Chapter 8: : Chapter 8

We haul ass back to the house, Noah screeching to a halt next to his father’s truck. I crash into him as the rear tire lifts off the ground.

What the hell is the matter with them? As soon as the bike lands again, I jump off and head for the house.

But Noah is quick behind me, grabbing my wrist again.

I jerk away. “Get off.”

“Where were you?” Jake demands, walking over to us.

But I keep walking, slipping the flannel back on to cover myself. “I need a shower.”

I did nothing wrong.

Jake doesn’t let me pass, though. He clutches my upper arm, demanding an answer.

“I need a shower,” I tell him again, slowly twisting out of his hold.

He towers over me, and I look up at him.

“What the hell would’ve happened if we hadn’t found you?” Noah bites out.

“What do you think would’ve happened?”

“You both looked pretty close,” he points out. Then he looks to his father. “She was up at the lake with Holcomb.”

“I told you to stay away from the local boys,” Jake tells me.

I shake my head, my backpack clutched in my fist. “I went for a hike,” I explain in a hard voice. “I didn’t invite him. He showed up. Are we done?” And then I glare at Noah. “I mean, Kaleb and the rifle? Really?”

I spin around, walking for the house again.

“You left the rifle on the beach!” Noah growls at me. “You left yourself unprotected.”

“What do you think he was going to do?” I ask, spinning around. “Attack me?”

Noah’s jaw flexes, and I can’t help myself.

“He might not have had to,” I tell him, slipping my backpack over my shoulder. “I was kind of liking him.”

He advances like he’s going to come after me, but Jake shoots out his hands and stops him, holding him back. I almost smile.

My uncle turns, his patience gone. “Go get your shower,” he orders me.

I turn and head up the stairs, hearing Noah’s angry bark behind me. “You’re a Van der Berg here,” he shouts. “If you give that asshole a piece of ass, I swear to God I’ll make sure you don’t sit for a week.”

Noah.

Calm, pleasant, happy Noah.

What a surprise. And an asshole.

The horse shuffles on her feet as I brush her rust-colored coat. It’s meditative, like cooking. The long, smooth strokes. My earbuds are in, but no music plays, because I forgot to turn on my playlist when I came into the barn an hour ago.

I brush with one hand and follow it with a stroke of the other, giving the girl lots of attention. I like animals.

And Colorado. It was actually nice today. Getting out there into the woods.

It wasn’t even so bad when the Holcomb guy showed up. Of course, he was an ass. I wasn’t delusional. He’d screw me and brag and never speak to me again unless he wanted more, but…

I don’t know.

He joked with me, and I joked back. There was no illusion about what he wanted. I didn’t have to play games or pretend.

And part of me wanted it to be that easy. To not have to bond in order to connect.

Yeah, I was tempted.

I can’t talk right or say the right things, but maybe I can be soft and sweet and happy in bed. Maybe I could be loving there.

My eyes sting with tears, but I blink them away as I brush Shawnee’s mane.

They hate me, I hate me, and I hate them.

No, I stop and think, I don’t hate them. I just know I’ll fail. I can’t connect.

Leaving the stall, I toss the brush on the table with the other grooming tools, and walk back through the shop, toward the house. I kick off my muddy rain boots but keep my black hoodie on as I open the door to the kitchen and walk in. The afternoon is cooling off, and I feel rain in the air.

I hear a hiss as I enter. “That fuckin’ prick…”

I turn to close the door, but I take a quick glance. Kaleb is planted on the table, his nose bloody and his father trying to clean it up, but he grabs the rag out of his dad’s hand and holds it to his nose himself. His lips are etched into a snarl.

Did Terrance Holcomb do that to him? I was a little worried about the shotgun Kaleb had, but I suspected it was all for show. No police were here, after all.

Noah opens and closes the refrigerator, pulling out an ice pack, and I walk through the kitchen, toward the stairs.

“Get started on dinner,” Jake tells me as I pass.

“I’m not hungry.”

