Running Barefoot

14. Reprise



August, 2007

It had been threatening rain all week, dark clouds rolling in, the sky grumbling, only to roll out again without relinquishing a single drop. The horses would stomp and whinny, the air would crackle with static, and then ....nothing. It was late August and the summer had been especially brutal. We’d had little moisture that summer, and we’d had a fairly mild winter as well. We needed the rain desperately. Still, a week had gone by, and the clouds remained stubbornly full.

That morning I had gotten up at dawn, pulled on my running shoes and walked out to find the skies thick with gray storm clouds. Again. I debated going back to bed, laying under my covers and listening to the rain. I scoffed a little. I knew it wouldn’t rain if I went back to bed, and I would miss my run. The early morning was relatively cool, the darkness of last night having scared off the heat of yesterday. It was perfect running weather, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I was three miles into the run and just starting to swing back towards home when Mother Nature decided to have a little laugh at my expense. The air grew eerily still, and then there was a mighty crack. Lightening pierced the sky and the thunder boomed. Rain gushed out of the heavy clouds, pounding the dirt road like an overzealous drummer. I squeaked and picked up my feet, flying towards home.

There is nothing like a summer downpour, and I didn’t even mind being caught in it a mile from home. I flew down the road, arms pumping, hair streaming out behind me, shoes squishing. I might have blisters on my feet from the friction, but for now the squishing wasn’t enough to slow me down or put a damper on my gratitude.

I was nearing the place where the dirt road meets the black top, and knew from experience that the blacktop could be slick. I was watching my feet as I rounded the corner, speeding down the homestretch. A sudden whinny and a Whoa! had me looking up in alarm, arms flailing and feet flying, trying to avoid running right into the rear-end of Don Yates’ chestnut mare, Charlotte.

Charlotte did a skittish two-step, and I slid right by her prancing feet, belly down, hands sliding through the gathering puddles. I processed a few things as I slid - Charlotte didn’t have a rider, and I wondered if she’d jumped the corral again. The horse was notorious for escaping. I’d found her in my garden a few times, curling her horsy lips around my carrots. But I had distinctly heard a male voice say Whoa! and knew Charlotte had been apprehended before I almost ran face first into her ample rump. After coming to a complete stop, and ascertaining that I was not seriously damaged, I pushed myself up to my hands and knees, palms stinging but otherwise unscathed. My lifelong klutziness had taught me a thing or two about falling.

“Josie?” There was astonishment in the deep voice above me. “Are you okay?” Strong arms reached down and gripped mine, pulling me to my feet.

A large hand smoothed my wet hair off of my face and out of my eyes as I wiped my muddy palms on my sopping shorts. The rain was starting to abate, and I tipped my face up against the slowing torrent to apologize to Don for my clumsiness. I found myself face to face with Samuel Yates.

I hadn’t seen him in almost seven years. Stunned, I drank in his familiar face, so dear and yet so different. My old friend on the cusp of manhood was gone. In his place was a grown man, confidence in the set of his mouth, awareness in his observant black eyes. There was a greater resemblance to his father’s family, or maybe he just wasn’t as desperate to disguise it anymore. He was still lean, but definitely brawnier, his neck thicker, his shoulders wider. The long black hair that had once been a symbol of his individuality was short now, almost hidden under his cowboy hat. His hat kept the wet from dripping into his face, but I had no cover, and the water kept running into my eyes. I swiped at the rain impatiently, not quite believing he was there, standing right in front of me.

“Josie?” He’d started to smile, although his black eyebrows were drawn together in question. “Are you okay?”

I realized I’d been staring at him, smiling, but not saying anything. “Samuel,” I said softly but with great pleasure, and I felt a sweet nostalgia flood my soul with warmth. His lips quirked tenderly, making his eyes crease at the corners, and I saw that he shared my emotions.

I became aware all at once of my very wet behind and the hair that had fallen from my ponytail and was dripping down the sides of my face. I was completely drenched, and my t-shirt and knit running shorts were plastered to my skin. I shivered and pulled self-consciously at the clinging cotton. His eyes widened slightly as he took in my unintentional immodesty.

