“Hey,” a female voice says behind me.
I turn, seeing a woman about my age staring at me.
“Hi,” I say back. But I retreat a step, because she’s close.
She’s in tight jeans, work boots, and has long, dark hair hanging down in loose curls. Her hands are tucked into a fitted camo sweatshirt, and her full red lips are slightly pursed.
“Nice hat,” she says.
Is it? I don’t think I even read what it said before Noah gave it to me, and I put it on. It’s not new, though.
“Thank you.”
Her red lips are tight and her eyes narrow on me. Does she know me? I haven’t met anyone yet.
I continue around her, moving down the aisle.
“Are you one of the racers’ girlfriends?” she inquires, following me as I walk.
I glance at her as I pick up a loofah and some body wash. Racers’ girlfriends?
Oh, right. There’s a Motocross scene up here. Not sure why she would think that has anything to do with me.
“No. Sorry.”
I continue down the aisle, but she keeps trailing me.
“Then where did you get that hat?”
My hat… I stop and turn my head toward her, opening my mouth to answer, but then I close it again. Have I done something wrong? Who is she?
“If you’re not with Motocross,” she asks again, “then how’d you get that swag?”
“Someone gave it to me.” I reply tightly and move up to the register, grabbing a bag of coffee beans on my way. “Is there a problem?”
“Just askin’,” she replies. “You don’t live here, do you?”
I almost snort. She sounds so hopeful.
I keep my mouth shut, though. I’m not sure if this is a small-town thing, but where I’m from we don’t dole out personal information just because someone is an uncontrollable, nosy-parker. She might think I’m rude, but in L.A., we call it “not getting robbed, raped, or killed.”
“She does live here, actually,” Noah answers her, coming up to my side. “She lives with us.”
And then he dumps an armful of crap onto the counter and puts his arm around me, grinning at the woman like he’s rubbing something in.
What’s going on?
But something catches my attention, and I drop my gaze to the pile of stuff he’s buying. I narrow my eyes as I count. One, two, three…
Eight boxes of condoms. Eight.
I shoot him a look, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t need the economy size they sell online?”
“Can I get it by tonight?” he retorts, looking down at me.
I roll my eyes, but I kind of feel like I want to smile or…laugh, because he’s such an idiot.
But I hold it back.
I look away, because I can’t respond with anything witty, and he just laughs, his demeanor cooling when he focuses his attention back on the woman.
“Step off,” he warns her.
She looks between him and me, and finally walks out as Sheryl starts to ring up our groceries. I pull a couple reusable grocery bags off the nearby rack and drop them on the counter, too.
I guess I was right. She was being rude, because Noah seemed out of patience with her on arrival.
“Cici Diggins,” he tells me, taking out the cash his father put on the table. “Gets real insecure when something prettier comes into town.”
Meaning me?
“She won’t be happy about you living with us,” Noah adds.
“Why?”
“You’ll find out.” He laughs and takes the grocery bags. “I’m going to have too much fun watching this play out.”
Watching what play out? I frown. I don’t like drama.
I let Noah carry the stuff outside as I run back to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I toss out the bag and slip the credit card-like pill package into my back pocket as I leave the store.
As I approach the bike, I see a huge backpack secured in front of the handlebars, and I let out a breath, relieved I wouldn’t have to try to carry this stuff and hold onto him on the ride home.
I flip my hat backward again and pick up my helmet, seeing Noah staring across the street with his helmet still in his hand. A slight smirk plays on his lips.
I follow his gaze.
Some guy—the same guy, I think, that came to the house with the group of bikers yesterday—sits at a table at a café with a bunch of others, he and Noah locked in a stare.
I thought he might be Kaleb, but he doesn’t look like he grew up milking cows and cleaning horse stalls. The guy is dressed in the kind of jeans that men who deep condition their hair wear, and he looks like his name is Blaine and his favorite type of girls are named Kassidee.
“You know him, right?” I turn back to Noah.
He nods, “Terrance Holcomb. Up and coming Motocross star.” And then he pulls me into his body, and a gasp lodges in my throat as he fastens my chin strap for me. “And he’s not looking at me, Tiernan.”
Noah gets close, his chest brushing mine and making tingles spread through my belly, and I suddenly go blank. Who were we talking about again?
He leans in, his breath falling across my face, and I notice a three-inch scar down his jaw as he gives me a wicked little smile.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Why’s he so close?
But he just smirks again. “Rubbing it in,” he answers. And then his eyes dart behind me to the guy across the street as he tightens my strap. “That you’re untouchable to him.”
Because why? I’m yours? Gross.
“You’re nauseating,” I grumble.
And he just chuckles, shoving me away playfully and slipping on his own helmet.
We climb back on the bike and waste no time heading back toward home. I thought for sure he’d try to diddle around with friends or a girlfriend, but he races through town like he’s in a hurry.
Or in a hurry to get me back.
