by Penny Reid
Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. “You want me.”
“I do.” My heart was racing.
She gave me a confused-looking smile. “That’s it?”
“Well—” I ignored the fidgety energy low in my stomach and at the base of my spine. “That comes with a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like being official.”
Her eyes grew big.
I rushed to add, “And seeing each other every day, or as often as you want. And you should have my letterman jacket. You should wear it.” What the hell? Where had that come from?
Scarlet reared back an inch. “Your—your—your jacket? Do people still do that?”
“We should.” Oh man. I was seriously messing this up.
She scrunched her nose, turning her face to peer at me out of the corner of her eye. “Billy Winston, are you teasing me?”
“I am not teasing you.” I shook my head, my attention dropping to her full lips. I had the very odd and sudden desire to bite them. “But I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. So, I’m asking, do you want me?”
I waited. And as I waited, my chest felt like someone was inflating a balloon inside it, a hot, heavy balloon, and it was pressing outward on all sides of my rib cage.
“Yes,” she finally said, the word a soft whisper, more breath than sound.
Lifting my eyes to hers, I tensed, stilled. Although Scarlet had said yes, she looked scared out of her wits.
The balloon expanded.
“Honey.” I released her hand and cupped her jaw. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, louder. But there was still a wary note in her voice and a look of panic in her eyes that had the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up.
I shook my head. “Scarlet, I don’t believe you.”
A sound fell out of her, followed by a hastily sucked in breath. A sob. Her chin wobbled before she could firm it.
“I do want to be with you, but no one can ever know,” she said on a rush, and the shards of her broken words cut deep, they tore a secret, hidden part of me.
I flinched, my eyes stinging, feeling like I’d been slapped, and my hands dropped from her face.
She grabbed my wrist lightning fast and tugged. “Listen to me, please. Just listen. No one can know, and you—you of all people—should understand why. If my father found out, he would—” Her voice cracked, her face crumpled, pain radiating from her eyes like the cold, hollow light of moonbeams.
I reached for her, curling my fingers around her neck and bringing her cheek to my chest. “Shhh. I got you.” My other arm wrapped around her upper back and I took a deep breath.
Dammit. She was right.
I’d been hasty, foolish, thinking of myself, thinking of kissing her whenever I wanted, driving her to school every morning, eating lunch together, holding her hand, taking her to prom even. It was like I’d been drunk on the idea of an impossible, normal future with Scarlet, and she’d made me a pot of hot, black coffee, sobering me up.
“Please don’t be mad,” she said around another sob, wrecking me.
“No. No, I’m not mad. Of course,” I agreed, needing to swallow again, my mouth suddenly dry, my stomach sour. “Of course, we’ll do this however you want.”
Her body relaxed, the hands that were fisted in my shirt loosened and her arms came around me, squeezing me tight. I held her too, disappointment warring with reason and good sense.
She’s right. You know she’s right.
Hadn’t I been irritated with Ben McClure all those weeks ago? Thoughtlessly pulling Scarlet through the cafeteria by her hand, knowing talk of it would get back to her father. I didn’t understand the full extent of what she’d suffered then. Now, I knew.
I don’t have the excuse of ignorance. I know.
My arms tightened and we held each other for a time, alone with our own thoughts. Scarlet pulled away first and I let her go. Stepping back, she crossed her arms around her middle.
“Sorry I cried.” Her gaze darted to me and then away.
“You don’t need to apologize for that.” I wanted to touch her again, keep holding her, but something told me not to.
“Well, I won’t do it often.” Her tone was light and self-deprecating. “Just at funerals and weddings and birthdays and toilet paper commercials and when I see babies and when I stub my toe.”
“So noted.” My mouth twisted to the side, her attempt at humor wasn’t necessary, but I got the sense she needed it, and she needed me to smile. Maybe a subject change was in order. “Speaking of birthdays, would you mind coming to Cletus’s birthday party? He ‘demanded’ I ask.”
“Uh, sure. When is it?”
“Tonight.”
She stood straighter. “Tonight?”
“Yep. I should be getting back. I still need to put the pie in the oven.”
“Pie?”
“Yeah. I made most of it yesterday. It still needs to be assembled and baked. He likes sausage gravy pie for his birthday instead of cake—you know, biscuits and gravy? Well, it’s like that, but a pie with carrots and other vegetables. He says it’s the most efficient food since it can be eaten as breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and it’s technically a pie since it has the crust. I think he just doesn’t like cake.”
I was rambling. I never rambled. I told myself to shut up.
Scarlet chuckled, and I tried to maintain my smile, but it didn’t feel right on my face, so I let it drop.
“Hey, if you need to bring your homework, you can do it at the house.”
“Oh. No. I’m good. All caught up.”
I nodded and tucked my hands in my jacket pockets, deciding it was best not to touch her again if I wanted to leave anytime soon. My fingers encountered the soft, fuzzy items I’d picked up from the house before running out to the woods.
“Oh.” I withdrew them, flattening the two pieces of leather into a pile before holding them out for her to take. “These are for you.”
Scarlet’s eyebrows pulled together and she glanced between me and my offering. “What is it?”