“You’re soaking wet.” He pulled off his sweatshirt and handed it to me - damp, but considerably better than what I was wearing. I turned slightly from him and pulled the sweatshirt over my head. It was mostly dry inside and hung down past the bottom of my shorts. It was deliciously warm from his skin. It smelled like aftershave and rain, the scent very male and, to me, wonderful. It smelled like safety and soap and my broken dreams. It smelled like coming home feels. I was instantly swamped with a longing so powerful, a yearning to intense, that I gasped out loud and felt my eyes swim with tears.

“Josie? Are you hurt?” Samuel was worried now, and reached for me again, gripping my arms through the baggy sleeves of his sweatshirt. Something cracked around my heart. The crack reverberated through my chest. It felt the way I imagine ice would sound breaking under my feet on a frozen lake. My breath burned in my chest like I’d run 10 miles in subzero temperatures. The icy control I had demanded of myself since Kasey’s death slipped, wobbled, and then lost its hold on me all together.

Without conscious thought, I stepped towards Samuel and laid my head against his broad chest, my hands splaying across his muscled shoulders, my fingers fisting handfuls of his t-shirt. I breathed him in, my inhale a ragged sob. I let go of his shirt and wrapped my arms tightly around his trim waist. I clung to him like my life depended on it. Maybe it did. I hadn’t seen him for so many years, and so much had happened in my life since I had last seen his face, but at that moment I was thirteen again. Someone I had loved had returned, someone lost had come back to me, and I held him fiercely, with no intention of ever letting him go.

I couldn’t see his face, but I imagine he was shocked at my behavior. I hadn’t even spoken to him, other than to breathe his name, and I was suddenly wrapped around him in a rainstorm, in the middle of the road. Slowly, I felt his strong arms come up around me, holding me, enfolding me. I was enveloped in warmth. The pleasure of the embrace was so intense I shuddered with it. I felt his hand in my hair, and he made those soft shushing noises. I realized I was crying. We stood in the rain, and he held me up, letting me hold him in return. No comments, no questions, just comfort.

Eventually, he untangled me, slipped a loose lead rope over Charlotte’s head, and with one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, led us both home. I gratefully walked beside him, ridiculously relieved that in this moment I was not alone.

He stopped outside my house, the horse nickering and nudging at his back to get out of the storm. His arm fell from my shoulders, and he looked down at me, his hat dripping with rain.

“Will you be all right?” He asked softly.

I nodded my head.

“Thank you Samuel. It’s so good to see you again,” I said sincerely, then turned and walked quickly up the walk and slid my soaked shoes off under the covered porch. He still stood in the rain, holding the horse steady, watching me. I stepped inside and gently closed the door.

I stood in the bathroom and pulled the sweatshirt over my head so it covered my face; I breathed in the smell. I didn’t want to take it off, though I was cold and shivering and the heat rose deliciously out of the tub I was filling with water. I couldn’t find it in myself to be embarrassed by my actions towards Samuel. Samuel! I marveled that he was here, back in Levan. So many years had gone by! Again I considered my unusual behavior, and although I knew I would be mortified when I saw him again, for now the sweetness of the contact remained too acute for regret.

I had enjoyed effusive affection from Kasey for two years only to suffer a famine when he was gone. Afterwards, any sympathy or affection had sabotaged my efforts to control my despair, so I had effectively shunned both from anyone who offered them. For a long time I had stiffened at the lightest touch. If you push people away for long enough isolation become a terrible habit. People start to believe you prefer it.

I felt suddenly ravenous for a gentle touch. Just like physical starvation, the hunger for contact was all consuming. Human beings are not designed to be alone. Our creator gave us smooth, sensitive skin that craves the warmth of other skin. Our arms seek to hold. Our hands yearn to touch. We are drawn to companionship and affection out of an innate need.

I pulled off the sweatshirt with a jerk, shaking my head to dislodge my indulgent musings. I finished undressing and slid down into the tub until the very hot water covered me completely - submerging my head, my face, and my thoughts. Then I willed my long dormant neediness to retreat before I made a complete fool of myself.





I turned twenty-three on a Sunday that year. The family typically gathered for birthday parties-which was nice, but we always gathered at home, dad’s home, which also happened to my home - which meant I did all the cooking, as usual. I was actually hoping that I could take a little walk up to the cemetery and visit Kasey’s and Mom’s graves. Maybe I could spend a little time reading against Mom’s cool headstone like I did when I was young. Maybe I would make a chocolate cake for later. There was nothing better than chocolate cake, cold milk, and quiet. But with the family gathering there wouldn’t be any quiet, not until much later.

