My foot lays heavy on the gas as I speed down the highway toward the turnoff that leads to getting her out of the truck. “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what I did, but it’s clear I’ve done something horribly wrong.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Don’t be—”
“I am. Don’t be mad. I don’t want to upset you.” Where are the words coming from? They’re pouring out on instinct.
“You didn’t.”
“Yes. I did.”
Heat hits my biceps and almost sends me through the roof. Her long slender fingers squeeze. “Lucas. Listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s . . .” She blows out a breath. “Can you take me there?”
“T-t-to where I live?” Nerves explode in my stomach as I remember the last time she got close to my place. “I . . . uh . . .”
“It belonged to my mom,” she whispers, and her hand drops from my arm to her lap.
That must’ve been what the tears were about that night she showed up in the creek.
“Your dad said I could live there in exchange for my finishing it up.”
“I know.”
Silence builds between us.
“I didn’t know it was your mom’s.”
She flashes a sad smile. “I know that too.”
By the time we get to Nash’s place, she’s calmer, the hardness in her eyes replaced by a blank stare. I wait in the truck so she can drop the fry bread tacos into the fridge, and she comes out holding a Styrofoam box. She climbs back into the truck and I reverse out of the dirt drive and point the truck toward home.
We don’t speak and once the tiny house comes into view, she visibly tenses.
I pull up under the juniper tree and her fingers quake as she reaches for the door handle. She doesn’t wait and drops out of the cab. I follow her, keeping my distance as she moves slowly around to the front of the house, but doesn’t move any farther.
I feel like an intruder. Unwelcome not only in this house, but also in this private moment. As she’s stuck in some kind of memory, somewhere between past and present, I realize we’re not all that different.
I know what it’s like to mourn.
Know the pain of loss.
My mom is gone too.
But whereas it seems Shyann lost an angel, I was freed from the devil.
“I came here.” She talks to the front door. “The other night, I walked here and—”
“I know, I saw you.” I cringe and drop my chin, unsure why I confessed and wishing I could take it back.
“You . . . saw me?”
I nod.
There’s a shift, the slight crunch of gravel beneath her boots, and I feel her eyes on me without actually seeing them. “All of me?”
This reminds me of when I was a kid being questioned by my mom, knowing I needed to tell the truth but being terrified of the consequence.
“It was dark, but . . .” My shoulders touch my ears and I whisper, “Please, don’t be mad.”
“Oh . . .” She’s quiet, reflective. Not what I was expecting, reminding me that Shyann is different. She’s not like Mom.
I don’t tell her what seeing her naked body did to me or how I responded, but that stirring between my legs is proof the memory is still fresh. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.” She lets out an exasperated breath. “I should be the one apologizing. I’d been out drinking and . . . it’s your home now. I had no business being here. It’s my fault.”
“I should’ve looked away.” My face ignites and I’m sure she can—I suck in a breath as her hand grabs mine.
Her eyes are gentle with compassion and understanding. “It’s okay, Lucas.”
My fingers squeeze hers without my permission and it brings a small smile to her sad face.
Pride pounds behind my ribs. I’m glad to erase even a tiny bit of her grief.
She holds up the Styrofoam container. “Can I put this in your fridge before it goes bad?”
I nod, and fear that this means I have to let go of her hand.
Her warm, firm grip is reassuring. Comforting. I don’t want to lose it.
She moves and—“Oh shit!” She leaps behind me and her hands fist my T-shirt at my sides. “What the fuck is that?” Her arm shoots forward, her breasts pressed to my back. I fight the weakening in my knees at the overload of her touch. “There! Under the deck! Oh my God, it’s a mountain lion. Is it a mountain lion?” She claws at my abdomen, tugging me backward. “Is there a gun in the truck? We need to get—”
“No.” The mention of a weapon snaps me from the fog of her touch and intoxicating floral scent. “It’s a dog.”
“What!” Her muscles relax, but her grip on me tightens. It’s almost enough to make me laugh. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I place my hands over hers at my waist. “It’s okay. Far as I can tell, he’s harmless.”
“Oh, okay.” Her forehead presses into my shoulder blade and she exhales hard. “Right. A dog. I’m good.”
She drops her hold and steps back. I immediately miss her heat and the suppleness of her body, but it’s for the best. She bends over and picks up what’s left of the fry bread taco in pieces over the ground.