I didn’t answer. For the second time today, she withdrew her arms and put distance between us. I knew what she wanted me to say, but I couldn’t do it. She was pushing me and I couldn’t help but feel defensive—and want to push back.
“How do you know this is what you’ve always needed? You don’t know what you want, remember?” I asked.
I knew I was pushing back in a direction she didn’t want me to go, but I couldn’t help it. I was leaving. She was supposed to let me. It would be sad and epic and heartbreaking but it was the right thing—or at least that’s what I told myself, because the alternative scared the shit out of me.
“I didn’t when I met you,” she agreed. “I had an idea and then the rug was ripped out from under me. Being with you helped me see … I was wrong to want an idea of a person. It’s you, Ford. There’s no mold to fill or list to check off. It’s not about qualities in a personality or playing it safe. It’s just you.”
“It’s about more than that,” I said stubbornly.
Her eyes flashed with determination. She didn’t understand I was disagreeing with her and she continued, her voice rising passionately, “You’re right. It’s about being shaken—and letting go enough that when the pieces fall, you see the real you in what’s left. You saw the real me before the dust settled.”
“Summer, I—”
She cut me off, determined to say it all, and I let her. “You make me so full of whatever this is, I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t take in any more because there’s no room for anything but you. It’s only you. And as unsettling as it is, that’s not going to change.”
I both hated and loved the sound of her words and the truth in her eyes as she said them. It was everything I wanted to say and couldn’t. For just a moment, her words and the magnitude of them had me imagining what it would be like to throw it all away and do what I knew she was about to ask.
“I know we agreed from the beginning how this would end. You never lied or gave me false hope and I respect that. And there was a big part of me that didn’t want to bring it up because I wanted staying to be something you chose, but love has a way of eclipsing pride. Besides that, you’ve taught me to stand up and ask for what I need. So, I’m asking now. Stay, Ford. Please?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Ford
“Risk means 'shit happens' or 'good luck.’”
―Toba Beta, Betelgeuse Incident
I turned the key in the ignition and was rewarded with a throaty growl as the truck sprang to life. Darla whined at being revved so early in the morning. She was testy in the cold, something I wasn’t looking forward to in Dakota. Okay, one of a million things if I was being honest.
It seemed honesty was catching around here. First, my parents. Although I wasn’t convinced they weren’t full of shit. And then Summer. She’d asked me to stay. To stay.
My eyes burned at the memory of her standing on that hillside, bathed in the sunset, tears streaming down her face unchecked. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until I’d reached out to wipe away a tear. But by then, it was too late. She’d seen the answer in my expression and she wouldn’t have it. She’d ripped free of my grasp and stormed off, walked all the way home while I drove close behind in case she changed her mind about refusing the ride. She hadn’t. It was the most painful—and most awkward—four miles of my life.
It would only take two little words to end it. To transform the anguish to joy—hers and mine. I’ll stay. If I’d just said those words, her tears would’ve vanished. We could’ve ridden off in the sunset together. Or better yet, sealed it by making love in the grass right there on the hill.
But I couldn’t do it.
Or I wouldn’t. I didn’t know which anymore.
I shook my head and went inside for the last of my bags. Today was moving day. On to the next adventure. The next step in the journey. Emptiness threatened to overwhelm me at the thought of experiencing any of it without Summer beside me. I shook it off and forced my feet up the stairs. I wanted this. I chose it, dammit.
Casey stood at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and eyeing me over the rim of his mug.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, slinging a green duffel over my shoulder.
“Like what?” His eyes were wide with feigned innocence.
“Like I just broke up with you.”
He snorted. “Didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer. He followed me out to the truck, and when I’d finished arranging my bags, I gave him a handshake that turned to a quick one-armed hug. “Look out for her,” I said.
“You know I will. But the job is yours if you change your mind.”
“I …” I couldn’t finish. There was nothing to say. I desperately wanted that job. The thought of someone else looking out for her, being there for her, doing anything for her made my blood boil. But it wasn’t enough of a reason to stay. So far, nothing was. I wondered if that said more about me than her. “I didn’t want it to end this way, man.”
“You should call her. Tell her that yourself.”
I shook my head. “She said she didn’t want that. Said a clean break was best after everything.”
“And you’re going to listen to her? Man, you’re thicker than I thought.”
“I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I have to respect her wishes, Case.”
“Yeah, you do. Since you obviously don’t respect yourself.”
I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth, ready to demand what the hell he meant by that. But then I thought better of it. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe there was too big a part of me that couldn’t handle the answer.
“I gotta go,” I muttered.
I waved one last time, climbed aboard Darla, and left Grayson County—and the girl of my dreams—behind.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Summer
“Don't worry about hurting me, if that's what you're afraid of. I want to get hurt. At least I´ll feel something for a change.”