I felt a little guilty for not wanting my family around on my birthday. I knew I was strange. I was always glad to see them, always glad to kiss their kids and cook for them. I just felt a little melancholy. Seeing Samuel had me thinking about Beethoven. I hadn’t expelled music from my life - I taught piano lessons, I played the organ in church, but my days of listening for the pure rapture of listening had become few and far between; I guarded my emotions very carefully, and the music just oozed its way around my walls. But maybe I could enjoy something that would lift my spirit without widening the cracks in my heart I had thought I might listen to a little Hungarian Rhapsody with my chocolate cake.

I went to church that morning, and Dad came along with me, which he had begun to do more often as of late. I hadn’t asked him why; I’d just enjoyed the fact that he would come and be with me. Except for a little persistent weakness on his right side he was completely recovered from his stroke. He looked handsome in his light blue dress shirt and navy slacks. His hair had gone white, as I am sure my hair would one day do. His skin was very brown from his life as a horseman. His vivid blue eyes were arresting, and I wondered why some lonely widow hadn’t gobbled him up. I guess there weren’t too many to choose from. There was always Sweaty Betty down at the diner. She thought my dad walked on water and had hot coffee in his hand before he could say “Please” whenever he found time to sit a while and ‘shoot the bull’ with the old boys that gathered there every morning. The thought of my dad with Betty had me giggling into my hand, and my dad shot me a look under his furry white brows.

I had chosen to play the hymn ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ from the 23rd Psalm for the closing number. I loved the 23rd Psalm. The words spoke of such simple faith and beauty; it was a prayer I had often uttered when I found myself teetering on the brink of depression. The congregation sang along with very little feeling ... hard pews, hungry bellies, and impatient kids eager to be free of their Sunday clothes, make sincere expression difficult. After the closing song, the prayer was given, and I stood from the organ, only to see Nettie and Don Yates a few rows back. My heart stuttered and my breath quickened. Samuel was with them, looking starched and pressed in a white shirt, dark slacks, and a red tie. I wondered what he looked like in his ‘dress blues’. I hadn’t seen him since I had literally run into him in the storm. I still had his sweatshirt sitting, washed and folded, on top of the dryer. I had been trying to work up the nerve to walk down to Don and Nettie’s and give it back to him.

My dad was making his way towards them, extending his hand to Don who hadn’t been to church, except for Christmas Eve service, in years. I wondered if Samuel being in town had something to do with their attendance. It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t come up with another possibility to explain his presence at church today. Samuel saw me walking towards them and something flickered across his handsome face. I was grateful I had worn my red that morning.

Another weakness of mine….red shoes. Tara had given them to me when I graduated from beauty school. She’d purchased them for her mom’s birthday, kind of on a whim, thinking Aunt Louise would have a good laugh at the red, four-inch heels. Louise had laughed all right, and then told Tara to take them back. I can’t explain why I couldn’t let Tara return them, but I had wanted them. I had the same size feet as Louise, and the shoes made me feel happy when I looked at them. For me, happy had been kind of hard to come by. I’d offered to buy them from her, but she’d seen the look on my face and was thrilled to declare them a graduation gift.

I didn’t have anything in my closet to wear with them, and ended up getting a bright red dress with little cap sleeves and a full skirt, just to have something to go with the shoes - but it was worth it. I worried that it was a little much for church - fire engine red shoes, dress, and lipstick were a little conspicuous. I wore the outfit rarely because I felt a little silly in it, but every once in a while, I wore my red shoes while I did house work, just because they made me feel good. There’s just something about red shoes. That morning as I’d dressed for church, I’d decided I should celebrate my birthday with my red dress and my red high heels. I wondered what Samuel thought of my outfit and felt a little flash of guilt that I cared.

“Come on by this afternoon,” I heard my dad say. “We’re having a little barbeque for Josie’s birthday, and we’d love to have you.”

“I’ll bring lemon squares!” Nettie replied firmly. “Then you won’t have to worry about dessert, Josie.” I groaned inwardly. I hated lemon squares. And I wanted to worry about dessert. I wanted chocolate cake.

“That’ll be fine,” my dad said, walking out of the chapel’s big double doors into the Sunday sunshine. I walked at Samuel’s side, trying to think of some way to still make chocolate cake and not hurt Nettie’s feelings.

“I like red,” Samuel said softly. All thoughts of chocolate cake fled my silly head.