“We are,” he grits out.

I stop and turn my head, the two of them crowded around Kaleb, and I notice the array of other scratches, dirt, and blood on his jaw, shoulder, and hip. A pang of guilt hits me, but the other guy probably looks worse, and I didn’t ask Kaleb to do this for me.

“That’s not my problem,” I shoot back, glaring at my uncle. “You want a servant, hire one.”

He jerks his head toward me.

“And since I won’t do what I’m told,” I add, “send me home.”

I don’t belong here. This is why I’m better alone. I don’t have to feel all these things all the time. Embarrassment, shame, guilt… If you don’t put yourself out there, you don’t hurt.

Noah and Jake just stand there for a moment, and I look to Kaleb, unable to stop myself. “I don’t feel bad for you one bit,” I tell him. “You got what you deserved, because you used me as an excuse to start a fight. You weren’t defending my honor.”

He glares at me.

“Like any troglodyte male, you’re just dying to hit something. You enjoyed yourself.”

He hops off the table, leveling me with his eyes as he takes a couple steps forward like he’s going to come at me.

But Jake advances first. “You don’t know us,” he states. “You don’t come here and disrespect my home.”

“I’ve been here three days, and you have intimidated me, threatened me, and taunted me. You’ve acted like bullies,” I tell them. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to yell? Fight? Isn’t that what you said?”

“I said you’d benefit from some time here, and I was right!” Jake fires back. “You’ve got no idea how to work inside of a unit. Be part of a team. A family.”

He stalks forward, and I back into the living room as he closes the distance between us. “Let me educate you, girl,” he growls. “You’re the kid. I’m the adult. You do as you’re told, and there’s no problem. That system works for us.” He towers over me. “Just. Do. As. You’re. Told!”

I shrink for a second, but then I shake my head, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re spoiled.”

I drop my head, squeezing my eyes shut against his attack. I’ve never been yelled at before. Ever. That fact just occurs to me, and my hands are shaking.

It’s degrading. I feel like shit.

“No maids here,” he continues, “No butlers.”

My back hits the wall as I grind my teeth together and anger burns in my gut.

He goes on, “No assistants to wipe your fucking little ass. No easy access to your psychiatrist to get you your pills that you need to dull the pain of how shallow your life is!”

“That’s your baggage!” I shout, finally looking up at him and giving it back. “Your issues with our family are not my problem!”

What do I care about maids, butlers, or pills? He’s bringing his personal shit into this.

“Is anything your problem?” he retorts. “Do you give a shit about anyone but yourself? You don’t ask us questions about our lives. You barely eat with us. You won’t sit with us. You have no interest in who we are!”

“Because I’m always in the kitchen!” I blurt up at him, my chest nearly brushing his.

“You’re a brat,” he breathes out, seething. “A self-absorbed, snobby, little brat!”

“I’m not! I’m just…”

I stop myself, scowling and looking away. Goddammit. Goddamn him. I’m not a brat. I’m…

“You’re just what?” he demands. “Huh?”

I’m not spoiled. Tears burn my eyes, and my chin shakes. I don’t care about luxury. Or money. I’m not unfriendly because they live here and live differently. That’s not it. I’m just…

“Just what?” he shouts again. “So quiet now, aren’t you?”

“Dad…” Noah says somewhere from the kitchen.

But I can’t see him. My uncle crowds me, and I can’t stop the tears from pooling.

“I’m not…”

I swallow, no idea what to say. No idea what my problem is. He’s right, right? Any polite—normal—person would be able to converse casually. Engage in small talk. Ask them questions. Smile, joke around…

I shake my head, more to myself than him, murmuring, “I’m just… not used to…”

“To what?” he bites out. “Rules? A spending limit? Small closet space?”

A tear falls, and it takes everything to keep the sob bottled up.

“Chores of any kind?” he continues. “What is so godawful different in this house compared to yours? What are you so not used to?”

“People,” I blurt out.

I don’t know when I figured it out, but it just comes out.

