even our goats are being sheltered.”
“Then it’s a good thing I got that new sleeping bag. Maybe I’ll sleep with the goats. I like goats.” Her voice was cheerful, not a trace of sarcasm.
I glared at her back, wanting to tell her she shouldn’t be sleeping in a sleeping bag in the first place, and she’d sleep with our farm animals over my dead body. She shouldn’t be in a tent in the woods either, where there were bears and all sorts of critters, and most especially when it was freezing outside. She was putting herself in danger every night. Maybe she didn’t care about her safety or maybe she didn’t understand? Whatever. I did not understand this woman.
No. Not woman. Girl. She’s the same age as Ashley. Bafflingly, this reminder made me anxious. Scarlet seemed older than Ashley, a lot older. When I looked at Ashley, I saw a kid. My sister would always be a three-year-old to me, pitching a fit because she wanted a blue dress instead of a purple one. Just like my younger brothers, she was someone to protect and worry over.
When I looked at Scarlet, I didn’t see a kid sister. At all. What I saw was a strong, sometimes smart, stubborn woman—girl—who was struggling and in pain. And yet, she was always eager to laugh, to help, to thank and show gratitude, to search out and cling to the bright side, to find reasons to smile and charm and make other folks happy. In truth, she kinda reminded me of my brother Beau.
Perhaps this similarity to Beau was why the urge to protect Scarlet—though of a different flavor than what I felt about my family—was just as strong. Sure, she’d survived on her own this long. And yes, she didn’t need me interfering, she didn’t need me full stop. But I need to help, if she’d just let me . . .
Time to try a different tactic. Clearly, good sense was lost on this woman. Girl. Not woman. She’s just a girl.
Catching up so I was once more walking next to her, I tried, “I can sleep downstairs, on one of the couches. You can wake me up on your way out in the morning. No one will ever know.”
She huffed, but it sounded strange, like there was a sob behind it. Damn. I didn’t want her crying. I wanted her safe, and warm, and protected to just fucking listen for a damn second!
“Scarlet. Please.” I placed a hand on her arm, a light touch, needing to slow her down. We were almost to the woods, and once she was inside she’d be gone, out of my reach.
She stopped. She huffed again. She faced me. She closed her eyes. “I don’t want your pity.”
Pity?!
A powerful and abrupt stab of frustration meant I had to bite back the impulse to yell at her, grab her and shake some sense into her obstinate brain. I would never, ever do that. But I’d entertain the hell out of the thought.
Instead, speaking through clenched teeth, because she made me so crazy, I said, “Scarlet. If this were pity, I’d say thoughts and prayers and go back inside my warm house. This isn’t pity. You are, by far, the strongest person I know. By far. I wouldn’t dare pity you.”
“Then answer me something.” The words were garbled, like she was talking around something in her mouth.
“Sure.”
“Why are you doing all this? What do you want from me?” Her big eyes opened and searched my face, like she was desperate for answers.
It was dark and the flashlight was pointed to the ground, she couldn’t see me. I could see her though. Her voice almost hid it, but she was already crying. I winced, another punch to the chest.
I answered in the only way I thought might have a chance of working, “If you’re sick, I can’t teach you guitar.”
Her full, bossy lips tugged up at one side even though her chin wavered. “That’s a dumb reason.”
Swallowing around a thickness, I stuffed my hands in my jacket so I wouldn’t catch and wipe away her tears. “Well, what reason do you need
to hear in order to accept?”
She laughed, like my answer surprised her and she truly thought it was funny. Her smile was big and open and beautiful, and I gaped at it. How could she laugh with such sincerity when she was hurting so bad? How did she do that?
“Scarlet,” I whispered, her name spilling out. Pushed by a sense of urgency that made no sense, my feet shifted me closer and my hands were out of my pockets, cupping her jaw. Unable to help myself, I swiped away those tears. I needed it. Her skin was velvet, warm and so soft. “Please.”
