My mind is already ten steps ahead of me when I open the door, trying to decide how long it’s going to take me to get dressed with a cast and wondering if my jacket will fit over it.
I almost walk right by him, my T-shirt already pulled halfway up my stomach.
I’ve really got to get curtains.
He’s crouched on the roof, as casual as if he’s done it a hundred times. I slide my shirt down, feeling my face flame as his lips quirk into a knowing smile. My eyes drop from his in embarrassment, only to become even wider when I see what he’s wearing. I know he’s shirtless, but my eyes can’t get that far because they’re stuck on the waistband of jeans that fit him perfectly.
He’s grinning and it takes all my effort to look anywhere but at him. I lift the window, catching my breath as a burst of frigid air makes its way into the room. “Ashley called and said you left. What are you doing here?”
He looks up through his lashes. “Where else would I be?”
I have no answer for that because my heart just dropped into my stomach.
“It’s cold outside.” Such a lame thing to say when he just said the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s all you have on?” I nod to the jeans.
“Yes.”
His smile is melting my caution and reason. As I begin to calculate the odds of one or all of my family members walking in that door, I suddenly realize I don’t care. What I want more than anything has suddenly appeared before me, and I might not get another chance like this again.
I step to the side. “Then I guess you should come in.”
chapter thirty-two
Reed vaults into the room, landing softly on the bare pads of his feet. For some reason I notice the fact that he’s half-clothed now more than I did when he was mostly naked. Maybe it’s because he’s sparkling clean. His hair is still long, but it’s been washed thoroughly, and the thought that some nurse in scrubs likely had her hands in his hair makes me beyond jealous.
“No shoes, either?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then.” I catch myself before my eyes drift down again. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. The sheriff said it wasn’t a good idea for me to be around other people, including you.”
“And what do you think?”
He takes a step forward, putting him well within my circle of personal space he’s ignored from the first moment we met. “I think I’m right where I want to be.” He runs a finger down my cheek, his eyes sparkling.
“What about your mom?” I’m scrambling for straws, anything to keep my thoughts from scattering at his touch.
His finger pauses. “It’s hard. I remember her in bits and pieces. She’s barely left me for more than a moment.”
“But she’s your mother.”
“I know. But this is a lot. I miss . . .” He glances out the window toward the forest. “I miss it. I can barely breathe in that house. It’s like a cage. My room is the same as when I left, which is . . . strange.” His hand drifts down to my loose hair. “I feel like they’re just waiting for me to do something, like I’m a wild animal.”
“Well, you did run away,” I say, watching as his lips curl into a mischievous smile. Now both hands trail through my hair, sending a never-ending river of chills down my spine. I sway, and he uses it to pull me closer.
“I might go back.”
“You mean you might not?” I start in surprise.
His vivid green eyes are growing darker by the second. Even the flecks of gold have turned to burnished brown. His lashes drop as his fingers tangle in my hair and tighten against my scalp. A tiny gasp escapes my lips and his eyes flicker downward. I can feel him holding off, hesitant to go beyond this moment. He presses his forehead to mine, uttering my name in the softest whisper. I feel his longing as if it were my own, and then I feel something else, something he’s trying to hide.
“Oh my God, you are leaving. Reed, you can’t—”
And then his mouth is on mine, pressing my lips into silence. For a moment I want to fight, to make him explain, but my control slips and then none of it matters, because I want to remember this without anger, fear, or heartbreak.
They will come soon enough.
Time slips into a fog, and my mind along with it. Every touch of his hand feels like the last, like he’s trying to memorize my face for the moments when I’m no longer in front of him. Air leaves my lungs and enters his, until I’m aware of nothing but the smell of skin, the sound of breath, and the taste of lips. He is a drug of the most exquisite kind, something I would sell my soul for again and again.
“I’ll stay if you ask me to,” Reed says against my lips, tightening his grip around me.
“Your family is here.” I’m here.
“Not all of them.”
Understanding dawns.
“My father is shot. My sister is scared and alone. My mother is helpless and hungry. I can’t stay here when they need my help. I can’t just change lives. I know everyone wants me to, but it’s not that easy,” Reed says bitterly. “I’ve got to find him. He needs help.”
“He probably needs a doctor.”
“They’re strong. Much stronger than us.”
“Withstand-a-bullet-wound strong?”
“Maybe. I won’t know until I find him.” I don’t know if the door even made a sound when it opened or if we were too wrapped up to notice, but someone clears a throat.
Matt is standing there with red-rimmed eyes, looking like a shadow of himself. “The sheriff is coming. He just called, said he thought you might be here, and I thought he might be right.”
“Where’re Mom and Dad?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“Whatever you decide to do.” He glances back and forth between me and Reed. “Here.” He presses a white box with a red cross on the top into Reed’s hands. “It’s a first aid kit. I don’t know if it will help him, but take it.”