He’s right. I have no idea how to be with people.

Tears fall, spilling down my face as I stare at the floor.

“I’m not used to people,” I whisper. “They don’t talk to me at home.”

He doesn’t speak, and I can’t hear the boys making any movements either, the silence making the room feel smaller.

I raise my eyes, no longer caring that he can see my red eyes and wet face. “No one talks to me.”

And before he can say anything, I run up the stairs, desperate to get in my bedroom and away from their eyes. I lock the door and fall back on the bed, covering my eyes with my arms to stop the tears.

God, why did I do that? What a fucking basket case. He’s going to send me home now because I’m emotional and too much work.

I cry quietly into my arm.

I shouldn’t have done that. I never fight with anyone, but I would fight before I’d ever cry. It’s a weak person’s tactic to end an argument. It’s not a fair fight when someone starts blubbering.

Aw, look at the poor, little rich girl. Her mommy and daddy let her have anything she wanted, but they didn’t hold her hand or kiss and hug her every day. Poor baby.

Now they’ll just see me as even less than they did before. Fragile. Easy to break. A problem to tiptoe around.

How many kids would’ve happily lived with my parents if it meant they were being fed and clothed every day? I have everything, and I just broke in front of them over nothing.

Everyone should be as lucky as I am.

“Can you believe it?” I heard my mother shout.

“Oh, come on,” my father chuckled. “We knew it was going to happen.”

I slowly stepped into my father’s study, seeing my father and Mirai both smiling, and my mom with her hands palm to palm in front of her chest as she giggled.

Then she reached out and wrapped her arms around my father.

I smile. “What’s going on?” I asked softly, inching into the room.

But they’re only looking at each other.

Mirai glanced at me and smiled wider. “Your mom—

But my father’s voice interrupts. “I need to call Tom,” he told my mother, rounding his desk. “All the promo needs to be changed for the new movie.”

I looked between them, coming to stand in front of the sofa, so they could see me.

“Oscar-nominated actress Amelia de Haas,” my father recites as if reading a billboard.

My mouth fell open, and I smiled wide. “Oscar?”

Really? That’s amazing.

“Well, no,” my mother teased, still focused on my dad. “What if I win? Then it’s Oscar-winning actress. You better hold off.”

My father laughed again and came back around the desk, kissing her. “My wife.”

They looked at each other, their eyes lit with excitement and bliss, and I stepped around, trying to catch their eyes as I approached.

I wanted to hug my mom and congratulate her. I wanted her to know I was proud of her

“Mom…”

“Go make some calls,” she told Mirai, not hearing me. “You know what to do,”

Mirai’s eyes met mine, the always-present pity still there, and then she cast a regretful look at my parents before she left the room quietly.

“Congratulations,” I said as I approached, keeping the smile on my face.

But my mom already moved away. “Alright, let’s get to Jane’s office,” she told my dad. “I’ll need to put in a statement.”

“I’m so proud of you, honey,” he said.

And they both left, taking the noise and excitement with them. Like I was a shadow. A ghost who walked their halls but wasn’t seen or heard.

I stood there, watching them as they tread down the hall and disappeared around a corner. I clasped my hands in front of me, trying to push away the lump that lodged in my throat.

I was happy for her. I wanted her to know that she was stunning, and I loved her movies.

I wanted her to know that.

Why did she never want to share the wonderful things that happened in her life with me, because she was the first place I wanted to run to as a child to tell her when a wonderful thing had happened to me.

Before I stopped trying.

I stood there, staring off. It’s okay.

It wasn’t about me. This was her day. I had no right to demand attention.

I heard the front door slam closed, the house, and everything in it, going still and silent.

Like nothing lived here.

Like, when they left, nothing did.

I blink my eyes awake, already blurry with tears. I sit up and swing my legs over the side, bowing my head and taking some deep breaths.

It’s early morning. I can tell by the blue hue of the light coming in through my balcony doors.

