After Rowan's tucked into bed and I tell her the story about the teenage hitchhiker who disappears from the car as soon as the driver passes an old cemetery, I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. Headlights flash in the driveway as I hurry down the stairs, my heart drumming in my chest.
Smith's here, exactly when he said he would be.
He hops out of his Volvo and sprints towards the porch, his arm shielding his face from the rain. Before he can knock, I blow out a breath and open the door. His smile greets me, slow and relaxed, as it spreads across his face.
When I let him inside, a gust of chilly air chases after him. "Am I too early?"
"Perfect timing. I just got her into bed."
"Does Rowan make a habit of getting up when it's not expected?"
His question makes me grin. "We should be good for the rest of the night. Here, let me take your jacket."
When I help him peel it off, the suede is cold and dotted with drops of rain. As I hang it in the closet, a whiff of aftershave kicks up a sudden nervousness in my chest.
This is the first chance since we've started dating where we've been completely alone with no one expected to interrupt. I've been wanting this time, waiting for it. I only hope he has been, too.
"Are you hungry? There's leftover pizza in the fridge," I offer, trying to break the awkward silence.
"I'm good." Smith studies me, his eyes shaded with concern. "I felt bad leaving you this morning. How are you feeling?"
My arms cross over my middle and I grip my elbows, an attempt to block the chill still lingering in the foyer. "I just wish I knew how Jordan's doing. Someone must know something by now, right? It's been a whole day."
"Oh. You didn't hear?"
All the warmth drains from my face, leaving my head both heavy and weightless at the same time. I force the words from my mouth, afraid of what he might say. "Hear what?"
Smith cracks a knuckle, and shifts his weight. "She got out of surgery a couple hours ago, and they moved her to the pediatric ICU. Her doctors say she's going to be okay."
A wave of relief crashes into me. "Oh, thank God—I've been so worried! What all is wrong?"
"She has a punctured lung, two broken legs, a cracked pelvis, and an open fracture to her arm. There's no way she'll be playing soccer again this year. Or maybe ever. Who knows if she'll even make it back to school."
Relief morphs into dread.
Jordan's a talented soccer player, and it's obvious from watching her these past few years that she has a true love of the game. If I couldn't play anymore, I'd be devastated. Ever since I was a child, all I've wanted is to play professional ball. If something came along and destroyed my dreams, I'm not sure how I'd handle it.
My shoulders sink, the reality of what happened setting in. "I wonder if she knows."
"I doubt it. The police haven't even gotten a statement yet, but they did say they were tire marks. She probably swerved to avoid an animal." He blows into his hands, then rubs them together.
"You must be freezing. Do you want to warm up by the fireplace?" Smith follows me into the great room where a fire crackles in the hearth. Now that it's dark, it illuminates the room in a golden glow, the silhouette of flames dancing across the floor. "Would you like a hot chocolate? Rowan lives off of that stuff when it's cold out."
"No, thanks." Smith collapses into the couch and pats the seat next to him. I waste no time curling into his side, his arm draping across my shoulders.
We sit like this for a while, my finger trailing along the seam of his jeans, as the red and orange flames lick at the inside of the chimney. "How did you hear about Jordan?"
"Mey told Kobe and Kobe told me. I'm sorry, I assumed you knew."
"Why didn't Mey call?" I pull my phone from my pocket, and when I unlock the screen, it's blank. I swipe down to pull up past notifications, and there are two missed texts. As I read through them, consolation unfurls in my chest. "She's lucky to be alive."
"Right? Some guys from school drove out to where it happened and said her car rolled at least three hundred feet. It's a miracle she didn't end up in the ravine."
The water's deep near Fibber's Ridge. If Jordan's Jeep had gone under, there's no way she'd be alive right now. We may not even know where she is.
Bile burns my throat as I imagine her in a dark and watery grave, her auburn hair floating like pondweed around her head. When I lean back, Smith pulls me closer, but the idea of what could have happened won't let me be. It needles my gut, pricks along the back of my neck. Before I know it, I'm fighting tears, lips pressed together, body trembling as I try to hold it in.
Smith dips his head toward mine and his expression softens. "Hey, she'll be okay. Don't worry."
I nod but tears roll down my cheeks anyway, and drop from my chin onto my sweater. All the emotions I've been holding back pour out, regardless of my audience. Not only about Jordan's accident but fear of whatever Emma's hiding.
She's right—I am obsessed.
This is how it began last time: an unfortunate circumstance leading to unease and then contorting into something I couldn't even recognize. Something that grew bigger and stronger every day until it took over everything. My shoulders shake as the tension forces its way out, my lungs struggling for air.