Reed stares down at the box. “Thank you, Matt.”
From the open window the sound of sirens comes drifting out of the silence. Reed stares at me, chest heaving. He pulls me close, wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to my forehead. “If I don’t go now, I may not have the chance again,” he mumbles against my skin.
“I know,” I whisper, pressing my face into his neck. “When will you come back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how hard he’ll be to find. Will you do something for me?”
I wait, wanting him to ask me to come, knowing I can’t say yes. I’m not foolish enough to think I can.
“Can you take care of Bee?”
“What?” That’s not what I was expecting. “You want me to take care of her? How?”
“Just check on her.”
“Me? Check on your six-foot, three-hundred-fifty-pound sister? Why can’t she go with you?”
“They’ll track her. It’s too risky.” Reed squeezes my hands and attempts a smile. “You can do this. It’s easy; she goes where the food is. And she likes chicken.”
He sobers when the sirens grow closer. “I’ve got to go.”
I don’t think I could have let him go if I didn’t see how bad he wants to stay. He starts to speak but changes his mind and turns for the open window. “Wait.” He halts at my words. I don’t even think he’s breathing. For a moment I wonder at the power I have. If I told him to stay, I believe he would. But then I would be the monster. “Come downstairs. We’ll go together.”
Reed nods without hesitation, reaching through the window for his old pack he pulled from the grotto and the wolf pelt.
“You don’t want more clothes than that?” Matt asks, eyeing his jeans, pelt, and bare feet.
Reed smiles. “They itch.”
“You were always a little off.” Matt grins and walks through the door, acting like it was yesterday, and not ten years ago, when they last talked like this.
Reed takes my hand and we follow Matt down the stairs. Mom and Dad rush
to their feet when we enter the kitchen, tears in their eyes. “Reed, I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me.” Mom wrings her hands, her fragileness at complete odds with the woman I saw in the woods. Reed takes the hands she offers, and to her complete surprise, he hugs her.
The sirens grow louder until suddenly they stop. A few moments later several car doors slam.
“Go. Hurry, Reed.” Dad moves out of the path to the back door, and we rush by.
Reed swings the door open and Ashley is standing there.
“I knew you were here.”
“Ashley, it’s not what you think.”
“Really? Because it looks like you’re going back to the woods.”
“Ashley,” Reed says. “I’m not running away.”
“Then what are you doing? Why did you leave us?” Her voice breaks.
“I’m going to find my father.”
She couldn’t look more shocked than if he’d slapped her. “Our father is dead.”
Reed glances away, toward the forest. “I have to find him.”
“So this is it, then? I get you back only to lose you again? How is this fair?”
“One of my sisters has already lost her father. I’m trying to keep the other one from losing hers.”
Ashley hugs herself, nodding slowly, and then moves out of the way. Matt puts his arm around her. “Go. Dad just opened the front door.”
Reed and I run for the fence, and he vaults over while I climb through. “This was easier when I couldn’t remember anything.”
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault that—”
“No.” Reed stops in front of me. “This is not your fault. From the moment I saw you that morning with the apples, this was inevitable.” He presses his hands to my cheeks and kisses me, pouring every word he doesn’t have time to say into that action, until I’ve memorized every one by heart, and it shatters all over again. “And it was my choice.”
We run, and I’m breathless by the time we sprint across the pasture. Someone, probably the sheriff, calls Reed’s name, followed by the clacking of boots climbing the distant fence. We stop inside the protection of the forest, sunlight painting a circle of light around us, the place where it all began only weeks ago. Now, instead of feeling torn in half, as I should be in the midst of all this pain, knowing what’s to come, I feel like the two halves of myself have finally found each other. It’s heartbreaking, that this is what it took to break my walls.
Nothing I say will make this easier, so I speak the only words I can. “Be careful.”
“I will, promise.”
“Don’t make me have to come looking for you.” My attempt at humor falls terribly short, but he smiles anyway.
“You found me once.” His eyes soften as he pulls me close. “I know where home is now. I won’t get lost again.”
My fingers curl against his chest as I breathe him in one last time. “Just come back to me.”
“Always.” His fingers wrap tightly in my hair. It feels like he’ll never let go, and then suddenly he does, leaving me in cold silence.
I fall to my knees, the torture of watching him walk away already overwhelming. The shouts are growing closer, and I wish he would just run, no matter that his every step pulls my heart farther from my body. As the tears fall, the forest wraps itself around me, easing the pain as it always has, reminding me that, for the first time, there is hope ahead instead of darkness, that this is no longer the only place I can find myself. I have nothing left to hide now. The boy from the woods has given me that.
