I climbed off the bale again and snatched the blanket from the floor. Shaking it free from as much golden grass as I could, I draped it over her shoulders before sitting back down.
She gave me a watery smile. “Thanks.”
I nodded, fighting a war to leave for my peace of mind and staying for hers. I’d been cruel to this girl—cold-hearted, short tempered, and unforgiving—so the least I could do was give her something no one else was prepared to give.
Even if it would kill me to talk about such things.
“You know…” My voice was quiet, hushed, hesitant around the small stable. “I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, so don’t worry about your mom, okay?”
Her eyes snapped up, her body turning into mine as if thirsty for anything I could tell her. “You don’t?”
I shook my head. “I believe the dead have a choice.”
“What choice?”
“The choice to stay and watch the living, or the choice to leave and go to the next place.”
“What place?”
“Dunno.” I looked at my dirty boots. “Some everlasting meadow where they’re always happy? Another life as an animal or tree or human? Who the hell knows. There’s no point in thinking so much about death because no one truly knows until they’re dead. And then you’ve just wasted your entire life thinking about something you’ll find out sooner rather than later.”
Hope went as silent and as still as I’d ever seen her. Her eyes widened as if I’d finally given her something she’d been searching for. “I never thought about it that way before.”
“Well, now you have.”
She stayed quiet, nodding to whatever thoughts ran riot in her head. Finally, she reached into the baggy pockets of her track pants and pulled out the black piece of fabric that had fallen from her jeans the day I’d given her a ride on Forrest.
I kept my face unreadable as she passed it to me.
I didn’t want to take it, but she grabbed my cool, rough fingers with her warm, silky ones and pressed it into my palm. The lace was soft, not scratchy. Frayed and worn as if the owner had rubbed and stroked it to a fine thread.
“That was Mom’s.” Hope bowed her head, fascinated by the black lace in my hand. She let me go, leaving a trail of pinpricks behind. “It used to be a shawl, but it fell apart over the years.” She sniffed, looking up with glassy green eyes. “Do you think she feels me when I hold it and talk to her? Do you think she’s in some other place and not Hell?”
So many things were wrong with this situation.
I shouldn’t be alone with a girl in a stable at midnight. I shouldn’t be talking about death and dying with a child. And I definitely shouldn’t feel anything more than annoyance and mild disdain.
But behind her youth and fragility lurked someone far braver than me. She’d not only lost a parent—she’d been abandoned willingly by that parent. Yes, Dad had left me and Mom, but it wasn’t like he didn’t fight, didn’t try, didn’t clutch every miracle to hang around as long as he could. And now, even gone, he still found ways to remind us he loved us, missed us, and was proud.
The compass sat heavy and accusing in my jeans pocket, nestled beside my Swiss Army knife. Self-preservation demanded I get up and leave, but compassion and something I’d long been afraid of made me stay.
I felt sorry for her.
I was in awe of her.
In awe of the way she kept fighting with joy and happiness. She wasn’t afraid to love, even though she knew what it was like to have love change to pain. She hugged freely, welcomed touch from others, and sat close to me with no sign of terror.
Once again, I felt like an utter asshole because her gaze no longer pried open my secrets, doing their best to steal what I hid; instead, she pleaded with me to give her comfort.
Comfort she’d been denied.
Why hadn’t the adults seen her vulnerability? Why did they tell her to shut up about this sort of stuff when all she wanted was a frank conversation and some answers to try to make sense of why her mother decided that killing herself was better than a lifetime with her daughter?
I sighed heavily, wrapping my fingers around Hope’s sad scrap of lace.
She sensed my weakness, shuffling closer as if needing contact and also to protect the lace locked in my grip.
My skin heated with warning at her proximity, and I fought my instincts to move away. After tonight, I would keep my distance, but there, in the darkness with only hay and mice to hear me, I whispered, “Yes, I believe she can hear you.”
She sucked in a breath full of thanks and a slight tinge of disbelief that I’d answered. Her gaze tightened with seriousness as she leaned closer. “Do you talk to your dad?”