A tear catches on my lip, and I wipe it off with my hand. I still remember so many little things, growing up with them, that would never seem terrible on their own, but after years of conversations I felt like I was interrupting, occasions I wasn’t invited or welcome to, and affection that was so easily doled out between them that didn’t stretch to me… It all hurt. Everything hurt, and it kept piling up year after year until I stopped letting myself care anymore.

Or stopped showing that I cared.

I let out a sigh, tilting my head back, but then something catches my eye, and I look over, seeing a white bag on top of my bedside table. I narrow my eyes and reach over, picking up the worn paper sack that no longer felt crisp and new.

Is this…?

The bundle at the bottom of the bag fits in the palm of my hand, and I can smell the cinnamon bears before I even open it.

How did this get back in here? I threw the whole bag of candy out.

But now, black writing covers the front, and slowly, I unfold the bag and find a ray of light near me, reading the words.

Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.

I look over to my bedroom door, noticing it’s opened a crack. I’d closed and locked it when I went to bed.

Thoughts wash over me, but my heart isn’t beating fast. I should be mad. Someone came in here while I was asleep. Someone went through my trash.

Someone is trolling me on a paper bag.

But he’s not wrong. I rub my thumb over the letters.

The way it’s written. That’s why you’re not. It’s so childish but simple.

Standing up, I dump the contents back into the trash, but I save the bag, flattening it out and laying it on my chest of drawers. I don’t know if blaming my parents is a good enough reason for being such a miserable fucking person, but someone in this world gets me, and I’m not even offended they said I wasn’t sweet. I know I’m not, and someone understands why.

Leaving the room, I head downstairs, the wind in the trees surrounding the house like a perpetual waterfall in the background. I veer into the kitchen, quietly stepping to the sink to fill up a glass of water.

I stare out the window, the feathers on the chickens in the coop fluttering in the morning breeze.

I don’t want to go home. But I don’t want to stay here and be noticed, either, because their world is just a little worse with me in it. I’m not Jake Van der Berg’s problem.

I don’t even realize I’ve started to put the coffee filter in the machine until a hand reaches out and gently takes the package from me.

Looking up, I see my uncle. He stands next to me, emptying coffee grounds into the filter, and I expect him to still be tense. Fuming. In a bad mood, at least, because I’m too much trouble.

But he’s calm. And quiet. He scoops the coffee out of the bag and empties it into the machine, quietly closes the lid, and turns on the pot.

A gurgling sound starts as it begins to brew, and he picks up a coffee mug from the rack and sets it in front of himself.

“I’m going to go home,” I say quietly.

“You are home.” He sets a mug in front of me.

My chin trembles a little.

I turn my head away, not wanting him to see me cry again, but then I feel his fingers brush my hair behind my ear, and the gesture makes my eyes fall closed. It feels so good I want to fucking cry again.

Without waiting another second, he pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around me and holds my head to his chest.

I empty my lungs, my arms hanging limply at my sides, because I can’t bring myself to return the embrace, but I don’t pull away either. His T-shirt-clad chest is warm against my cheek, and his familiar smell drifts into my head, lulling my tears to a calm.

I’ve been hugged a lot. More than I like, actually. It seems to be a thing now. Females—complete strangers—come in for hugs as a greeting. Acquaintances embrace. People you run into on the street dive in all the fucking time like we’re all oh-so-close besties, even though they’re barely touching you.

I hate the fake affection.

But this is different.

He’s holding onto me. Like, if he doesn’t, I might fall.

Muscles I didn’t know I had start to relax, and his lips touch the top of my head, a warm tingle spreading over my body. It’s warm, like something I’m dying to crawl inside and just go to sleep.

Why was this so hard for my parents? It wasn’t unnatural for me to want this from them. It wasn’t. To want to share my life with people who love me. To laugh and cry and make memories together.

Because life is only happy when it’s shared.

Tears hang on my lashes, and the sudden urge to hold onto him starts to wind through me.

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

I don’t want to go home where I’m alone.

