Love in Smoke

by Holly Hall

  I barely get a “Hello” out before she charges ahead.

  “Ohh, so nice to hear from my dear little sister,” she says snarkily. She has a rare talent for being abrasive in few words. I want to hang up on her already.

  “It is me. Dear Little Sister herself.”

  “When were you planning on calling me? When you got fed up again and moved on to the next town? What’s next, Timbuktu?”

  “Hello to you, too, Serena. So sad we don’t get to chat very often.”

  There’s a scoff on the other end of the line. “You and your jokes. What’s new?”

  “Not a lot,” I answer drily.

  “I haven’t spoken to you in about a month. Are you really going to pretend that nothing’s happened since you left your husband and moved out to bum-fuck—”

  “I work. I come home. I try not to drown my sorrows in white cheddar Cheez-Its and pinot. Happy?”

  She sighs, as if she predicted I would disappoint her and is disappointed by the fact that I, indeed, have disappointed her. “Tell me about the new town. This . . . Heronwood.”

  “It’s quaint.” I know better than to readily volunteer more information because, as she so often does, Serena already has a destination in mind for this conversation, and she will steer it there no matter what the cost.

  “Have you made any friends? Met anyone interesting?”

  “The townsfolk are very . . . inquisitive. Friendly.”

  “So you’ve met a guy.” It’s not even a question.

  “Why does it always come to this—you assuming I would just jump into something like that? I just finalized my divorce, Serena.”

  “Is that a confirmation or a denial?”

  I’m practically stewing in my anger. If smoke came out people’s ears like it did in the cartoons, it would be billowing out of mine. But I’m not sure whether I’m more mad that she guessed correctly, inciting a pang of guilt, or that she’s likely assuming I’m still the same girl I was a decade ago.

  “I’ve been trying to lay low.”

  “Only you would make a voluntary move sound like witness protection. You chose to go there. Why would you willingly become a hermit?”

  “I told you I go to work,” I say impatiently. “Hermits don’t work. Anyway, I couldn’t stay in Nashville, could I?”

  “As a decently-functioning adult, you definitely could have. But you did what you always do in tough situations: you ran.”

  I let out an extra-long sigh to curb a smartass retort, trying to control my breathing. Arguing is not the way to win with Serena. There is no way to win with Serena but to let her believe she has.

  But I can’t help it. “You should write a self-help book. Maybe it would pad your ‘marketing’ salary.” It’s a cheap shot, but how many am I supposed to endure from her before I snap?

  “It’s graphic design,” she snaps, “and you don’t have to be nasty. God, you’re impossible. Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall with lame comebacks.”

  “So what have you been up to, sister? You know, other than hammering your obvious disappointment into my head.”

  “I’m your older sister, Rae. You should be more concerned if I didn’t call to ask about you.”

  There are so many things I want to say in response that I don’t know where to begin, but the second I release those words, they can’t be taken back. And Serena is a grand champion at holding grudges. I should know. She didn’t speak to me for the better part of four years for taking her unicorn pencil case when I was in third grade. At least when my words are still in my head, locked up tight behind my lips, I can’t hurt anyone.

  “Thank you for your concern, Serena. You must come visit. You will hate it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, text me your address so I can send you a birthday card.” I just answer with a mhmm, which she returns with another forceful exhalation. “Call me if you need me, Raven. But I know you won’t.”

  I say my goodbyes and hang up, tossing my phone so forcefully in the direction of my purse that it clatters into the crack between the passenger seat and the door. Unfortunately, nobody knows how to sour a day worse than Serena, and nobody knows me better than her.

  THIRTEEN

  It seems like a normal thing, socialization, but I haven’t ever received this many phone calls bearing negative news. Relief swells when I pick up my ringing phone later in the week and see that it’s Dane, until I remember I’m avoiding him too. I don’t know what to say to him. I’m a little ashamed that I lost control and let a song provoke me to react the way I did, and I’m bitter that the one event that has tested and hurt me most in my entire life had to come out by default. Yes, if Dane and I had continued to get to know each other, the discussion would’ve taken place at some point. Six months doesn’t seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things, but when you live those six months as an expectant mother—growing your baby, reading all the informative books, and talking to your swollen belly like the baby inside is already a fully-formed human—it changes you. I have all the mommy instincts and nowhere to put them to use. So it would be natural for it to come up in conversation someday, but not how it did.

  I can normally adopt a pretty industrious fuck-it-all attitude, but not about this. So I set Dane on the backburner, again, and hope he doesn’t take it personally. With the goal of self-growth in mind, I don’t want to waste a second worrying about how someone else is going to respond to my baggage. I’m still working on accepting it myself. I try to put it out of my mind, I avoid listening to the radio—like Lynn advised—and I do the only thing that’s ever worked for me in the way of therapy. I run.

  Serena was right about me running from my problems to a certain extent. It became my escape when Jenson chose the company of a bottle of liquor over me almost every night. It became my wings when everything else in life got so heavy it nearly drowned me. But in the aftermath of the fire, during the divorce proceedings and between my relocations, I lost the time and the drive for it. Now that I’m settled into a place where I anticipate staying more than a month, I have no excuse not to.