I glanced up at him quickly. He was looking down at me. “Happy Birthday, Josie.”

“Thank you,” I said a little too brightly.

“Do you really want us to come for your celebration?” He asked quietly. “Your dad didn’t ask you before he invited us.”

“We’d love to have you.” It was just a little fib, having everything to do with dessert. “Then I can give you your sweatshirt back. I’ve been meaning to bring it by.” I wished I would have kept quiet about the sweatshirt. It made me think of clinging to him in the rain. I looked down at my red shoes shyly.

“I wasn’t worried about the sweatshirt,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you later then.” He turned as his grandparents waved and walked with them to Nettie’s grey sedan.





Jacob and Rachel had four little blond boys, ranging in ages from 7 to 2, who were constantly underfoot. Jacob’s only instructions were “don’t kill yourselves,” and Rachel was always busily doing this or that, setting out food, helping me in the kitchen, and she seemed unaffected by the antics of her wild brood. One time the older boys had tied 4-year-old Matty up in the chicken coop. He had been hollering bloody murder for at least a half hour before anyone realized he was gone. The chickens hadn’t hurt him, but he’d been pecked a time or two and will probably never volunteer to help me gather eggs again.

Jared had married an “out-of-towner” when he went off to school. Her name was Tonya, and she came across a little uppity. She didn’t mix very well, and Jacob’s boys made her very nervous. She kept their two little girls close to her sides, and she spent many of the family get-togethers watching the boys in horror. She was very pretty with her glossy brown bob and perfect makeup, but she had a perpetually pinched look to her mouth, and she was constantly saying things like “Jared, don’t you think you ought to…” and “Jared, you need to ...” Jared had the look of brow beaten husband these days.

Johnny’s wife Sheila was pregnant with twins and was so big she could hardly move. Her feet were swollen and her skinny arms stuck out to the sides like Popsicle sticks. She sat in a lawn chair and didn’t move the entire time they were there. I kept her in cold root beer, and Tonya kept her bored with tales of her own deliveries, which we had all heard a trillion times.

I’d made rolls that morning before church, letting them rise while we went to the service. I had marinated chicken breasts for my dad to grill, and we’d added some hot dogs for the kids. I’d thrown a big green salad together from my garden and made my dad’s favorite tangy potato salad. Chips, watermelon, and root beer rounded out the simple meal, and I was putting tablecloths over the picnic tables we had set up in the backyard when Don, Nettie, and Samuel arrived.

Every woman, including both the pregnant and the uppity, ogled Samuel when he walked into the backyard. He still wore his slacks and dress shirt from church, but he’d taken off his tie, undone the top two buttons, and rolled up his sleeves. He was brown and muscular and his coloring made a stark contrast to all the fair hair and freckles. He carried lemon squares. I sighed in defeat. I had all the ingredients for a double chocolate cake with butter cream frosting in my kitchen. I would just have to whip it up when everyone went home. The thought cheered me, and I went forward to graciously take the lemon squares from Samuel’s hands.

The food was set out, the blessing given on the dinner, and people were digging in before I got a chance to sit down for a minute. The tables were filled with my siblings and their families, so I settled myself on the steps leading from the back door and picked at my plate. I was never very hungry when I cooked ... it must be all the nibbling and testing along the way. Samuel’s shadow soon hung over me.

“Can I sit?”

I scootched over and made ample room.

“This is good food.” Samuel’s voice was polite and formal, and I searched for something to say after the obvious ‘thank you.’

“I remember Johnny from school. He was in a couple of my classes. The kids are nieces and nephews, obviously, but I don’t recognize any of the women, and I don’t know which of your older brothers is which.”

I pointed people out, naming them, organizing them into family groups, telling a little something about everyone.

“Tonya seems tense.” Samuel indicated with his head to where Ricky, Jacob’s oldest, was chasing Matty around Tonya’s chair. Tonya’s four-year-old Bailey was sitting on her lap, shrieking with excitement.

“She isn’t great with kids.” I laughed a little as Tonya let out a panicked “Jaaaarrreeed!”

Just then we were interrupted by Ryan, Jacob’s six-year-old, hollering from around the side of the house.

“Aunt Josie! Ya got company!” He came around the house, holding a bouquet of brightly colored helium balloons so large that he was in danger of being lifted into the air. Trailing behind him were Kasey’s parents, Brett and Lorraine Judd. Lorraine, bless her pea-pickin’ heart, was carrying a huge, triple-layer, chocolate cake.