His whisper tickles my scalp. “Everyone’s going through shit, Tiernan.” He pauses as the steady rise and fall of his chest lulls me. “You’re not alone. Do you understand that?”

He tips my chin up, and I look up at him, nearly losing my breath at his warm eyes that stare right through me.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers again.

My eyes drop to his lips, and for a moment, I’m with him, breathing with him and my blood coursing hot under my skin as I take in his tanned face, smooth mouth, and the rugged scruff along his jaw.

I have a sudden urge to wrap my arms around him and hide in his neck, but he runs his thumb over my jaw. The heat under my skin spreads lower, and the small smile he had on his lips fades as he stares down at me.

Finally he blinks, breaking the spell as he drops his hand. “Get dressed, okay?” he asks. “Pants and a long-sleeved shirt. You’re with me this morning.”

Releasing me, he pours the coffee while the morning chill hits me, and all I can wish is that he was still holding me.

But my heart warms anyway. I’m with him this morning. I tread upstairs and pull on a pair of clean jeans and some socks.

After pulling my hair up, I hesitate for a moment and then knock on Noah’s door. The last time he spoke to me he threatened to spank me.

After a few knocks I hear his hard footfalls on the floor.

He swings open the door, looking hungover and propping one hand on the doorframe, the other on the door like he’s trying to hold himself up.

I’m not apologizing. But I don’t really expect one from him, either.

“May I borrow a long-sleeved shirt?” I ask.

He nods and turns around, closing his eyes as he yawns. “Yeah, go for it.”

I walk in and find his closet, the door hanging open and a flannel already there in front of me.

“Fuckin’ early,” he gripes. “Does he want me up yet?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Cool,” he mumbles and crashes back down on his bed, face first.

He’s still wearing his jeans from yesterday, and I look around his room, seeing an array of discarded clothes, shoes, and other odds and ends strewn about. Messy but not really dirty.

Taking the shirt, I leave the room, closing the door behind me, and wrap it around my waist, tying it. Turning to walk down the stairs, I hear something behind me, and look over to see Kaleb coming down the third-floor staircase.

He veers for the bathroom, and even though I’m less than six feet away, he pretends he doesn’t notice me and disappears into the room, slamming the door behind him.

I linger a moment. I could barely see the cuts on his face from yesterday in the dark hallway, but I could definitely see the one on his lip.

It’s not my fault he got into a fight. But still…

Walking over to the door, I raise my hand to knock but then stop myself. I lean my ear in, but I don’t hear anything, and I struggle to walk away.

I have ointment…for his cuts…if he wants.

I…

Oh, never mind. I close my fist and finally drop my hand, turning to leave.

I head downstairs, spotting Jake outside on the deck, and walk out, joining him. He hands me a mug of coffee and stares out at the forest and the mist that hangs around the trunks.

“I like getting up early,” he tells me. “It’s the only time the house and land are quiet, and I have the energy to enjoy it.”

I look up at him. Me, too. Taking a sip of my coffee, I force the words out, even though my instinct tells me to be quiet. I want to make an effort.

“I like that you all work at home,” I tell him, seeing him look at me out of the corner of my eye. “There’s always people here.”

People who are a little abrasive, rude, and over-bearing, but I have a couple of those undesirable qualities myself.

He half-smiles down at me, and I drink some more of my coffee before setting the mug down on the railing.

“Come on,” he says, setting his down, too.

Walking around me, he leads me down the stairs and toward the barn, picking up a tool belt from the worktable in the shop as we pass by.

We walk beyond the stable to the paddock where Bernadette and Shawnee are already wandering and getting some fresh air.

I stare at the back of his head as I follow him and he buckles on his tool belt.

Questions. He mentioned I never asked them questions.

It’s not that I don’t have questions, but questions start conversations.

“Hold this up for me,” he asks, lifting a piece of the fencing around the corral.

I come in and lean down, lifting up the board so it’s level as he dips through the opening in the fence to the other side. Pulling out a hammer and nail, he bolts the board back in place as I help hold on.