―Katie Kacvinsky, Awaken
Orange paper bags with jack o’ lantern cutouts littered the walk from the front door to the garage. I stepped over the remnants of a fake web and cut across the grass instead, zipping my jacket as I went. The cold was still more of a hint than a real thing but the chill that clung to me wasn’t from the weather and never seemed to leave. Even when I stood under the spray of my shower at maximum heat, I was perpetually cold. Unless I drank. Which I hadn’t done after that first week. Casey had made me promise.
Metal clanged and curses flew inside the garage. Casey’s scuffed boots stuck out from underneath the hood of my dad’s truck. Wrenches, an oil pan, and blackened rags were spread around the floor within arm’s reach from where he lay. Frank stood nearby wearing a flannel jacket I gave him four Christmases ago, a beer in his hand. He was trying not to laugh at Casey’s creative use of the English language.
“Hey, Summer,” Frank greeted as I walked in.
Casey slid free of the truck and looked up at me from the wheeled cart he lay on. His cheeks were dark with grease and his forehead shone with perspiration despite the chill in the air. “Thought you were cleaning up the trick-or-treating damage,” he said.
I shrugged. “If I slack long enough, Mazie will pay the neighbor kids to do it.”
“I like your go get ‘em attitude,” he said.
“I thought you were supposed to start sealing the houses today,” I pointed out.
He grimaced. “You think the neighbor kids will do that too?”
Frank snorted. “Sure, we’ll just give ‘em some bubble wrap and Scotch tape and see what they come up with.”
My dad walked in behind me, his hand pressing against the small of my back in a gesture meant to be comforting. “Hey,” he said, giving me a forced smile.
I didn’t answer. In the beginning, I’d tried forcing myself to smile right back, but that got old fast. I’d quit pretending right around the time I quit drinking. Three weeks later and I still
didn’t have the mental energy to do more than go through the motions.
“Mazie says she’s got a hot chocolate with your name on it,” my dad said.
“I’m okay,” I told him with a shrug.
He frowned but deliberately brightened almost immediately. Sometimes it made me feel bad to see him trying so hard when I gave so little effort back. “Your mom’s coming by later. Said something about getting you to ride into town with her for furniture.”
“Furniture for what?” Frank asked.
“Some house she’s listing off Culver Creek Road,” my dad said.
A sharp pang rocketed through my chest. My throat tightened and my eyes instantly burned with unshed tears. It was ridiculous how my body reacted to the mere mention of the road that led to our hillside. I hadn’t been back there since the day I’d asked Ford to stay. The memory of his expression, the fear and finality I’d seen in his eyes even before he’d spoken the words, “I’m sorry,” had crushed me.
I should never have asked him to stay. Should never have said the words out loud.
We’d had an agreement all summer. In the fall, he would leave. In the meantime, we would love each other. The fact that it ended didn’t detract from how special it’d been while it lasted. I stood by that belief even now. Especially now. In the moments when the pain crippled me and made it hard to breathe or think past the hurt, I still didn’t regret a single second. I just hated that all I had were memories. All I would ever have were memories. And even though I knew the pain would lessen as the memories faded, I clung to them like a life raft in a roiling sea. I didn’t want to let go.
I missed him. And I loved him more than ever. And on top of it all, I hated him for being the one to escape. The familiarity of my surroundings was its own kind of agony. The way the morning sun lit the plastic of the greenhouses, the sound of Goose being cranked and then beat on when it died, the dirt road that led to Casey’s house—all of it taunted me. My childhood memories had been replaced with images of shared dirt bike rides, a chase down the driveway, a tumble in the mud … He was everywhere. Mostly, he was in my soul.
“Summer?” my dad prompted.
I blinked, forcing myself back to the moment. The garage. Three of the four men I’d ever loved stood watching me, waiting for an answer, all of them patient with my daydreams full of grief. “Can you help your mom with the furniture?”
“Um. Yeah, that’s fine,” I said, turning back to the house. I pulled my jacket tighter and crossed my arms, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to wind its way so far into my bones, it’d become the main ingredient of my heart.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ford
"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
I picked up the bag of sprouting herbs amidst damp soil and carried it to the planter’s box I’d set up in my new workspace. Halfway there, my foot caught on a stray cord—probably one of the three space heaters I’d bought after freezing my ass off that first week—and I stumbled. I regained my footing without face planting but not before the bag went flying. When it landed, the bottom corner burst open, sending dark soil and green stems in all directions.
“Shit,” I swore to the empty greenhouse.
I bent down and scraped what I could back into the bag. If I was quick, maybe these babies would be okay. I was not starting over. Not after losing the lavender in the move. I’d shipped it priority airmail and done all the paperwork for living plants—but it’d still arrived wilted and past saving. Half the project had to be scrapped and started over.
And it wasn’t just the plants. Everything had gone haywire since leaving Virginia. I’d battled a cold the first week after arriving, made worse by the draft coming through a broken window I’d found in my apartment—which had turned out to be the second story of a weather-sealed barn. The barn loft had actually been a plus, until I realized weather-sealed in South Dakota really only meant it kept the snow out. My bed was cold as hell at night.