As soon as I touched her face, she stiffened, her laughter dying. And as soon as my thumbs moved over her cheeks, she relaxed. Or more like, she sagged. Her hand not holding the flashlight came to my wrist. I thought for a second she was going to pull my hand away.
Instead, her face crumpled, and she whispered, “What if he finds out?”
What if . . .? I frowned, searching her for clues. What was she—
Oh! “Shit.” I pulled her forward, wrapping her gently in my arms as a jolt of stunned realization seized my lungs, left me feeling like a right old jackass.
I’d been so stupid. How could I not have seen? She wasn’t being stubborn. She was afraid.
“No, Scarlet. He won’t.” I firmed my voice. “He won’t find out. No one will know but you and me.”
She pressed her face into my chest and fisted her hands in my jacket, crying harder. “If he—if he—he’ll know. He’ll find out. And then he’ll—and then you and your momma and all your—”
“We won’t even talk about it. I’ll pretend you’re not there. It’ll be like I can’t see you. We’ll be so careful.”
She took a deep breath and shivered on the exhale, and then inhaled again. When she breathed out this time, she sounded calmer. Releasing her grip on my jacket, I felt her hesitate, and then her arms came around my middle.
She hugged me back, accepting comfort for just a half minute before retreating, wrapping her arms around herself. I wanted to pull her back to me but was convinced she’d push me away.
“I get to decide when and how often.” Her head was angled down and she spoke to the ground. “If the weather is nice, I’ll sleep outside.”
I said nothing, agreed to nothing. Cold or not, those woods were still full of critters.
She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed, fierce. “And if I change my mind, if I stop coming, you let me be. Like you said, you’ll pretend I’m not there.”
“I’ll do my best,” I hedged. Pretending not to see her wasn’t as easy as it had been two weeks ago.
“And I don’t owe you anything. And you’re not allowed to feel sorry for me.” She lifted a finger between us, pointing at me. “And I won’t get used to sleeping in a bed. And we don’t know each other. We’re not friends.”
These last few statements didn’t sound like they were meant for me. More like she was reminding herself, making demands of herself not to expect anything.
Even so, my lungs hurt all over again and more words spilled out. “Too late.”
“What?”
“I can’t promise that.”
She blinked, giving me the impression she’d halfway forgotten I was there. “Can’t promise what?”
Without giving the instinct much thought, probably because it felt so natural, I reached for the hand she held between us, wrapped her fingers in mine, and brought her knuckles to my chest, like I’d done in my room. “We are friends. That already happened.”
Scarlet opened her mouth, maybe to protest, so I quickly added, “But I’d never feel sorry for you.”
She snapped her mouth shut, her eyes darting between my face and where I held her hand, like she had a hard time keeping up with what I was saying and doing, like the pitch-black night confused her the way the woods confused me.
I squeezed her fingers, lowering her hand but not letting her go. Turning back to the house, I took advantage of my hold and her confusion to lead her back the way we’d come. Ten feet became twenty, then thirty, fifty, a hundred, and with each step I breathed easier.
We’d made it halfway when she spoke. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why will you never feel sorry for me?” Abruptly, her feet seemed to drag, and I sensed a hesitation in her steps.
“I wouldn’t dare.” I shifted my grip, holding her palm more securely.
“You wouldn’t dare?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I repeated, the house in sight now.
“Why wouldn’t you dare?” She sounded curious.
Glancing at her, I found her wide eyes searching for my outline. Like her voice, they held curiosity, but there was also something else. Vulnerability. Trust. Maybe hope. This also hurt my chest, but not like a punch. More like when something feels so good it hurts.
My smile was a reflex, but my words were premeditated. I hoped they’d pull an equally spontaneous smile from her. “First, because you’re scary as hell,” I teased, surprising myself. I wasn’t much of a teaser. “And second, the last time I dared, you negotiated four guitar lessons outta me. And now I’m teaching you guitar for the rest of our lives, apparently. Who knows what you’d talk me into next? I don’t want to lose a kidney or something.”
She did smile, just a small one but it felt like a gift, and muttered, “I don’t need a kidney, I already have two.” Also, thankfully, she stopped dragging her feet.