“Why doesn’t Kaleb talk?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at me as he pulls out another nail and starts pounding. “I’m not sure I should talk about it, if Kaleb won’t.”

“Does it have to do with their mother?”

His eyes shoot up to me. “What do you know about their mother?”

I shrug. “Nothing, really,” I say. “But the boys obviously came from somewhere and not from the twenty-five-year-olds leaving your room every morning.”

He chuckles, pounding in the nail. “It’s not every morning, thank you.”

But she is twenty-five. Or younger, because he didn’t correct me on the age.

The silence hangs in the air, and his expression grows pensive as he fits another nail.

“Their mother is in prison,” he states. “Ten to fifteen up in Quintana.”

Quintana.

Ten to fifteen…years?

I stare at my uncle who’s not making eye contact, a whole bundle of questions now ready to pour out. What did she do? Was he involved?

Do Noah and Kaleb still talk to her?

He moves down the line, and I follow him, noticing another board kicked off.

When was she sentenced? How long has he been raising the boys by himself?

I soften my eyes, watching him. That must’ve been hard. It’s a different pain, I’m sure. Having someone taken away from you versus someone wanting to leave you.

“You loved her?” I ask.

But then I drop my eyes, embarrassed. Of course, he loved her.

“I dove into her,” he explains instead. “Because I couldn’t stop loving someone else.”

I narrow my eyes.

He stops and pulls out his wallet, opening it up and taking out a snapshot.

He hands it to me.

I look down at it, recognizing him instantly and smiling a little.

It’s actually not a snapshot. It’s a Polaroid with a sharp crease down the middle and faded faces staring back.

He lays there, on a picnic blanket, no shirt and long khaki shorts, hugging a dark-eyed girl to his body, her midnight hair splayed out behind her.

He’s pale and a lot scrawnier than what he is now, but he has that same smile that looks like he’s either laughing at you on the inside or thinking things that are only suitable to do behind closed doors. But with a preppy haircut and baby face that makes him look like he should be the douchebag quarterback on a CW show.

“You?” I look up at him, trying to hide my amusement.

He snatches the picture back, frowning at me. “I was quite the belle of the ball back in the day, you know?”

Was? Seems he still is.

He grabs a shovel and starts packing dirt back into the hole where the fence post stands.

“Your grandpa had a house in Napa Valley,” he says as I hold the post upright for him. “We’d go up there in the summer, play golf, get drunk, fuck around…”

We… My father, too?

I barely remember my grandfather, since he died when I was six, but I know he divorced his first wife—my dad’s mother—when my dad was about twelve, and chose another Dutch woman for his second wife. She already had a son of her own—Jake.

“I was eighteen, and I met Flora,” my uncle continues. “God, she was fucking beautiful. Her family worked on a vineyard. Immigrant. Poor….” He glances at me. “And, of course, our families couldn’t have that.”

I almost have the urge to laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I get it. For the first time, I realize Jake and I are part of the same family, and he knows them as well as I do.

“She didn’t have a swimsuit,” he mused. “All summer, I remember. It didn’t even occur to me she couldn’t afford one, because I loved that she swam in her underwear and undershirt when we went to the lake. Her body was so beautiful, the way the wet clothes stuck to her.”

I picture him, his hormones and emotions raging. What’s he like when he’s in love?

He sighs. “It was sexier than any bikini. I never wanted that summer to end. We couldn’t stay off each other. I was totally gone for her.”

But she’s not here now.

“One night your mother…”

“My mother?” I dart my eyes up to him.

But he’s avoiding my gaze, and his lips are tight.

“Your mother was a rising star, and your parents had just started dating,” he explains. “She took Flora out and got her drunk, and when Flora woke up, she was in bed with another man.” He finally looked over at me, pausing in his work. “Another man who wasn’t me.”

My mother took her out, got her drunk, and…

“My father,” I say, putting the pieces together.