Wherever I go in this world, whatever path I choose to take, I know he will find me, whether it’s here in the forest or on the other side of the earth. The ties of grief and guilt that have bound me to this place have fallen, leaving me free to find my place in a world that now goes beyond the limits of the forest and this town.
His future is mine now, no matter what lies ahead.
Ten feet away, Reed stops. I think his hands are shaking. Or maybe it’s just me. “It’s always been you, Leah.” His warm voice drifts back on the wind. “Even when I forgot your name and lost your face, your memory stayed with me, tucked away in the places that don’t ever forget.”
Once again he walks away, his steps silent on the dark ground. His head turns until I can just see his distant smile, but he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t look back.
By the time his words register, imprinted on every cell in my body, he’s gone, lost in the forest of shadows as if he were never there at all.
acknowledgments
I have so many people to thank for getting me to a place I never thought I would be. Five years ago, the idea of writing a book was the equivalent of climbing a mountain, something I would never consider and impossible anyway. My mom likes to remind me that I only chose college applications based on how short the required essay had to be. If it was over a page, it was a no, because I didn’t have the words. Now, somehow, I’ve found the words, and most of the time I’m still not sure what to do with them. Luckily, I’ve had the privilege of meeting countless individuals who do.
To my agent, Mandy Hubbard, I’m certain a more perfect offer letter has never been written. It’s framed right next to pictures of my kids. Thank you for your unshakable faith in this book and for loving it so fiercely. It wouldn’t have had a future without you.
Special thanks goes to my editor, Jennifer Ung. I’m eternally grateful you took this book on and turned it into something more beautiful than I could have ever accomplished on my own. Your undying enthusiasm kept me going when I thought I wasn’t enough, and you likely saved my computer from a fiery death more than a few times. I can never thank you—and the entire team at Simon Pulse—enough for your support. Unending gratitude to Russell Gordon and Neil Swaab for a luminous, haunting cover that never ceases to amaze me. And to Sara Sargent, thank you for saying yes.
To my critique partners and beta readers, who read all or part of those frightening early drafts, helped with queries, loglines, and the dreaded synopsis, you shaped this book into what it is. So endless thanks to Julie Artz (for feeding your kids cereal!), Jessica Bloczynski, Gabrielle Byrne, Laurel Decher, Halli Gomez, Sussu Leclerc, Michelle Leonard, Richelle Morgan, Elizabeth Staple, Heather Truett (for the kindest words), Jessica Vitalis, and Kate Watson. And thanks to Shane Stover, my favorite brother-in-law, for reading and being impressed.
To the amazing members of The Clubhouse, it will always be a privilege to be among you. To The Winged Pen, I am so lucky to be a part of such a spectacular group of writers. And to my first writing group—Elizabeth Staple, Lora Palmer, Kate Watson, and Rebecca Santelli—look how far we have come on this roller coaster ride!
Thanks to Naomi Hughes for a spectacular query that finally nailed it. I am forever grateful for your help. To Jenn Davis for brainstorming titles on short notice and for The Train Ride We Will Never Forget. You are an amazing friend. And to Dawn Ius for listening. I wish we lived closer so the beer doesn’t always have to be virtual.
To Sybilla Irwin—and the members of the Texas BFRO—thank you for welcoming me with open arms and sharing your stories. If only the world could see what you have experienced. Until that day . . .
Thank you to my family, though those words will never be enough for everything you’ve done. To Dad, for your never-ending supply of ideas, and Mom, for being the world’s best cheerleader; I’m glad you finally convinced me a Bigfoot love story could be a good thing. Your endless patience, support, love, and encouragement for me to follow my dreams has gotten me here.
To the Davis clan, who introduced me to the world of YA during a hurricane evacuation with a little book called Twilight; to Aunt Jan, for the never-ending supply of romance books; and to June Wood, grandmother extraordinaire.
To my naughty minions, Sarah and Chloe, Mommy loves you more than anything, especially when I’m hiding from you so I can write.
To Adam, your understanding and support has meant everything. I couldn’t write fairy-tale princes without h
aving met one first.
Father God, your blessings and mercies are infinite. You see my heart, and you love me anyway.
JENNIFER PARK grew up on the bayous of southeast Texas, daydreaming of fantastical worlds amid magnolia trees and Spanish moss. A former middle school art teacher and current Ocean Artist Society member, she now lives tucked within the East Texas pines she loves. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on soy mochas; hoarding chocolate; and managing her herd of one husband, two daughters, numerous dogs, a shamefully large number of garden snails, and one tortoise named Turquoise. Sometimes she does look out the window and hope to see Bigfoot. You can find her online at www.jenniferparkart.com and on Twitter at @JenniferPark_1.
SIMON PULSE
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition March 2017
Text copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Park
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