“It’s not that cold,” she insisted. The snow would pass. It could be 70 degrees tomorrow for all they knew. That was April in Northern Illinois.
Greg wandered over to her kitchen sink and picked up the small sour cream container. He held up her last surviving plant. “Where’d you get this?”
“I grew it.”
“I figured that, but I thought all your plants broke.”
She wasn’t sure how he knew about her plant fiasco in the raid, but she was fiercely proud of her little survivor. The tomato plant was now three beautiful inches tall and thriving.
“That one’s a fighter, I guess.”
“A fighter. I like it.” He held it close to his face. “What kind is it?”
“A tomato, hopefully a pear tomato since the raid wiped out the last of my seeds.”
“Raid?” He looked up. “I thought you called them sweeps.”
She thought back to that horrible night. To Amber. To the fire and Terrell’s trip that still left their clan horribly short. “No. That was a raid. Definitely a raid.”
Greg studied her like he sometimes did, like he was analyzing the innermost parts of her soul. The first month of their acquaintance, it had been chilling. Now it was disconcerting. She took the sour cream container from him and, out of habit, blew lightly on the plant’s stem before setting it by the sink. Time was running out. Amber would be done any minute and Carrie wanted to look nice for the wedding. Oliver was expecting a date.
Maybe.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He gave her a strange look. “Yeah, but…did you just blow on that plant?”
“Um, yes,” she said sheepishly.
He started to smile. “Care to explain why?”
“It makes the stem stronger. I blow on it several times a day so the stem thickens. If I don’t, it gets too spindly and when I plant it outside, the first wind snaps it in half. If I had a fan, I’d use it instead, but I don’t, so I improvise.” Her shoulders lifted. “Fake wind.”
He did it again. He studied her long enough for her to realize how ridiculous her plant obsession was. While he’d crossed the country in the dead of winter without food, shelter, papers, or knowing if his mom would survive another step, she’d been learning every type of tomato plant. While he’d been fighting for his sister’s life and enduring beatings that left permanent scars on his back, she’d been dreaming of stupid, worthless peas. She no longer wondered why Greg used to hate her. She only wondered why he still didn’t.
Finally, he shook it off and held Jenna’s scissors toward her. It took great effort to take them. Even then, she couldn’t bear to look up.
“I don’t know how you want me to cut it,” she said, stalling.
“How about this,” he said. “Pretend I’m your perfect little mutant man. Picture what his hair would look like and cut it that way.”
“I think I’m ready for you to shut up now,” she said.
“As you wish.”
True to his word, he grabbed a kitchen chair and clamped his mouth shut, although she could tell he was fighting off another laugh.
“I better go grab a comb,” she said with a sigh. Then she darted upstairs to tell Amber not to come down in a towel. Amber made sure to throw out a remark about how Carrie was chasing the wrong guy, which Carrie ignored—plus the fact that she had no hope whatsoever of looking nice for the wedding.
When she came back down, Greg was still smirking. He knew how uncomfortable this made her, and he loved it.
Circling his chair, she worked to calm her nerves. Just pretend he’s Zach. Except Greg’s hair was too brown and too…Greg. It didn’t help that he watched her from behind tight lips. Having him silent was almost worse. At least when he talked, she knew what he was thinking. As it was, she found a spot behind him where he couldn’t see her.
His thick, brown hair happened to be one trait she liked about Greg. She hadn’t let that slip—yet. And now she was free to cut it however she wanted. She was clueless but started anyway. Cutting. Snipping. Combing. His hair was wet and freezing, but so were her hands, which she hoped explained the trembling. She kept envisioning Zach’s mop in her fingers instead of Greg’s so she didn’t constantly obsess about touching his scalp.
She cut his hair slightly shorter than what she liked, hoping it would last longer before he had to cut—or shave—it again. Only once did she make the mistake of standing in front of him, which left his eyes laughing up at her. The rest of the time, she stayed out of sight.