“Gloves.”
Her forehead cleared, her gaze holding mine like I’d stunned her. “Gloves?”
“Yes.” I took her hand and placed them in her palm. “Your fingers are always freezing. You needed gloves, so I got them for you.”
Slowly, her eyes lowered. She stared at them, rubbing her thumb over the suede. “They’re so soft.”
“Well, they’ll keep your hands warm. They might be a little big, since I didn’t know your size, but the inside is lined with wool.”
Scarlet pressed her lips together and carefully fit her hand inside one of the gloves. “Thank you, Billy.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I love them,” she said, like she was talking to herself, and she frowned. Her features looked close to crumpling again. But then she scrunched her nose and shook her head, laughing as though just the act of laughing could dispel tears.
Lifting her gaze, she gave me a big, cheerful smile that was ruined by her watery, sad, moonbeam eyes.
“I love them so much.” Stepping forward, she pressed her lips to mine, her now gloved hands fisting in my shirt. “Thank you,” she said against my mouth.
“You don’t need to keep thanking me.” I covered her hands. “Taking care of you is something I want to do.”
She nodded, still forcing a smile. “Then I want to take care of you too.”
I frowned at that, something about the words striking an off chord. But she didn’t see my confusion as she’d already pressed her cheek to my chest, snuggling close. I hid my agitation by hugging her again, tried to diffuse the persistent sense of wrongness—about keeping our relationship a secret—by reminding myself her safety was what mattered. That’s what’s important. That’s all that matters.
She was right. We couldn’t tell anyone about us. I knew she was right. We could be together, but it had to be a secret.
And I hated it.
“Where’s Scarlet?”
I straightened from the oven, closing it while I set the last of the sausage pies on the counter, and glanced over my shoulder at Cletus.
“Didn’t you invite her?” Hands on his hips, he looked well and truly distressed.
“I did,” I said, removing my oven mitts. “She said she’d come.”
He frowned like my words gave him a bad taste in his mouth. “She didn’t come with you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Guess she didn’t want to.”
My brother stared at me like I was a new species of something truly bizarre. “She didn’t want to? Well why not? What is she, blind? I know she’s not an idiot.”
Despite myself and my mood, I smiled at my brother’s not-so-veiled compliment. “Thanks, Cletus.”
“Don’t thank me for your genetics.” He affixed his attention to the floor, looking confused. “What is wrong with her?” he asked under his breath, then continued the conversation, “I’m going to find out.”
“Leave Scarlet alone. She’s been through enough.” I turned off the oven, thankful I hadn’t burned the sausage pies. I was so distracted, the fact that they’d come out of the oven unsinged was a miracle. “Did Duane set the table yet?”
“He did. But I told him to set a place for Scarlet.”
“That’s fine. She said she’d be here.”
“Who’s coming? Who is she?” Ashley jogged into the kitchen, making a beeline for the cupboard where we kept the mugs. It was also where she hid anything she didn’t want the twins to find. They hardly ever used mugs.
“Scarlet St. Claire,” Cletus answered, his eyes moving over me. “She’s a friend of mine. I wanted her to come.”
“Oh. That’s great, Cletus!” Ashley twisted over her shoulder to give him an excited smile. “I’m happy to meet her, then.”
“You’ve met her before, you just probably don’t remember. And it’s not like that,” he said absentmindedly, making a face. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh.” Ashley sounded disappointed. My sister was always trying to pair us up, looking for romances where none existed. Her favorite books were love stories. I didn’t like the ones with the sad endings, and the ones she recommended always had sad endings. “Well, I’m happy to meet her in any case. Say, would you keep an eye out for me? Make sure Duane and Beau are occupied?”
“I’ll be a lookout,” our momma loud whispered as she hurried into the kitchen. “I got the twins setting up the garland and ornaments, let’s hope they don’t break anything. Thanks, Cletus, for putting the tree in the stand.”
“My pleasure, mother dear.”
“I’m after the birthday candles now. Cletus, do me a favor and get your presents out of my bedroom? I know you know where they are. Just put them on the sideboard.”
“Hey, Momma.” I walked around the large kitchen island as Cletus exited, not needing to be told twice. “Did you remember to pull out my birth certificate? I still need it.”
“Oh, baby, no. I forgot again. Um.” She rubbed her forehead, pulling out the silverware drawer and reaching in the back. “Billy, don’t forget, Ash, Roscoe, and I are going to Knoxville on Friday and spending the night for Ash’s Girl Scout thing, and the twins will be over at Hank’s. That means you need to keep an eye on Cletus and make sure he’s fed before your football game. You know how he doesn’t eat if no one reminds him.”
“I know, and I remember. What about the birth certificate?”
“Uh, oh yes. Sorry. That’s right. I forgot, when do you need it?”
“Next week. Applications are due. Everything else is finished. Can I just get it myself? I know where they are.”
“Do you know where the candles are?” My mother asked Ashley. “You know if your brother doesn’t have exactly sixteen new candles on his pie, we won’t hear the end of it until next year.”
“So can I get it?” I pushed, tapping my fingers on the counter.