  My sneakers pound the pavement like I’m trying to kick the road’s ass, and “Believer” by Imagine Dragons blaring through my earbuds fuels my exertions. There are no sidewalks in Heronwood unless you’re in the center of town, so I’m forced to stay on the edge of the road, but the scenery distracts my thoughts from the torturous pace I’m setting—to a certain extent. My calves are already burning at an embarrassingly early point in my trek, and though a breeze whips the strands of my ponytail, my sports bra is already soaked with sweat. My calories and my anger, on display for the world to see.

  By the time I reach the mile-and-a-half mark, I’m so worn out that I’ve slowed to almost a crawl. I probably look half-dead to any passersby, but at least I’m out here making an effort. Just as one song fades into the next, allowing me to reintegrate into the surrounding world, I hear something else. Something rhythmic—too rhythmic to be caused by anything natural. It sounds like . . . footfalls. Thinking it’s all in my head, I glance back, scowling when I spot the Thor lookalike jogging on my trail.

  “Well, I can’t say that’s the expression I wanted to see when I ran into you,” Dane puffs when he draws even with me.

  I give up on my mission, slowing and stepping onto the shoulder. This is just perfect. First he dealt with the unexpected emotional breakdown of a woman he hardly knew, now he’ll witness her death by cardio.

  “Why are you running with me?” I ask between gasps of air.

  “Because you threw a fit when we went on a hike.”

  “I did n—” I stop myself before I realize I’m on the verge of throwing a fit. “Okay, but why are you here?” I smooth the sweat-soaked stray hairs back from my face, but I can’t do anything about the violent shade of red I’m certain my cheeks are.

  “Because I know not to leave these things in your hands,” he says, and I turn to face him. Much to my satisfaction, he’s winded
, too, sweat running in rivulets down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of a tight, dry-fit shirt. He plants his hands on his hips, pegging me with his gaze.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been ignoring my calls, avoiding me. After what happened the other day, I didn’t want you to be, I don’t know, ashamed.”

  “And why do you assume I was ashamed?”

  “Give me a little credit here. I might be a dude, but I’ve seen enough already to know you overthink things. You’ll get into your head and refuse to talk to me because that’s the only way you know how to control the situation.”

  I begin to sputter unintelligibly. That’s not true . . . is it? Am I so transparent, on top of being controlling? I gather my thoughts and say evenly, “I need some time. I have a lot to process.”

  “Yeah, and how long will that be? A month? A year?”

  My silence tells him everything he needs to know. His expression softens.

  “Look, I’m willing to give you as long as it takes if time is what you need. But I need you to tell me if that’s really what you’re doing. I’ve been that person before, believe it or not. You push and push, and then when someone finally decides they’ve had enough, you blame them for giving up so soon.”

  I take a step back as his barbed words collide with me. How dare he make those presumptions? “What if I’ve just decided this is all too much for me? And that maybe my shit is too much for you?”

  Dane shakes his head, his jaw set. “That’s not your call. Let me decide whether your shit is too much for me.”

  I roll my head back on my neck. Can nothing deter him? I don’t want to let him get too close without understanding the full extent of my emotional scars, and I don’t know if he does yet.

  “What if I’ve decided I don’t like you?” It sounds immature, but it’s my last-ditch effort.

  Dane just rolls his lips inward before he answers. “That’s fine. But you told me those things on our hike, so that means you trust me. And, using what I do know about you, trust is a lot more significant than anything else. I’m willing to work on the liking part.”

  “You hardly know me, Dane.” A truck pulling a trailer full of cattle rattles past, but I hardly notice.

  “I don’t, but I want to. Can’t you see that? That’s why I’m here.”

  “What, creeping on me?” I turn back toward home, forcing my putty-like limbs to move. Dane shakes his head disbelievingly in my periphery.

  “I’ll accept ‘persistently pursuing,’ but ‘creeping’ is a little much.”

  Overhead, shafts of sunlight break through the clouds, and it feels like the temperature climbs a few degrees within seconds.

  “Look, I just want to say my piece, then I’ll get out of your hair,” he says from beside me. I try vigorously fanning myself to cool off, but it’s not very effective. My patience is wearing thin.

  “I think we’ve said enough today.”

  “Well, there’s some shade up here and I’m headed for it. You can come if you want, or you can walk home like you’re so determined to,” he says, uncharacteristically abrupt.

  Without waiting for an answer, his footsteps retreat, and I look over to see him making for a fence line shaded with huge, gnarled oaks. I take a few more steps toward home, losing momentum with each stride until I’ve all but stopped in place. Dammit, it’s hot. Avoiding his smug gaze, I stop just short of the section of fence where he’s claimed a seat, perched on the top board.

  “Plenty of space to sit,” he says casually.

  “I’m good where I’m at.” The shade offered by the canopy of the oak above us isn’t much, but I already feel better being out of the sun.

  We don’t speak for almost a minute, Dane’s heel bumping against one of the lower slats of the fence marking the seconds. Then he finally looks at me and I’m subjected to the full force of his ocean-hued gaze, where curiosity and patience both battle for precedence. “I don’t know why you’re so afraid to tell me what you’ve been through, especially after the things I’ve told you.”