Amber came down halfway through, toweling off her hair and wearing the burgundy dress she’d saved for such occasions. The second she saw Carrie fumbling with the scissors, she burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe you trust your hair with her, Greg.”
He shrugged.
“Thanks a lot, Amber,” Carrie said. “As if I’m not nervous enough.”
Amber didn’t even acknowledge her. She leaned against the table. “Do you know if there will be dancing tonight, Greg? I heard CJ’s using electricity so we can have music. Is that true?”
Dancing? Carrie’s stomach tied in knots.
Greg tried to nod, but Carrie held a thick chunk of hair in her fingers, keeping him captive.
Amber’s face fell. “Why aren’t you talking to me? Are you still mad at me? I told everyone about the raid. I swear I did.”
Greg’s eyes lifted to Carrie, begging for help.
“Greg promised to keep quiet while I cut his hair,” Carrie explained. “It has nothing to do with you. But honestly, having him quiet is only making me more nervous.”
“Does that mean I can speak now?” he asked.
“If you behave.”
“Good. Yes, there’s gonna be dancin’,” he said. “But don’t get your hopes up. It’s gonna be old lady music on an old lady player. And as for my vow of silence, it’s ‘cause Carrie said she loved my mouth, but only when it’s shut. I was just tryin’ to oblige her.”
“Oops!” Carrie said.
The scissors crashed to the floor.
Greg whirled. “Oops? What do you mean, ‘oops?’”
Carrie squeezed her finger. Pain throbbed along with fresh blood.
Greg’s hands flew to his hair, checking for damage. “You can’t say ‘Oops’ when you cut my hair. My looks are all I’ve got. Even if you make a mistake, you fake it. Lie! Somethin’! Don’t say ‘Oops!’”
Amber doubled over laughing. “I knew it! I knew she’d ruin your hair.”
Carrie shot her sister a dark look. “I didn’t ruin his hair. I ruined my finger.” She held it up to show the blood dripping down the side.
Greg whistled. “Whew. That was close.”
“Try not to concern yourself too much,” Carrie said bitterly.
“Oh. Sorry.” He shrugged at Amber, which made her giggle again. Then he reached for Carrie’s hand. “Here. Let me see it. How bad is it?”
Carrie recoiled away. She’d had enough touching for one day. “Not bad,” she lied. In reality, it hurt a lot. The first of the blood dripped onto her hardwood floor. She crossed the kitchen, grabbed a rag, and dabbed the cut. It looked like a clean cut even though it was deep and painful. She kept dabbing it to slow the bleeding.
Amber jumped up. “I’ll finish your haircut, Greg.”
“No!” Greg and Carrie said together.
“Fine,” Amber said with a tone that said, Whatever. “I’m going back upstairs.”
As Amber left, Greg approached Carrie, looking more penitent than before. He reached for her hand again. “Here, let me see.”
Carrie backed up and ran into the counter. “No. It’s better now. See.” She held it up.
“Good. ‘Cause I really don’t want blood drippin’ in my hair.”
“Thanks,” she muttered.
He laughed. “Why do you take me so seriously all the time?”
Maybe because you are so serious all the time. She picked up the scissors. “I don’t know. Can we just f
inish?”
“I guess we’re even now, huh?” He held up his palm, flashing his scar.
She winced. “No. I still feel awful about that.”
“That makes two of us—about your hand, I mean.” He brushed some wet clumps of hair from the chair and sat again. Tipping his head back, he looked up at her. “You want me silent now or speaking?”
“Speaking, I guess. But could you stop looking at me? I don’t want to mess up your hair.”
“Or your finger,” he said. “Your hands are ice, by the way. I don’t care what you say. You’re cold.”
She tried even harder to keep from touching his scalp as she finished clipping around his left ear. While she worked, he rubbed the scar on his hand absentmindedly, making her wonder what he was thinking about, or what it was like to be on the receiving end of such an uncomfortable haircut. Although, he didn’t look uncomfortable.
When she finished the left side, she combed his hair back to examine her work. Not perfect, but not bad either. She worked on the right side to make it match.