“Happy birthday, Josie!” Lorraine sang out. I ran to greet them, putting my arms around Brett and getting a big bear hug in return.

“I know chocolate cake is your favorite…I hope you haven’t eaten dessert already!” Lorraine said brightly.

“Oh, Lorraine, I love you,” I breathed, euphoric. “I’m hiding this cake in the kitchen so it won’t get devoured. I’m not sharing!” She laughed with me and looped her arm around my waist as I took the cake from her hands and passed it off to Rachel with explicit instructions to “keep it away from Johnny!”

“So how are you, Josie? I’ve been meaning to swing by the beauty shop, but just haven’t had a minute.”

“I’m okay...”

“Coach Judd!” Johnny came striding up, clasping Brett’s hand in a guy handshake thing. Quick pats on the back in a half hug completed the greeting.

Everyone called out their hellos, and soon Lorraine and Brett were being introduced to Samuel.

“I remember you,” Coach Judd said, squinting up at Samuel. “I had you in my P.E. class your senior year. You were a good athlete, a heck of a runner. I was hoping we’d get you to sign up for track. Did you ever end up becoming a Marine like you planned?”

“Yes Sir,” Samuel replied in answer, and Brett clapped him on the back. “Well done then - good for you.”

Lorraine was looking from Samuel to me with something akin to hurt in her eyes. I perceived the direction of her thoughts and felt a twinge of guilt. The guilt was followed by a flash of irritation. I hadn’t dated even once since Kasey died; I hadn’t wanted to. But Kasey had been gone for more than four years. I wondered if Lorraine thought I had a new boyfriend. The thought made me feel a little sick at heart.

When Kasey was killed, the shockwaves had echoed throughout the community with unparalleled intensity. He was very popular in school and well liked by everyone who knew him. The football team had his number retired, put his name on their helmets the following school year, and the football from the first win of the season had been given to Coach Judd in his name.

The Levan church was too small to seat the number of people expected at his funeral service. His family had to hold it at a much bigger church in Nephi where the chapel could be opened up into the gymnasium to accommodate huge numbers of people. There were no empty seats and many people had to stand throughout the two hour service. The line for his viewing extended all the way out and around the church, lasting for hours. I had stood in the line with the family, hugging sobbing friends and neighbors, enduring the endless ridiculous questions and comments of “How are you, Josie?” and “He’s in a better place now.” I spent the viewing wishing the non-stop stream of mourners and sympathizers both curious and sincere, would just, please, go away.

The shock and sorrow was enormous, the sensationalism of small town drama almost cloying. It had been truly awful. Afterwards, every day that I did not grieve for Kasey felt like a betrayal. Everyone wanted to keep him alive; Kasey’s grave was always adorned with flowers, little notes from friends, photos, and stuffed animals. Even four years later, friends and loved ones visited his grave regularly. Kasey was still a priority in his mother’s heart, the grief very fresh. I wondered if it would always be that way. I thought of all this as I studied Lorraine’s pretty face. She was an attractive blonde in her late forties, but the strain of losing a child had aged her face prematurely, and she had a weariness around her eyes that had not been there before Kasey’s death.

“We’ve just been up to Kasey’s grave, Josie,” Lorraine said a little too loudly. Brett’s conversation with Samuel trailed off awkwardly. “We knew he’d want us to stop by and wish his girl a happy birthday.” She patted my arm, but her eyes were on Samuel’s face. Samuel looked at me, his face smooth and expressionless. He excused himself politely and wandered over to where his grandparents were visiting with Jacob and Rachel.

Lorraine prattled on for another half an hour, staying close to my side. Brett had eventually gone to talk football with my brothers, and I was alone with Lorraine, wishing I knew what to say to comfort her. She didn’t ask me about Samuel. There was nothing to tell if she did, but I was grateful all the same. Eventually, she ran out of steam and gave me a quick hug, telling me she’d be sure and stop by the shop this week. I really hoped she wouldn’t and felt guilty all over again.

After Brett and Lorraine left, my head was aching and it didn’t look like my brothers and their families were going anywhere soon. Sheila had fallen asleep in the lawn chair in the shade of the huge maple. The kids were playing a relatively quiet game of duck, duck, goose. Tonya had roped Rachel into conversation about the latest book on child psychology and discipline techniques, and Rachel was holding her sleeping two-year-old son while still managing to cross stitch. Nettie fanned herself contentedly, and Samuel and Don were being included in the debate about the new football season.