I start putting pieces together in my head. The little show he just put on for that guy in town. Jake’s advice that I stay away from local guys. The order to put on a proper shirt before I left today. Father and son don’t get along well, but they seem to have that in common, at least. Both of them are stifling.
It’s not entirely awful. I might’ve liked to see my father act that way from time to time. Really stifling is bad. A little stifling…I don’t know. Kind of feels like someone cares, I guess. Maybe I would’ve liked more rules growing up.
Unfortunately for Jake and Noah, I’ve learned to live without them, so it’s a little late.
I hold tight onto Noah as he climbs the roads up into the mountains again, but thankfully he’s going much slower now, because I feel gravity pulling me backward, and I’m afraid I’ll slide off the bike.
I fist my hands, my muscles burning as I hold onto him.
When we get to a spot where the terrain evens out, I loosen my grip to relax my arms for a moment, and he pulls off to the side of the road, the bike resting at the edge of a precipice.
My stomach flips a moment, but then I notice the view through the trees below. The town spreads before us in a valley with the backdrop of the mountains, trees, and land lying in the distance. The great expanse—everything in one picture—makes my heart swell.
“Wow,” I say under my breath.
We sit there for several moments, taking in the view, and Noah removes his helmet, running his hand through his hair.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks.
I blink, coming back to reality. My parents just died. Should I be chatty?
But I swallow the words before I can speak them. Their passing isn’t why I am the way I am, but I’m not explaining myself just because everyone else has their idea of what ‘normal’ should be.
“My dad thinks you resent your parents and that’s why you’re not sad about them dying,” Noah says, still looking out at the valley below. “I think you are sad, but not as much as you’re angry, because actually, it was the other way around, wasn’t it? They resented you.”
I harden my jaw. He and his father talked about me? Who says I’m not sad? How would he know anything? Is there some checklist of specified behavior that’s acceptable when family members die? Some people commit suicide after a loved one’s death. Is that proof they’re sadder than me?
I drop my arms from his body.
“We’ve got the Internet here, too, you know?” he says. “Hannes and Amelia de Haas. They were obsessed with each other.”
He turns his head, so I can see his lips as he talks, but I’m frozen.
He goes on, “And they had a kid, because that’s what they thought they were supposed to do, and then they realized parenthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Raising you took them away from each other.”
I force the needles down my throat, feeling the tears start to pool, but I don’t let them collect. How does he know all that?
“So, they turned you over to whoever they could as soon as you were old enough,” he tells me. “Boarding schools, sleepaway summer camps, nannies…”
My chin shakes, and I let it, because I know he can’t see me.
“You didn’t resent your parents,” he finally says. “You loved them.”
Hours later, long after I’ve gone to bed, I hear his words again. Raising you took them away from each other. They resented you. You loved them.
No.
I try to back away, but something has my hand, and it aches. I pull and yank, but the pain grows stronger, and I keep taking steps back, but no matter how hard I try I’m not going anywhere, and I can’t get my hand free.
What has me? Let go. Let go.
I loved them once. I did. But…
I wrack my hand, trying to get it loose from whatever has it, but I can’t turn, and I can’t run.
I loved them once. But not now.
I don’t know. I don’t know.
My eyes snap open, and I feel my cold thumb against the bare skin of my stomach. I blink and sit up, the pain in my hand throbbing as I wince. I look down and see my hand is caught in my T-shirt, the small hole I went to bed with now a gaping tear in the shirt.
I pull my hand free, fisting it to get the blood flowing again.
“Shit,” I hiss.
And then I shoot out my other hand, knocking my alarm clock off the nightstand with a growl.
I came here to get space. To get away, but if anything, I’m more fucked up than when I came. Three days, and I’m having nightmares and night terrors for the first time since fourth grade. I don’t need this shit. Noah had no business bringing up personal things with me, much less regarding a situation he knows nothing about. If I want to talk, I will.
Wiping the sweat off my upper lip, I throw off the covers, turn on the lamp, and hit the ground, digging under the bed for my suitcase. I don’t have to go home, but I don’t have to stay here. They don’t like me. I don’t like them. There are tons of places where people will leave me alone. I’ve always wanted to go to Costa Rica. Rent a treehouse. Hike with the spiders and the snakes. Live amongst the insects of unusual size. All of it sounds worlds better than here.
Charging out of the room, I head downstairs, seeing every light is off and hearing the grandfather clock ticking away.
Jake will be up in a few hours. I should leave before he wakes. I’m not sure how far I’ll get. It’ll probably take me two days just to walk back to town with my luggage.
Swinging around the bannister and heading into the kitchen, I open the door to the garage and jog down the five steps to the washer and dryer. Chills spread down my legs, bare in my sleep shorts from the cold night, and I open the dryer, pulling out the small load of clothes I’d dried earlier, including Noah’s flannel.
I pull out a new, clean T-shirt, lifting up my ripped one to quickly change.
But the doorknob to the shop door suddenly jiggles.
I jerk my head left, dropping my shirt back down.