"Arbor ..." Smith shifts next to me and tucks my hair behind my ear. He rubs small circles into my back until the flow of tears slow. "This is about more than Jordan, isn't it?" he finally asks.
When I look up, he's staring at me, worry creasing the space between his eyes.
I need to be honest and unload some of this burden. I know better than to tell him everything, but some of the weight needs lifted from my shoulders. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat but all I do is cough.
"I'll get some water." He hurries into the kitchen and rummages through the cabinets, the sound of clinking glasses loud enough to hear. When he returns, he places the glass in my hand. It's cool against my heated skin.
I take a sip, and then another, the liquid pooling in my stomach like the puddles outside. And then, because I don't know where to start or what to say, I blurt out, "Emma came through my window last night and was waiting for me when I got home."
My God, was that only last night? It feels like forever.
His lips part but he hesitates. I can almost see the confusion swirling around inside his head. "What did she want?"
The story rolls off my tongue and some of the pressure along with it. But not all. I'm still absorbing the majority of it, and that's the way it has to be. At least, for now.
When I finish, Smith is still staring at me. He turns toward the fire, as if letting what I said sink in.
"Something's weird," I tell him. "Emma's not like a fragile victim, she's more like a ... predator." My eyes squeeze shut as the last word leaks out.
He's quiet—too quiet. The glow from the flames rise and fall against his face, and the longer I wait for him to say something, anything, the more I'm convinced I made a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut and not told him what happened. What if he thinks I'm wrong? Or worse, what if he thinks it's all in my head?
Same as the last time.
But then a memory catches. Something Smith said before about his and Emma's relationship. He never did explain himself, and I never thought to ask. But now I need an answer. "Do you remember when you were talking about you and Emma and you said things aren't always what they seem?" I wait for his nod. "What did you mean?"
Smith tenses under the weight of my stare. Flames from the fireplace reflect in his eyes, drawing me in like a moth. Even if I wanted to, I can't tear myself away. Not until he answers my question.
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, turns his body towards mine. "Emma and I had a great relationship, and we had a lot of fun together. But it wasn't like how people thought."
I search his expression for more, but come up blank. "I don't understand."
"Everyone assumed they knew what we were to one another, but it wasn't really accurate." A swallow pushes down his throat and he turns away, focusing again on the fire. Crackles devour the silence as I wait for him to continue. "At times, it didn't even feel like we were boyfriend and girlfriend. It felt more like—I don't know—like we were brother and sister."
I can't hold back my surprise. "Are you saying your relationship was platonic?" I emphasize that last part to make certain I understand, but even as it comes out of my mouth, I don't believe it.
Emma and Smith became a couple in seventh grade, and throughout the years, I had a front row seat to their connection—whether I liked it or not. During that time, I saw plenty. Occasional breakups and reconciliations. Detailed accounts of the first kiss. Of their first time. All the while pretending like what was happening didn't hurt. Emma and Smith were in love. They rarely shared intimate moments in public, but it was obvious their feelings ran deep. And now he's telling me what they had wasn't real?
"Not exactly platonic." When he faces me, his discomfort is evident. Like sharing the specifics of their past is not what he wants to do. "Sometimes, when we'd kiss, I'd feel like it was more for show than anything else. Like her heart wasn't really in it."
"But you did more than just kiss," I tell him.
It feels strange, letting him know I know. But I'm sure he had to suspect. Of course my best friend told me about the first time she had sex. It happened the summer after our sophomore year, while his parents were out of town. To my relief, she didn't release the most intimate details, but I distinctly remember her saying it was amazing.
Smith's head drops and he looks up through his lashes. His voice is quiet, and I have to lean in to hear him. "We did have sex, but only a few times. It just never felt—right."
"Wait a minute." I shift in my seat, his confession inducing a restlessness in my limbs. "Emma went on and on about how amazing it was. And you're telling me you didn't like it?"
"Of course, I liked it." His eyes drift around the room, looking anywhere but at me. I get the impression that if he could sink into the cushions and disappear, he would. "But something about it always felt off. Like maybe she didn't like it. So, I never pushed. If it happened, it happened. I always left it up to her. But sometimes I wondered if—" And then he stops.
My stomach drops out from underneath me. "You wondered if what?"
Once again, Smith's gaze moves away from mine. "I wondered if she didn't want to be with me."
The disclosure hitches my breath.