I needed to get out. I crept around the house and out the front, snagging a book and my bicycle on the way out. I couldn’t ride the baby blue bike of my childhood anymore, but I had a big goofy bike with large round wheels, handlebars like a Texas Longhorn, and a basket on the front. It made me laugh because it looked like something an English lady would ride through the countryside. It suited me. I breathed as I made my escape and pedaled quickly down the road, winding my way down and over to the cemetery. The sun was dipping low in the west, and the breeze was just light enough to be pleasant.

I went to my mom’s grave first, pulling the long grass around the stone and brushing off the stray leaves and debris. I liked the feel of her name beneath my fingers. I talked to her a minute, told her how I was, that I missed her, and then made my way over to Kasey’s headstone. His parents had purchased the biggest marker they could afford - it was glossy and ornate with ‘Our Beloved Son’ centered across the top. They’d had a picture of Kasey embossed in the stone, so that everyone who visited the grave could see the handsome youthfulness smiling from his happy face. You would have to be made of granite not to feel something when you saw him, not to feel the enormous tragedy of our loss. He had been so alive and bright and beautiful . . . and his picture only captured a tiny piece of his magic. It hurt to look at him, and I brushed my hand in regret over his image before walking to the other side where I wouldn’t have to see his face as I read.

I had only been lost in Baroness Orczy’s The Elusive Pimpernel for mere minutes when I saw him approaching. Samuel made his way respectfully through the headstones, never stepping over, walking around and down as he made his way to me. I remembered what his grandmother had taught him about anything associated with the dead being somewhat feared among the Navajo. I didn’t know if that was true so much anymore, but wondered at Samuel coming here all the same.

He stopped when he was a few feet away. I sat on the east side of Kasey’s marker, sheltered from the sun. Samuel was facing the setting sun and had to turn his face a little to look at me. He squatted down and found relief in the shade of the monument. I thought he would ask me if I were okay or one of those things that people usually say when nothing else seems appropriate. Instead he just sat with me, not speaking, looking around at the stones, embracing the quiet. It was I who finally spoke.

“That was a little strange back at the house.” I struggled to find words to explain without assuming an interest he may not feel. “I was engaged to Lorraine and Brent’s son Kasey. He was killed in a car accident three weeks before our wedding. It’s been over four years, but for them, and sometimes for me, it seems like yesterday.”

“My grandmother told me.” He didn’t expound further, and I wondered what exactly Nettie had told him and when. I decided it didn’t matter.

“My father’s buried here. Right over there.” He pointed back in the direction he had come. “My grandparents brought me to see his grave when I first came here eleven years ago. I’d never seen it before. I’ve never been back until today.” The silence was heavy around us.

“Does it make you feel better to come here?” He asked solemnly, his black eyes bottomless as they trained in on my own.

I started to answer in the affirmative, and then couldn’t. I didn’t know if I felt better when I came here. Often I felt fresh pain and a sense of timelessness that kept me rooted in the past. My mother’s grave had once been a quiet place for comfort and reflection. I didn’t know if Kasey’s resting place provided the same solace. Guilt had my stomach churning, and I wished Samuel had not come here.

“What do you mean?” My voice was a little sharp, and I bit my lower lip in censure.

Samuel stood and walked around Kasey’s grave. He looked into Kasey’s smiling visage without reaction. “Do you feel better when you come here?” He questioned me again.

No. “Yes,” I lied. “I like the quiet.” That was true, at least.

“There is quiet, and there is too much quiet,” Samuel said cryptically.

I waited for him to continue, but he stood still, looking again at Kasey’s picture.

I climbed to my feet, grumpily brushing the grass and twigs from the colorful skirt Tara had brought me back from her vacation to Mexico earlier in the summer.

“Did you love him very much?”

Okay, now I was irritated. Samuel regarded me openly, unmoving. The way he held himself was so still, so contained. He never seemed to breath, his only movement was the blink of his ebony eyes. He had always had that stillness. I wondered if his training had made it even more pronounced. He definitely didn’t have any scruples about asking very pointed questions. I don’t think that had anything to do with the training. That was just Samuel.