Jake nods. “Your grandfather knew I wasn’t going to let her go, so your parents helped get rid of her.”

I blink long and hard. I can’t believe I defended them to my uncle. To him. No wonder he hates them.

“She felt so guilty, thinking she’d had sex with another man,” Jake continued, leading me into the stable to fill the horses’ food, “it was a piece of cake for the family to convince her our relationship was over unless she wanted me to find out what she’d done. ‘And hey, here’s fifty grand to cover moving expenses. Disappear, kid. Don’t call him.’”

“You never tried to find her?”

“I did,” he tells me. “I found her in some apartment in San Francisco.”

He falls silent for a moment as he pulls on his gloves. “She wouldn’t even let me through the door,” he says. “Couldn’t look me in the eye. Said she couldn’t see me anymore and didn’t want me to call.”

He cuts open the hay bales, and I take a rake and start to spread it around the stall.

“When did you find out what they really did to her?” I ask him.

He remains quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is almost a whisper. “About a week after I left her apartment and her sister called to tell me she’d died.”

Died?

I stop. “Suicide?”

He nods and continues working.

“Oh, my God.”

“And six hours after that, I packed a bag and never looked back,” he tells me, giving me a tight smile. “Got on the road, planned to head to Florida, but I got here and…never wanted to leave.” His eyes soften, and things I thought I knew start to melt away as the pieces of the puzzle come together.

“I moved onto this land with a run-down trailer and no indoor plumbing. Now I have a house, a shop, a business, and my sons. Things turned out far better for me than I deserved.”

Why would he think he didn’t deserve what he had? It wasn’t his fault. He tried to find her. If they wanted to get to her, they were going to get to her.

My parents. Would they have intervened like that if I’d fallen in love with someone who didn’t fit the image?

“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’m sorry they did that—”

“Your parents, Tiernan,” he says, cutting me off and looking me in the eye. “Not your fault.”

It’s hard to make sense of, though. My mother wasn’t so different than Flora. Just as poor, but at least Flora had a family. My mother had been a foster kid with no one. How could she not be on the girl’s side?

I drop my eyes to Jake’s waist, the tattoo he sports on the side covered by his T-shirt now, but I remember the words. My Mexico. He said Flora was an immigrant, so is the tattoo for her? Or how cowboys escaped across the border back in the day, Colorado became his escape? His Mexico.

“We need to have some fun,” he chirps, lightening the mood with a smile. “Let’s all go up to the lake tomorrow.”

The lake? Not the pond?

“Get some music and beer in us,” he goes on. “Some cliff diving.”

“Cliff diving?”

His eyes fall briefly down my body. “You have a swimsuit, right?”

But the question sounds more like a warning, because he doesn’t damn well want me swimming in my clothes like yesterday.

Or in my underwear like Flora.

Yes, I have a…bikini. Dread coils through my stomach. I usually wear whatever our personal shopper buys without a care, but I think I’m going to care with them tomorrow.

Why don’t I have a one piece? Or a rash guard? Ugh…

Over the next couple of hours, I’m a demon, rushing from one task to the next, and glad for the distraction. Jake, Noah, and I finish morning chores, I cook breakfast and Noah cleans up, and then I assist them in the shop, typing out responses to emails that my uncle dictates concerning the business while he works.

Jake and I load two bikes onto the flatbed, roping them down, before he slips his T-shirt back on and pulls his keys out of his pocket. I know he needs to take them to town to deliver them to the transport, shipping them off to wherever they’re going, but suddenly he stops and looks over my shoulder.

I follow his gaze.

Kaleb is at the other end of the barn, jeans hanging loosely from his hips, no shirt, and the sun shining across his bare chest, which is damp with sweat, as he brings the ax down and chops a log in two.

He rubs his jaw across his shoulder, blood from his open wounds spreading across his cheek.

“Go grab the First Aid kit,” Jake tells me as he starts to walk for the driver’s side. “Kaleb needs help.”

“Yeah, professional help,” I grumble. “He…”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the other night in the shop.

