Nodding, I pull myself up on the fence. It hurts my tender palms and arms, and my hip pops loudly when I swing my leg over, but I pretend it doesn’t bother me when I balance on top.
I yelp when I feel two strong hands on my waist, lifting me up and setting me down on the ground like I’m a toddler and not eighteen.
“You really should have eaten dinner,” he notes, giving my body a thorough once-over with narrow eyes before shrugging and walking away.
I catch up with him and tug my shirt closer to my body when the wind starts picking up. Without any buildings, there’s nothing to block the assault of cool air against us. I refuse to use Kaiden as a wall because I think he’d snark if I even tried getting closer.
We walk for what feels like forever until I see a large sycamore tree in the middle of a field of purple flowers. It seems out of place, yet perfectly set at the same time.
Kaiden walks over to it and sits down, leaning his back against the thick trunk. He seems at peace, which is a new look for him. His body is eased as he stretches his long legs out without a care in the world.
I stare. Not just at him, but at the tree. It’s huge with its long branches and bright green leaves transitioning into yellow and orange and red that give the space a beautiful kind of life. Lo would have loved this spot. She would have dragged me out and stayed here until Mama called our names in frantic worry. Lo always wanted to be free, out in the open, surrounded by trees and plants and animals.
Suddenly, the tears that had finally stopped falling on the way over begin building again until everything blurs. Bottom lip trembling, I hear Kaiden’s heavy sigh.
“What’s wrong now?”
I answer silently what my emotions won’t let me speak aloud.
Lo was buried under a sycamore tree.
Chapter Four
Kaiden’s eyes burn my face as I feebly attempt to contain my tears. Closing my eyes and palming my lids with the heels of my hands, I suck in a deep breath and think positive things to distract my mind from Lo’s image. No matter how hard I try thinking of sunshine, good weather, and how pretty the purple flowers beneath my feet are, all I see is Lo’s headstone.
The last time I went to visit her, there’d been bird droppings and grass shavings all over her stone. I cried and worked hard under the punishing sun until it was spotless and shiny. Then I’d fallen asleep in the shade beneath the sycamore, pretending Lo was right beside me.
It was Grandma who’d found me. Not Mama. When she got me in her car, I asked where Mama was. She told me she was resting. Part of me was glad I hadn’t worried her. Another part of me hated her for not noticing I’d left to begin with.
“You need to breathe, Mouse.”
His gruff words pull me out of my memories. Cracking my eyes open, I see his blurry image where it still rests against the tree. Despite the buildup of tears, I see his frown perfectly clear. Even seemingly angry, he looks gorgeous.
“Why do you look mad?” Blinking rapidly to dry my eyes, I force myself forward until I’m next to him. He doesn’t invite me to sit or make any move, just stares up at me with pursed lips.
“Don’t do well with crying.”
Most men don’t. Like when Mr. Wilson, the man who acted like a father figure to us after Dad left, looked uncomfortable at Lo’s funeral. His face was pale as he stared at her coffin and he left before the service was over.
I sit beside Kaiden, drawing my knees to my chest. Resting my chin against the top of them, I blow out a long breath until the ache in my chest lightens. Suddenly, breathing doesn’t seem so hard, so I close my eyes and let the wind and shade caress me into calmness.
“Your father is an asshole,” he says.
I don’t argue with him.
“Sorry about … shit, you know.”
My lips twitch upward. I guess he doesn’t do well with apologies either. “She was my best friend,” I tell him.
I’m not sure he cares, but I need to tell someone about her. If not today, someday. Not talking about Lo would do her memory injustice.
I lean against the tree trunk and exhale a slow breath when I feel the scratchiness against my back. The discomfort eases me into a familiarity of summer afternoons with Lo in the woods. “Did my Dad really not say anything?”
He clears his throat. “No.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod.
What I said back in the restaurant is probably true. I’ve thought about all the reasons he left, theorized what made him stay away, and hated him a little more each day for it. Normally I wouldn’t say a thing, but it’s been years of bottling up every thought and feeling toward the man who couldn’t even support us when Lo died.