I don’t know how long I sit there shaking, caught fast in a cycle of unanswerable questions, before I finally snap out of it and realize that I did nothing. And now I’m mad.
It’s only the second time I’ve ever been truly angry with Matt. All I want to do is go home, but there’s this voice in my head that says, no. You can’t let him get away with that. Because it wasn’t my fault, and he shouldn’t have kissed me, and most of all he shouldn’t have made me afraid. I shouldn’t have felt afraid in the arms of my first love.
The angry tears begin again as I scramble out of the truck and start toward the house. I vaguely hear Jack call after me, but I ignore him. There are people in Joyce’s cutesy-country-crafty kitchen, a few lounging on the soft floral couch in the living room, but Matt’s not with them. I head down the hallway toward his room, trying to keep myself from crying as I knock on his door.
He doesn’t answer, but he didn’t respect my space—why should I respect his? Matt Kincaid hurt me, and this night can’t get any worse.
So I throw open the door, and oh my God do things get worse.
My eyes land on Rachel as she shrieks in surprise and scrambles sideways off Matt, halfway off the bed. She bounces back onto her feet quickly, clutching her arms around herself self-consciously, but Matt’s still sprawled out on the comforter unconcerned, and I wish I had turned away as soon as my eyes registered them, but there was something so impossible about the situation that I’m completely frozen.
“Jesus, Natalie!” Rachel yelps, face flushed and eyes wide and white-rimmed. “Ever hear of knocking?”
The look on Matt’s face is the worst part. He looks pissed but sort of happy about it, like he couldn’t have planned this any better. I turn and run back down the hall, and this time, unlike all the rest, Matt doesn’t follow me.
I run through the living room and kitchen and burst back out into the lot, sobs breaking out of me like splintering wood.
I have to get out of here.
I spin, searching for Megan, someone to hold on to. But everything’s suddenly different, and I can’t get my bearings. The old red barn I’ve always known is gone, and in its place there’s a looming, powder blue and white storehouse that looks brand new. There are still people here, but the details are completely wrong. Derek’s in the cab of his truck making out with Molly Haines, a girl who’s loathed him since I misguidedly set them up in the ninth grade, and if that weren’t strange enough, he’s parked in a different spot. I run toward the mouth of the gravel driveway, but I can’t find Megan’s Civic anywhere. Everything’s wrong, in a nightmarish way where it’s not so wrong that I can be sure I’m sleeping. In fact, I’m sure I’m awake, but I’m also sure the world isn’t right, and the people and parked cars and music are closing in on me, and I can’t breathe. I’m no longer in control of my body, and I’m turning in search of help, then running, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and that sinister blue storehouse.
I take off down the slope of the gravel path, and at the bottom of the hill, I make my way toward the little bridge in the woods that connects the Kincaid farm with the church. Please let this stop right now. Please let this whole night be undone. Please get me to a place where everything’s how it’s always been and the world is stable, and I’m safe.
Bright headlights swing around the road. I hurry to the side of the path as a junker truck drives past, then reverses to stop beside me. The glare of the headlights is blinding, but I can see the door swing open and someone squinting through the darkness at me.
“Natalie?”
Beau swings his legs out of his truck and comes toward me.
9
“What happened?” he says. “Are you okay?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod. If I speak now, it’ll only lead to sobbing. He stands in front of me, his hands resting on his hips. “Natalie, what happened?”
I drop my face into my hands and try to press back the tears. “I can’t” is all I offer up. When I look back up at him, he gently grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, wrapping his arms around me and cupping the back of my head with one of his big hands.
“Are you hurt?” His low voice rumbles through me, and I shake my head. “Do you need a ride home?”
“Mm-hm,” I manage. Neither of us releases the other right away. I feel a terrible sadness sweep over me, the last cleaving of myself from the world I thought I knew.
Beau’s hands lift to gently hold the sides of my face, and he pulls back to look me in the eyes. “Let’s get you home,” he says softly.
I follow him to the truck and climb in on the passenger side. It’s not like Derek’s Ford; it’s boxy and sits low to the ground, the interior a rough fabric covered in spills and burns, and the windows the kind you have to crank by hand. “What were you doing here?” I ask him.