And about the barn yesterday.

But…I can’t put all the blame on Kaleb, I guess. It’s best not to bring it up.

“He threatened that guy with a gun yesterday,” I say, instead.

Kaleb scares me.

But Jake turns around and charges right back to me. “That guy,” he tells me, “has a clubhouse in town for gangbangs with a scoreboard on the wall, rating each girl on a scale of one to ten. There are no less than three-hundred names of all the tail he and his friends have bagged in their short lives.” And then he points in my face, and I rear back a little, scowling. “You’re fucking lucky Kaleb found you and not me, because I wouldn’t have waited before you left before I fucking killed him.”

I cock an eyebrow but don’t protest further.

“Now move your tush,” he orders.

He turns around and climbs in the truck, and I drag my feet for another minute after he drives off before walking into the barn and yanking the damn First Aid kit out of the cabinet.

He doesn’t want help from me. Not any more than I care to help him.

And I still don’t believe for one second he or Noah were trying to keep me safe. Even though, assuming what Jake said is true, it’s good they did show up, actually.

But, no. I think Terrance might have been correct on that assessment. They’re territorial. It could’ve been any guy with their baby cousin up there, and they would’ve been angry and started a fight.

Trudging over to where Kaleb is working, I stop, not wanting to make eye contact.

I hold up the kit to him. “You’re bleeding.”

He stares at me for a moment and then uses his shoulder to wipe the blood again before picking up another log, ignoring me.

Opening the box, I take out the Neosporin. “The ointment will keep it from tearing,” I say, calming my voice and trying. “Put the ointment on it.”

He stops, his hesitant eyes going from me to the tube in my hand.

I ease my shoulders, forcing myself to relax. I don’t want to fight today.

“Sit down,” I tell him softly. “Please.”

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t move.

I gesture to the tree stump, softening my voice to almost a whisper. “Please sit down.”

He waits a few seconds, staring at me, but then…he sits.

Setting the box down, I take out an anti-bacterial wipe and move over to him, avoiding his eyes as I stand over him.

I clean off the blood on his face, gently wiping the scratches, as well, but I feel his eyes watching every move I make. They follow me as I lean down and pick at the dried blood and then rise up again to uncap the ointment. It doesn’t feel like the other night when he wanted me. Now, it’s like he’s scared of me. He’s watching for a wrong move.

I swallow. “Keeping it moist will keep it from scabbing, and it’ll heal quicker,” I tell him, dabbing ointment on his jaw. “Keep reapplying this, okay?”

I generously cover the entire length of the wound, blinking when the smell of soil, wood, and wet air hits me. He always seems to smell like that.

He says nothing, his chest rising and falling with breaths too perfect and controlled as if each one is an effort to stay calm.

His fists are balled as they rest on his lap, and I glance at him, our eyes meeting. A shiver runs through me. I like that he’s scared.

I get closer out of spite, dabbing far more ointment than he needs.

“You didn’t shoot that guy yesterday, did you?” I joke.

I glance over, and he’s still silently watching me.

But to my surprise, there’s amusement in his gaze.

My heart skips, and my insides feel like a warm puddle. It’s not a smile, but it’s soft. Like how I felt with him the other night for a few seconds. Like I could sink into someone.

I clear my throat and stand up. “Alright.” I recap the tube and hand it to him. “Here.”

He takes it, not once blinking as he stares at me.

“Reapply before bed,” I tell him.

But he doesn’t nod or do anything that acknowledges he heard me except continue to gawk.

“Lunch!” Noah calls.

I startle, looking across the yard to see him heading for the other truck.

“Wanna drive with me?” he asks. “I’m going to get cheeseburgers.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or his brother, but I look back down at Kaleb and see him still looking at me.

And I’m not…confident about being left here alone with him.

I should go with Noah.

“Coming,” I say, holding Kaleb’s eyes as I walk away, the look he’s giving me telling me I’m right.

I shouldn’t be left here alone with him.