This is hard on him. Sharing personal information has never come easy for Smith. The only thing he's been open about is his family's history of drug and alcohol abuse. And even that came with doubts, which is one reason he started All Hands On Deck, the anti-drug club at school. So others, like him, wouldn't feel so alone.
Sympathy swells in my chest and I reach out to touch his arm. I hate that he feels bad, but what he's saying doesn't make sense, and it doesn't match what I've been told. According to Emma, their relationship was solid, built on genuine feelings and a shared bond. The bond I'd wished for myself and thought I'd never have.
A sudden ache takes over my hand, the tendons rigid and stiff. Without realizing, I've been squeezing the glass of water in my grip. I loosen my fingers, balance the glass on my lap.
"You've been stressed out ever since Emma came home. Maybe you shouldn't talk to her for awhile?"
I glance up and blink. Once, twice. Another shock. "What else was I supposed to do? She was hiding in my room."
Smith shifts closer. "I understand, but we don't know what kind of psychological damage has been done, and I don't want you to get hurt."
"It's not that I think she's going to hurt me. I'm just not sure I trust her."
"Still. I wouldn't take any chances. If whatever she went through is even half as bad as what you've said ..." He lets the sentence fade off. "It's like when a family pet goes missing and has to learn to fend for itself in the wild, a natural instinct eventually takes over. And if they're left alone long enough, they become, almost—feral."
I shake my head, my hair tumbling around my shoulders. "Emma's not feral. She's just...off."
"I'm serious. You shouldn't communicate with her. Not until she gets the help she needs. It's like playing with a loaded gun."
His words punch me in the gut. I'm not even sure he realizes their significance.
Smith scoots closer. His hand caresses my thigh, sending a jolt through my veins. "I just want you to be safe. And for God's sake, would you please lock your bedroom window from now on? You don't need her sneaking in again."
His request is sincere, but the way he says it makes me smirk. "My window doesn't have a lock. She's been coming through it for years."
"Then maybe it's time to bust out the super glue." Finally, he flashes a crooked smile, and before I can take a breath, his mouth is on mine. Gentle at first, and slow, but with a growing need.
My pulse kicks into overdrive when his hands push through my hair, my nerves searing like they're on fire. Heat blazes through my body, starting in the center of my stomach and extending throughout my limbs before reaching my fingertips and toes.
I don't want this closeness to end. I want his hands on me, moving under my sweater, over my stomach, across my back. I want the friction of his skin against mine. But then thunder explodes and the entire house convulses. I jump, the glass of water in my lap drenching my thin sweater straight through to my bra.
Smith's eyes widen when they take me in, the fabric clinging to my chest, the beads of water dripping from my hair. At first, I'm horrified, until a giggle works its way up my throat. The harder I try to contain myself, the worse my laughter becomes. Before long, Smith joins in, and the release is amazing. Stress drains from my muscles, and for the first time in a long time their tightness unravels. My lungs fill with a much needed breath of fresh air.
As I set the glass on the sofa table, water drips from my sleeve and onto the couch, blossoming across the fabric. I push myself up and stand, give an exaggerated shake, like a dog wet from the rain. When I flick my arms, droplets soar in every direction, the soaked ends of my hair continuing to drip on the floor. But I'm still laughing. "I need to check on Rowan and change. I'll be right back."
I take the steps two by two and tiptoe down the hallway until I reach Rowan's room. As quiet as possible, I crack it open, a hazy glow from clouds passing over the moon slanting across the bed. Rowan's fast asleep, unaware of the storm outside.
I click the door shut behind me and slip into my own room, my fingers searching for the light switch on the wall. But when I flip it to the on position, nothing happens. It takes three attempts before I realize the electricity's out. The only light available comes from the smoldering fireplace and the muted moonlight outside.
With my door propped open, the murky gleam from the hallway skylights crawls into my room, allowing my eyes to adjust. I strip off my sweater, the fabric soft and wet as it skims over my head, and rummage through my overnight bag for a sweatshirt. My bra clings to my breast like a second skin. The silky straps are just about to slide off my arms when footsteps creep up behind me.
I know those footsteps.
A deep-seated need stirs in my chest. When I turn, the shape of Smith fills the doorway.
I was right. He wants this, too. I take a step forward, and then again, until our breaths mingle together. When my fingers reach for his hand to pull him inside, a groan rumbles from his throat.
"Are you sure?" His voice is huskier than normal, almost unrecognizable, as rain strums a haunting tune against the roof.
All I can do is nod, my gaze holding his in the haze of patchy moonlight, and I let my bra fall to the floor.