I picked up my book and started making my way towards where I had left my bike. He followed me; I could see him peripherally. He moved so quietly that if I didn’t know he was there, I never would have heard him. I wondered how he had gotten to the cemetery. I couldn’t exactly give him a ride back home on my bike. Memories of him pedaling the two of us home all those years ago when I’d sprained my ankle rose unbidden to my mind. I quickly replaced the image with one of Samuel stuffed in my flowered bicycle basket. It made me feel a little better.

“Did you walk?” I questioned him now.

“I rode.” He indicated with his head towards the grassy shoulder of the dirt road where a chestnut mare nibbled contentedly.

I realized belatedly he’d changed into jeans and boots. How observant of me. I didn’t want to just ride away, but bikes and horses make awkward riding partners. He didn’t seem in a hurry to retrieve his horse.

“Did you follow me?” I didn’t like the peevish tone in my voice, but I was peeved.

“It didn’t take Navajo tracking skills or Marine recon to figure it out, Josie.” His face was serious despite his sarcasm. “I just asked your dad where he thought you’d gone.” He waited a few beats. “You didn’t answer me.” His tone was not accusing, but it was persistent.

“I really didn’t think it was any of your business…” I flushed at my contentious words. I was not good at confrontation, and any time I was forced into one I usually stood my ground, but cried later in my room. It was not something I willingly participated in, but Samuel raised my ire. Most people stayed away when someone went to a cemetery, ALONE. Not Samuel, he just walked right in and asked me if I had loved my dead fiancé.

“I’m trying to understand you.” He said it point blank.

I just shook my head in wonder. “Yes. I loved him. I miss him.” My breath huffed out in exasperation. “That’s why I’m here - to visit him, you know?”

“But he’s not here.” Samuel was emphatic. “He’s never been here. Not since his death, anyway.”

I desperately needed chocolate cake. Now. Or I was going to scream and pull my hair out. Or scream and pull Samuel’s hair out. The temptation to do just that had me gritting my teeth.

“Why are you here, Samuel?” I crossed my arms and thrust my chin at him defensively. “I mean…why did you come back to Levan after all this time? It’s been seven years…and here you are. I’m sure you and I could probably be friends again, but…what’s the point? You know? You’ll be gone soon.”

“My grandparents are getting old. I wanted to see them.” Samuel cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at me. “Didn’t you think I’d ever come back?”

“Actually, yes. I just thought you would come back sooner. Where have you been? What have you been doing? I mean…you were gone so long!” Now where had that come from! I flushed and held my hands to my cheeks, mortified. Since I had seen Samuel in the rain I didn’t know myself. This was the second time I had acted completely out of character, speaking without thinking, reacting totally on emotion.

“I still have the letters you sent me,” Samuel offered softly.

“I wrote so many of them,” I blurted out and winced again. I didn’t seem to be able to curb my impulse to just tell him whatever came into my head. “But when you came back that Christmas and told me you’d outgrown me…well, I thought it was time I stopped making a fool of myself.” My voice faded off awkwardly, and I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously.

Samuel was looking off, almost as if he hadn’t been listening. “Even at boot camp, I didn’t feel right about writing to you, but I couldn’t help it, not then. I needed you too much.” His voice was low, and his eyes swung back to me, a brutal honesty in his expression. “But you were so young, and the feelings between us were too intense. I found myself thinking about you like you were my girl. Then I would remember how young you were, and I would be ashamed of myself. One of my buddies at sniper school asked me one day when I was going to show him a picture of you. I hadn’t talked about you, but you were the only one I ever got letters from and the only one I ever wrote to. I felt like a scum bag, nineteen years old, writing letters to a 14-year-old girl. I knew it couldn’t be good for you. You needed to grow up and so did I. I had things I had to do, and I did them.” His gaze narrowed. “I thought maybe it was time to come back.”

The way he said this made it sound like I was part of the reason he had returned, and my mouth grew dry. I cleared my throat, “And when you leave? What then?” I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say, and I felt incredibly foolish all over again.

He looked at me wordlessly, considering, and I cursed myself silently. So what if he left? What was wrong with me! I felt like I was thirteen all over again and hated that he could make me feel so vulnerable. I picked up my bike, throwing my book in the basket. I climbed on the seat, twisting my skirt around my legs to keep it out of the spokes. He remained silent, watching me. I didn’t look back as I rode away.