I tried not to let my mind wander to the other reason my bed felt cold these days.
I moved to the next box. From another bag, I dropped seeds into tiny holes made with my finger in the dirt. When I’d dropped all the seeds, I covered and watered them before wrapping the entire box in plastic. By the time I’d finished and locked up, the sun was setting and the temperature had plummeted.
I pulled my jacket around me as I made the walk back to my loft. Darla was parked around the side with a cover over her. Not much need for driving here. Not much else going on either between the expanses of space that made up this quiet farm. The growing season was shorter than Virginia’s by a couple of months; harvest time was long gone—along with the seasonal crew. All that remained was the owner and his wife and a few goats they kept in the barn for milk. I’d had worse neighbors.
I took a breath and let it out, stopping behind Darla’s tailgate to stare at the view. I had to admit, the scenery had been worth a trip. The rolling hills to my left seemed to go on forever, one tumbling against another like ocean waves. To my right and straight ahead were flat plains that made up hayfields during warmer months. Now, it was barren and dormant until the spring thaw.
I’d been surprised to discover the topography here wasn’t unlike the farmland I’d left behind on the east coast. Except for the healthy layer of snow that already covered the ground, I couldn’t have told them apart.
Snow. In early November. After a lifetime spent in warmer climates I thought I’d be glad to see it, but I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate the stuff. It seemed more like a barrier to me, blocking the memory of what I’d left behind. It masked every similar detail, muffled every noise. The quiet of the tiny farm made me miss the raucous noise that accompanied mealtimes with the Heritage crew. The buzz of conversation around the coffeepot in the mornings and the water cooler in the afternoons. And despite the fact that I’d hated every second of that damned humidity, I missed the hot Virginia sun—and her. God, I fucking missed her.
Like every other time I pictured Summer’s face, my chest ached. There weren’t many seconds of the day I didn’t have her face in my mind, but today it hurt worse. Sharper. I coughed. Leftovers from my cold—or from the pain radiating through my chest like a heart attack.
As long as I lived, I’d never forget the look on her face when I’d told her no. Living with the guilt became my penance. I deserved it and so much worse.
My phone rang, echoing against the stillness. I fished it from my pocket as I headed inside and checked the screen. My mom. Again. I was all out of fake cheer today. Voicemail would have to do.
I stomped the snow from my boots, kicked them off, and hurried upstairs to the heated loft above. Inside, I peeled out of my coat and took a beer out of the fridge. The sound of the can popping open made me think of beers consumed while standing in the garage, to the soundtrack of Casey cursing and beating on the belly of the tractor with a wrench. How was it possible I missed that so much?
My phone buzzed again. I moved to silence it until I saw the name on the screen. My fingers hovered over the touch screen, stilled by nerves that all but knocked the air from my lungs. Even though it wasn’t her—I hadn’t spoken to her since that day on the hill—it was the next best thing. My stomach jumped into my throat, making it hard to swallow that last swig of beer before answering. I cleared my throat, determined to sound normal.
“Hey, man. I was just thinking about you,” I said after swiping the screen with my thumb.
“About me, huh?” said the voice on the other end. “Damn, the heat of one summer with me and your brain is so baked, you forgot who you’re supposed to daydream about.”
I laughed around another swig from my can. “Casey, you ass. What do you want?”
“Just checking up on ya. Are your fingers too frozen up there to text a guy back?”
“Nah, I’ve just been busy settling in,” I said, shaking my head at the hard time he was giving me.
I deserved it. Casey and I had been tight by the time I left. We’d promised to keep in touch and then I’d gone and ignored him these past few weeks. It was too tempting to ask about her, though, and I couldn’t do that. Not when I hadn’t so much as called her. But I couldn’t do that either. She’d made it clear this would be easiest for her. A clean break. I wasn’t sure how cutting your best friend off “cold turkey” made the transition easier, but she hadn’t called me once and although I’d pulled her number up on my phone countless times, I’d never hit the “send” button. Not yet.
“Yeah, settling in. Sure, we’ll call it that.”
I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. Have you had enough yet or what?”
“Enough of what?”
“Being miserable. Making her miserable.”
“She’s miserable?”
“Bro.” Casey laughed humorlessly. “Banging my head against the wall makes more sense than you do right now.”
“You sound like my damn mother,” I growled.
“For once, I’ll take being compared to someone’s mother. Now get your shit together and get back here.”
“Casey …”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“I can’t come back.” Saying the words out loud pained me like an arrow to the right ventricle. This conversation was exactly why I hadn’t called or texted.
“Why not? Oh. Right. Living the dream. And how’s that working out for you?”
I gritted my teeth. Not because he was wrong, but because he might be right. South Dakota had been a stepping stone in a dream journey. A life I wanted—no, needed—to experience outside the confines of a home and utility bills and someone waiting for me to come home at night. I’d seen that growing up and while he never said it, I knew my dad wished for more. And had settled for me. I wouldn’t do the same.
A Risk Worth Taking Page 22