  I pause in the middle of flapping my shirt, airing out my sweaty torso. “I moved out here for one reason, Dane. Remember? Quiet simplicity. That’s it. There was nothing simple about the past five years of my life, and showing up here, ranting about my past mistakes, wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

  “Talking about those things doesn’t make you weak, you know. Vulnerability doesn’t make you weak. Look, we’re both alone in a way. You have nowhere else to go, and I can’t go anywhere else. You put up a wall between you and the rest of the world, but I’ve been trying to prove to you that you don’t have to do that with me. I thought we were getting somewhere on that hike.”

  “The hike where you tricked me,” I add.

  “I might’ve used a little strategy, but I didn’t trick you. You told me those things because you’re tired of hiding it all, and part of you just wanted someone to see you for you, not what the articles or the rumors say. I never expected there to be more.”

  His words are like a crowbar, prying open my heart. I can feel the gap widening and everything straining to pour out. It makes me panicky. I concentrate on keeping my voice even and steady. “Which is why I did you a favor when I gave you some space. It’s never fun to be caught off guard with news like that.”

  “You’re not doing anyone any favors. Not even yourself.” His foot bumps harder against the wood. “Why did you show up at my house a couple weeks ago?”

  “To apologize.”

  He shakes his head, unaccepting of my answer. “You can by honest with me, Raven. If nothing else, at least be honest about us. What did you go there for?”

  “To find out if you were some kind of criminal,” I answer. It’s halfway honest.

  “And why did that matter so much if you didn’t give a shit about me?”

  Because for once, I wanted to be the one to pour gasoline on the fire and watch as it engulfed me. I wanted to be consumed by something that would leave no room for distractions. “I was curious,” I finally say, barely above a whisper.

  “You’re not alone in that.” He directs his eyes elsewhere, as if sensing how flighty his gaze makes me. “And what are you curious about, Raven?”

  I don’t have to ponder that for long. I automatically say, “Everything.”

  He nods. “I want to show you something. Tomorrow. The place that means more to me than anywhere else.” At my cautious expression, he adds, “It doesn’t even have to be a date. You can come, you can listen to what I have to say, you can leave. Whatever you feel like doing. And, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Should I be wearing something special? Give me some sort of clue,” I call out from the top of the stairs.

  Dane appears below, resting against the creaky bannister. “Wear comfortable shoes. We’re just going for a walk.”

  “Another walk? We’re not hiking again, are we?” I hear him laugh, even as I return to my closet to grab my sneakers.

  “No. Don’t worry about it. Just come on.”

  “O-kay, Mr. Demanding.”

  Once I’ve pulled on my shoes and gotten into his truck, we turn east onto the highway. I would try to guess where we’re going, but I don’t know enough about my surroundings. Maybe I should get used to going with the flow; it seems necessary with a guy like him.

  Along with mentioning that the place we’re going to means more to him than anywhere else, Dane said there was more for us to talk about. After our few encounters, it makes me wonder what could possibly be left to tell. Still, I manage to keep my questions to myself. This is me “going with it.”

  Dane pulls off the road at a nondescript gate, climbing out to open it and driving through, then we’re bouncing down a neglected dirt road. We only drive for a short time before he turns off into the trees, putting the truck in park. I swivel in my seat to get a look at where we are. It seems we’re nowhere.

  “All right, where are we?” I ask as I’m getting out.
Apparently, there’s a time limit to my suppressed curiosity.

  “My family’s property, but way back behind the house.” He appears around the truck carrying a lantern, and he takes my hand. I thought we were supposed to be avoiding this place, but I guess that explains the roundabout way we took to get here.

  “At least you’re not making me carry a backpack this time,” I say as we set off through the woods, his hand warm in mine.

  “It’s not far, or I would’ve. This was my favorite place to be growing up. Out here in the trees, it was like nothing else existed. No school, no pressure, no asshole kids.”

  “Just Trey,” I point out.

  Dane chuckles. “I assumed he was nice to you.”

  “He was, but I can see past his bullshittery.”

  “You’re one of the few, then.”

  I study his face. “Did you two ever get along?”

  Dane contemplates that for a few strides. “We did, back when times were simpler. That was a long time ago, though.”

  “Age changes things.” I should know. Once my sister reached dating age, she became a monster. Still is.

  “Age . . . decisions . . . character. There’re a lot of reasons why we don’t see eye to eye. That’s why I can only stand to work at the shop a few days a week.”

  “I hear ya. But balancing two jobs is no picnic.”

  “It has its moments, but I can’t complain. Max and I make a great team building homes. Which is why I have all those man-tools,” he adds, inclining his head toward me.

  “Ahh, that explains it.” Looking ahead, I nod toward the thickening trees. “You know, this is starting to look like the beginning of a bad horror movie. Charming guy leads innocent, unsuspecting girl into the woods under the pretense of ‘telling her all about his rumored past.’ Girl is never seen again until she’s found dead in a creek a week later.”