I’m shaking.
Defeat casts over me. I slide the piece to the floor and close my eyes.
“Dammit, Shyann. You’re going to ruin everything for me.”
SHYANN
“. . . officials have yet to comment on what is predicted be an economic—”
Click.
“. . . the CDC reports this year to be the worst flu season since—”
Click.
“. . . plane went down after pilots radioed in—”
Click.
“. . . Kanye West is at it again—”
Click.
The television flashes and fades to black and I toss the remote onto the coffee table. My dad refuses to get cable television, so my options for six o’clock on a Friday night are news or entertainment news. Lucky me.
I’d rather watch dust settle than other people live out what should have been my future. The good news is, feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in my own mistakes has kept my mind from wandering to Lucas. But sure enough, the second the distraction is gone, my thoughts are back on the beautifully broken man.
What must life be like for him? He’d talked about his brothers and even a sister. He has a family, so why is he here alone in Payson? Maybe he was forced out because of his condition?
I push up from the threadbare couch and move to the kitchen. My heart squeezes as memories of cooking for my mom push thoughts of Lucas from my head. She had a passion for cooking, which made her last few months with a feeding tube feel like a cruel joke. She was so young, not even forty years old, when she was diagnosed and died two years later. We—no, she—deserved more time.
Slamming cupboards, I decide that after dinner I’ll go into town, maybe catch a movie. Anything to get away from this house and its depressing memories that never seem to let up.
A quick once-over of the freezer and I settle on frozen pizza. I rip open the packaging and toss the icy disk into the oven without waiting for it to preheat. The kitchen timer ticks loudly, breaking up the dreaded silence. I drum my fingers against the countertop. This’ll take forever and every passing second of quiet feels like a century. I crank up the heat to defrost my dinner faster—
A knock sounds at the door and I jump.
My instincts scream, Murderer! until logic reminds me it’s probably my babysitter, but if good looks could kill, I’d be a goner. As embarrassing as it is to be checked in on, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little excited about seeing Lucas, getting my eyes on the subject of all my thoughts.
“Coming.” I pad across the kitchen floor in sock-covered feet and take a steadying breath before swinging open the door.
“Hey, Lucas.”
My heart kicks behind my ribs at seeing him, standing there looking as timid and handsome as ever in jeans that seem to hug his long body in all the right places and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt. The top half of his face is shadowed beneath that damn ball cap I’m starting to wish I could hide so I didn’t have to fight to see his eyes.
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Your dad, he—”
“I know. He’s a little overprotective.” I move into the doorway and lean a shoulder against the frame. “You didn’t have to do this. I’m fine here alone.”
He looks around, everywhere but at me. “Promised Mr. Jennings I’d do it.”
“Gotcha. But as you can see . . .” I motion to myself, from my faded Jennings Contractors tee to my pink pajama pants. “I’m good.” It’s then I realize I didn’t hear him arrive. Here in the mountains where the earth is covered in rocks, dirt, and pine needles; it’s impossible to get anywhere without making noise. “Did you walk?”
He looks down the path that leads to the river house. “Yeah.”
“Lucas, you shouldn’t walk that far this late at night. At least, not without a rifle.”
For the first time, his eyes meet mine. “Don’t like guns. Besides, it’s not that far.”
“I know how far it is. I walked it, remember?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I curse.
“Remember what? Why were you walking it?” His voice is pained, and the sound makes my chest ache.
“Never mind. I’m sorry.” I blow out a long breath and step back into the house. “You wanna come in?”
He doesn’t answer verbally but takes a retreating step.
Okay, fine. I walk outside and close the door behind me, then drop to an old iron bench my mom brought home from a garage sale when I was ten. The thing weighs a ton and Dad said he’d get rid of it if he were strong enough to lift it. He’d smile at her because we all knew he loved the damn thing for the simple fact that it made her happy. The bench was covered in Tupperware the week Mom died. It became a drop-off for the town do-gooders. Food for the mourning, as if we could eat when our entire world had been ripped apart.
I tuck my feet up under my butt and dust the dirt from my socks.