As she reached his sideburns, she stopped. “Why do you shave, Greg?”
“Man, you really do like my mouth.”
Heat rushed up her cheeks. “Never mind.” She didn’t care why he shaved—and regardless of what Mariah thought, she never would.
“Oh, c’mon,” he said with a chuckle. “You walked right into that one. You gotta be more careful what you say around me.”
“You’d think I’d know that by now. Why do you like to tease me so much?”
Instead of having a quick comeback or some humorous reply at her expense, he faced her directly. All humor had vanished from his face, causing her to pause.
“You’re the plant, Carrie.” He motioned to the sink. “I’m the fake wind. When you’re back in the real world, you’ll thank me.”
She stared at her tomato plant. At the plant she’d saved, watered, cared for, and practically begged to grow. At the stem that needed irritation and resistance day after day to make it strong enough to survive outside.
She dropped the scissors and backed away. Away from Greg. Away from everything.
He watched her through hooded eyes.
“Why do you even care?” she whispered. About my well? About my wood? About Oliver? About getting me legal? Zach? Shaving? About me? Why! She had a million questions, but he didn’t even answer her first one.
His gaze locked on her. Steady. Unblinking.
It wasn’t until someone knocked on her front door that she was able to break away.
She made a beeline out of that kitchen and crossed the living room as the knocking turned to pounding, grateful for any reason to leave Greg. She prayed it was CJ or Mariah. Someone who needed Greg right now. Whoever it was sounded desperate. They weren’t even using the clan signal.
When she opened the door, her breath caught.
“Jeff?”
forty-two
JEFF STOOD ON CARRIE’S PORCH, coat pulled high to block the blowing snow. His upper cheek was still dark from Greg’s right hook, but his countenance was even darker.
While Carrie might have been at the bottom of his list of favorite people, Jeff liked Greg a thousand times less. Vice versa was even worse. Heart pounding, she stepped onto the porch and closed the door.
“Hi, Jeff. Can I help you with something?” she asked.
He looked behind her, curious why she hadn’t invited him in when his cold breaths came out in little puffs of smoke. She moved to the left, blocking the side window as well.
“Amber was just at our house,” he said.
“Yes, she told me,” Carrie said, smiling, until she realized Jeff wasn’t returning her smile. Her stomach clenched.
“More lies,” he hissed.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just trying to protect Amber. Besides, I should have been home that day anyway when Oliver—”
“I need you to do something,” he interrupted.
She brightened. “Sure. Does Jenna need help getting the boys ready for the wedding?”
“The wedding?” Jeff leaned forward, his huge body looming over her. “You’re not going to that are you?”
“Um, I was planning on it. Aren’t you?”
His chest heaved as his eyes bored into her. “Why would I ever step foot into that conniving, scheming household again? In fact, why would you?”
“I…” She took a step back and then stopped herself, realizing what she was doing. Planting her feet, she refused to be intimidated by him again. “Can we just talk for a minute, Jeff? I think there have been some misunderstandings, but I know if we sit down with May and Greg, we can…”
Her voice dropped off as his gaze fell to the pile of wood by her feet.
“Where did you get that?”
She swallowed, mind racing.
“Who brought you that wood?” He kicked the bundle, sending it flying off her porch. “Who?”
The front door flew open.
“The real question is, why didn’t you?” Greg said.
It was like pouring alcohol on an open flame. Jeff’s face went red with rage.
“You!” His eyes darted from Greg to Carrie. “Why is he here?”
Carrie could think of a million reasons Greg shouldn’t have been at her house, only one of which was that he’d virtually stolen Jenna’s scissors.
“What am I doin’ here?” Greg shot back. “You got exactly five seconds to explain yourself before I dropkick you all the way to California.”
Carrie whirled around. “Greg! This isn’t your affair. Go back inside.”
Greg folded his arms.
Feeling her own blood pressure rise, Carrie turned back. “I’m helping Greg with something. Don’t worry about him. What do you need, Jeff?”