Thank God.
This track of conversation seemed to be working, and I didn’t want to give her any quiet time to reconsider, so I asked, “What part of me would you ask for? My liver?”
“Nah. I’d want something more essential.” She withdrew her hand and I resisted the urge to grab it again.
In the end, I let her go. She was now keeping pace so there was no real reason to hold on, other than to keep touching her, and that made no sense.
“Than a liver?” I bumped her shoulder, still watching her.
Her gaze forward, her grin grew. “Maybe I’d take your guitar.”
“Ugh.” I clutched my chest. “Might as well take my heart.”
She chuckled. And then her chin lowered. Her hair fell forward, hiding most of her face from view. But she said nothing else.
Neither of us did.
Billy-
What did the turkey
Say to the deer on the wall?
We are stuffed! Get it?
-Forest Fairy
PS When are you teaching me how to play the guitar?
PPS Save these haikus. They’ll be worth a lot of money someday.
Scratching the rough hair on my jaw, I smiled at the note—the haiku—Scarlet had left on my night table. She still wanted me to teach her? Good.
I read the note a few more times and wondered vaguely if she’d do it every morning from now on. After she’d admitted the truth, that she was afraid, coaxing her back to the house had been easy. Of course, first we had to return to her campsite and snuff out the fire she’d started earlier.
Not easy? Sneaking her inside.
After enlisting Ashley’s help with a distraction—second helpings of pie served in the kitchen for my brothers—I brought Scarlet through the front door. Another great thing about my sister, she never asked why I needed her help. She just helped. Thank God for Ashley.
I grabbed us some pie while she changed, wearing the same pair of pajamas as Tuesday night. Despite protesting that she was too full, she ate the whole slice and then clear passed out by the time I returned from taking the dish downstairs.
I hadn’t heard her leave this morning. She was so quiet when she wanted to be.
Lowering the scrap of paper, I studied the mattress where she’d slept. Just like last time, she’d made the bed, neat and tidy, and my pajamas were once more left in a folded pile at the foot. I wouldn’t move them. She could use them again tonight. And she’ll probably need a shower. Where do we keep the extra toothbrushes? I should ask Ashley about girl shampoo. Her hair is so pretty when she wears it down. Maybe she’ll wan
t hot chocolate again. Do we have any marshmallows left? I like how she—
A quick knock on the door startled me from my thoughts. A second later, Cletus stuck just his head inside. He opened his mouth, like he was set on saying something, but then closed it, frowning. Squinted eyes moved from the top of my head to the note in my hand, as though he distrusted me. He then glanced at the empty bed where I’d been staring, then back to me.
“Billy.”
“Cletus.” My voice was deep with sleep.
His eyes narrowed further. “What are you doing?”
“Waking up. What’re you doing?”
“Standing here, talking to you.”
I nodded once. “Okay.”
His eyes continued to narrow until I couldn’t see his irises, inspecting me like I was one of his science experiments. “You look funny.”
I scratched my jaw. “I know. I need to do something about my beard.”
“No. That’s not what I meant. Your eyes, that look on your face, it’s new.”
Breathing out a laugh, I lifted an eyebrow at my brother. “You know all my looks, do ya?”
“Yes. They’re all documented and categorized in my brain palace.” He stepped inside my room and tapped the side of his head. “That one you’re wearing is new.”
“It’s the face I wear when I get to sleep in. That’s why you haven’t seen it.” Friday through Sunday after Thanksgiving were rare days off from work, practice, and school.
Shutting the door behind him, he paced the floor between me and my desk. “I need to talk to you about two important topics.”
“Okay.” I returned Scarlet’s note to my night table, stood, stretched, and spoke around a yawn, “But if you’re trying to get out of chores, it’s not going to work. You’re the one who wanted to keep the goats. You need to do your share taking care of them. And your dog needs a bath.”
He waved this statement away, like it was a housefly. “Yes, yes. Fine, fine. I will wash Laelaps. This is about something else.”