“I think you put them in the pantry.” Ashley was now kneeling on the counter, peering at the top shelf of the cupboard. “I know I put that taffy up here for Cletus. Those boys better not have eaten it or I swear I’ll spray their clean laundry with perfume again and put black licorice in their chocolate milk.”
Meanwhile, my mother nodded, saying, “Yes!” and then turned for the pantry.
Taking that as permission, I left the kitchen and speed-walked down the hall to the library, just in case she changed her mind. My mother could be cagey about us messing with the personal documents. I understood why. Ordering new social security cards and the like was a pain. She didn’t want anything getting lost.
But I just needed a copy of my birth certificate, that’s it. Mrs. Hill, the school secretary, wouldn’t mind making me a few copies. And then I’d put it right back tomorrow afternoon. At this point, if I waited for my momma, I’d miss the deadline.
The key was behind the flowerpot on the bookcase. I unlocked the file drawer, I thumbed through the hanging files, and—upon finding nothing named Birth Certificates—I pulled out the one labeled, Legal Records.
Placing the file on the desk, I opened it and scanned the first page.
And then I blinked at it, startled.
And then I read it for real.
And then I straightened, covering my mouth with shaking fingers and breathing out, “Holy shit.”
The sound of the door closing behind me had my head whipping around and my eyes meeting those of my mother’s.
“Billy,” she said as sternly as her sweet voice could manage. “You know you are not allowed to—”
“You adopted Beau and Duane?”
She stopped halfway to me. She closed her eyes as though absorbing the impact of something hard and heavy.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
My mother breathed out. She opened her eyes. They looked bracing, pained. But she nodded.
My hand came to my forehead and I stumbled backward, my ass landing in the office chair. “Oh my God.”
“They don’t know.”
“Obviously,” I muttered, glancing at the notice again, reading it again.
Father: Darrell Winston
Mother: Christine St. Claire
“Scarlet’s momma—” I tried to swallow. I couldn’t.
If Duane and Beau had been raised in the life, they might’ve suffered what Scarlet had, maybe worse. And if Scarlet had been raised outside of the life . . . A swell of guilt choked me. My eyes blurred. I couldn’t shake the notion that Duane and Beau had been saved, but Scarlet had been left behind.
God.
“Yes,” my mother confirmed. “Christine, Scarlet’s mother, is their biological mother. Scarlet is their, uh, half-sister.”
Feeling, thinking too much made me sick to my stomach. Duane and Beau, my brothers.
Christine’s and Darrell’s.
Darrell’s and Christine’s.
. . . That sonofabitch.
That evil, wretched, worthless piece of shit.
He’d cheated on her. He’d cheated on her all the fucking time. And then, he made her—
“Shit.” I bent forward, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. “Shit.”
“Billy. Baby.”
After everything he’s done to her, the beatings, the gambling, the cheating.
I shook my head, thinking and saying, “He made you raise his bastards.”
My mother made a strangled sound, a noise of distress. In the next minute she was in front of me, kneeling, glaring up at me with fire in her eyes.
“Don’t you ever, ever call your brothers bastards, you hear me? Those boys are my babies. Same as you, same as Jethro and Ash and Cletus and Roscoe. They’re a part of me.”
Seeing her rare flash of temper made me realize what I’d said, how it had sounded, and I closed my eyes, unable to bear the pain and recrimination in hers.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—they’re my—I
would never—”
“You will never tell them the truth. Never.” Her tone was hard, unbendable. “They will never know, and you will take this to your grave.”
“You’re never going to tell them?” I asked, my voice gravel. I leaned back in the seat, taking a deep breath, and then opened my eyes.
My momma stood, arms crossed, jaw set in a rigid line, she gave her head a resolute shake. “No. Never.”
“Why?”
“Because, if their own brother reacts like this—” she lifted her chin, peering down at me with disappointment “—how do you think the rest of the world will treat them? And also because . . .” Momma paused, her frustration yielding to a bigger emotion.
It was one I recognized immediately as it had often been present when I was younger. Thankfully, not so much anymore.
Fear.
“You can’t tell anyone, Billy. Promise me. No one can know. Promise me.”
“Okay.” I stood, hugging my mother, hating to see her this way. I’d never wanted her scared like this again. “I promise. I promise.”
“Billy, I’m serious”—she clung to me, her voice cracking—“Christine is Razor’s old lady. Razor doesn’t know. If he knew, he’d kill them.”
Chapter Nineteen
*Scarlet*
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
I cleaned up the campsite Thursday afternoon after finishing my homework, shaking out all the blankets and tidying up the “woodpile.” Billy’s kindling was almost gone. I’d been a lazy hunter-gatherer, preferring to burn the excess sticks rather than search for larger logs.
Everything neat and organized, homework done, Walkman batteries still dead, I checked Billy’s watch. It was 4:17PM. I could’ve walked to the Corner Shoppe and bought some batteries, a task I’d been putting off for days, or I could sit and wait for Billy.
Lowering myself to the blanket by the fire, I rested a cheek on my knees and closed my eyes. I listened to the sounds of the wood crack and hiss, my mind drifting. Inevitably, it drifted to Billy.