Jeff’s eyes turned to small daggers. “You swore to me, Carrie. You swore you’d stay away from Greg, but it was just another lie, wasn’t it?”
“Jeff, please…” She looked over her shoulder. “Greg. This has to end right now or else, or else…” She couldn’t think of a threat fast enough. “Just please,” she begged Greg, knowing she had a better chance with him. “This has to stop.”
Greg didn’t even blink her direction. “Time’s up, buddy. Five…four…”
Desperate, Carrie whirled around. “Greg’s sorry for punching you, Jeff. Aren’t you, Greg?”
“…three…two…” Greg continued.
Jeff’s black eye bulged, zeroing in on the wet hair on Greg’s shoulders. His nostril flared. “Where are they? Where are Jenna’s scissors?” he bellowed.
Without waiting for a response, he shoved past Carrie and Greg and stormed into the kitchen where Greg’s hair was scattered on the floor, convicting them. Jeff snatched up the scissors and swung back the way he’d come. Carrie jumped out of the way as he pushed onto the porch and down the wet sidewalk.
“Jeff, wait!”
Carrie started to follow him, but Greg grabbed her arm.
“Let him go, Carrie,” Greg said.
“Let go of me!” She yanked free and ran into the snow. “Jeff, please! This is all a big misunderstanding.” Although at the moment, she couldn’t remember what or how it even started. “Just calm down so we can talk. Please!”
Jeff spun around. “You want to talk? Then don’t go to that wedding.”
The betrayal stung deep. “That’s not fair. I’ve apologized, I’ve helped Jenna and the boys, and it’s not fair for you to expect—”
“Jenna or Greg,” Jeff said, jaw tightening. “Make your choice.”
A lump formed in her throat. The snow swirled around them. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”
“You can’t play both sides anymore,” Jeff said. “Jenna or Greg. If you’re not at my house in five minutes, I’ll know who you chose.”
He whipped around and stormed down her wet driveway.
For a full minute, Carrie couldn’t move. She took in several slow breaths of frozen air. She needed
to stay calm, to not lose it, yet her insides shook as she tried to comprehend his incomprehensible words.
Choose.
And she had five minutes.
She walked back up her steps, past Greg into the kitchen. Dark hair was everywhere. She found the broom to start cleaning up.
“How bad is it?” Greg asked.
She gripped the broom. “Bad. I don’t know if Jeff will ever forgive me this time. Or forgive you. Or if May will forgive me when I don’t show up at the wedding. This whole thing has spiraled out of control and in a confined community like this…we can’t live like this.” She had to fix it somehow. Somehow without Greg.
“No,” Greg said. “I mean how bad is my hair?” He patted his hair expectantly.
Shock, disbelief, and dismay warred inside her until all three exploded. “That’s what you’re worried about? Jeff’s ready to kill both of us, and all you can think about is…is your stupid hair?”
“Yes. And…?”
Her pulse sped up, her teeth clenched. She refused to play Greg’s games anymore. This wasn’t a game. It was her life—her clan—and he was ruining both.
“I’d like you to leave,” she said more calmly than she intended.
The light faded from his eyes. “Look, Carrie, I’m just tryin’ to make you see that in the whole scheme of things, Jeff’s nothing. He’s like a bad storm that does a world of damage, but then it blows over, and you move on.”
“Would you stop with the analogies?” she cried. “You don’t know me. You don’t know Jeff. And right now, I want you to leave both of us alone. So please…” She pointed to the door.
With a sigh, Greg brushed the hair from his shoulders. “Thanks for the haircut.”
Her hands trembled, and she set the broom aside. She didn’t know if she should go straight to Jeff’s or wait for him to cool off first—although she couldn’t wait long. She dreaded another scene, but it had to be done. Someone had to put a stop to this once and for all.
Greg reached for the door handle but stopped. “One last thing,” he said, “then I’ll leave you be. Jeff has to earn your friendship back. He treated you like garbage and until he does otherwise—including doing some serious repair work—you don’t owe him a thing.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 32
