Maneuvering himself as best he could, he plopped down beside her on the swing, and she moved a little to the left to give him some room.
Before their mothers had made tonight’s supper the most embarrassing on record, he’d noticed how quiet and distracted Ginger seemed. She barely said a word during dinner, and Woodman’s mind had segued easily to the awkward ending of his conversation with Cain on Thursday afternoon, when he’d left on his motorcycle in such a hurry after Woodman brought up Ginger.
He remembered the way Ginger used to look at Cain when they were kids, like he turned on the stars every night, and suddenly Woodman had a strong suspicion that something had happened between them this week. Something complicated. Something that was pulling them both away from him and hurtling them toward each other.
“Ginger,” he started.
“I’m nobody’s puppet, Woodman,” she said, turning to look at him.
“I know that,” he said gently. “You’ve always had a mind of your own, darlin’.”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “Even if you want to control people, you can’t. Our hearts make decisions that our heads don’t even approve. We can barely control ourselves. And nothin’—nothin’ on earth—ever works out the exact way you want it to.”
Her words, said passionately with the hint of a sob, reverberated in his head. Even if you want to control people, you can’t. We can barely control ourselves. And suddenly Woodman had an epiphany that took his breath away.
I can’t control Ginger.
I can’t control Cain.
He’d always been pretty good about loving Ginger quietly and giving her the time and space to decide what she wanted, but something about his accident, about the loss of control he felt in the wake of his injury, had made him push her for answers from the moment he’d arrived home. And even though she’d stopped by faithfully and they’d had some good talks, he’d strained their relationship because he was putting expectations on her that she’d never promised to meet. And suddenly he realized with startling and blinding clarity:
It does no good to stake a claim on someone’s heart. Unless they give it to you, it isn’t yours to take. All you can do is share your heart and hope she wants it. All you can do is offer it and hope she takes it. All you can do is love her and hope to God she finds a way to love you back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” she asked.
“For tryin’ to force you to love me.”
“Oh, Woodman,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I do love you.”
“I know you do. Like a best friend. Like a brother.”
She shrugged helplessly. “And at times . . .”
He waited for her to continue.
“There have been times,” she said softly, “when I thought I felt somethin’ more.”
With his good foot, he pushed off and the swing rocked gently as he processed her words; those times—those precious moments—when she’d felt possible for him, he’d felt possible for her too. It gave him hope. It restored his patience.
“I love you,” he said gently, staring straight ahead at an old oak tree that was blocking the setting sun. It created a sunburst of orange-gold that made the tree look like it was on fire. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”
“Woodman,” she sobbed.
He didn’t look at her. He stared at the tree as the orange-gold sun set the grass on fire and watched as the old oak was slowly bathed in a calming lavender.
“If you told me ‘no,’ Gin, if you told me ‘never,’ I’d leave you be. You know that, don’t you? It would damn near kill me, but I’d . . . I promise you, I’d walk away. But until you say those words, Ginger, I will keep hopin’ and keep waitin’ for you.”
She took a deep, sobbing breath beside him, and he knew if he looked at her, he’d see tears spilling over the rims of her eyes, but he didn’t look. He watched the grass turn lavender, then purple. He focused on the dying light.
“Gin,” he whispered, hating the question but needing the answer, “are you in love with Cain?”
Peripherally, he saw her shake her head back and forth, letting her neck fall forward until her chin rested on her chest and her shoulders shook the swing with silent sobs. And then he knew for sure. It had happened. Somehow in the space of just a few days she’d fallen for Cain again.
“Gin,” he said gently, putting his finger under her chin and tilting her face up to look at him. Her blonde hair shone in the porch light over their heads as the rest of the world darkened into purple dusk little by little. “Cain is my cousin and I love him, but I just . . . I just don’t think he’s right for you.”
“Why?” she demanded, her voice breaking on the simple, pleading word, as though she truly wanted an answer, as though she’d already posed the question to herself and come up with nothing.