Burying Water
Page 34
“Nope.” He takes the folded blanket from my hand and drops it on the pile for me. Glancing behind me, he offers, “Hey, Dakota. How’s it going?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, still leaning against the counter, her chin in her palm, staring at Jesse. Almost through Jesse. And then it’s as though invisible fingers snap in front of her, because she startles. “Hi, Jesse! It’s good to see you.”
A horn honks from just outside the store. It’s a big green truck with “Hart Brothers” stamped into the side and a young guy sitting in the passenger seat, his hand slapping the side of the door as if to the beat of music.
Jesse gives my waist a light squeeze. “Gotta go. Just wanted to stop by.”
“See you later?” The question’s casual enough.
“Yeah, I’m around.”
I watch him climb into the back of the truck cab. Wondering what the hell “Yeah, I’m around” means. That I’ll see him because he’s around and, by default, I may literally see him? Or should I go visit? Or maybe he’ll come visit? Or . . .
“He has feelings for you.” Dakota’s eyes have that dreamy look in them. “Deep, consuming feelings. The kind that dominate your thoughts and control your decisions. And feed your soul.”
My stomach leaps to my throat, her words sparking something inside me. Hope, that’s what that is. And it’s silly. “We barely know each other, Dakota.”
Her wide mouth spreads into a smile. “And yet you know each other. Your spirits are . . . entwined.”
“Did you smoke something while you were tossing the trash out back?” I exclaim.
That smile simply hangs there for a few seconds. And then she starts to giggle.
Lasagna—one of Ginny’s favorites—is cooling on the stove when I first hear the rumble of Jesse’s car. I practically jump out of my chair and run to the window in time to see him pull into the garage and cut the engine. The door slams and a moment later, he strolls out to the edge of the garage.
And then he turns to my window.
The lights are off in here so I doubt he can see me, and yet he stares for so long that I perhaps think he can.
“I’m around,” I mutter, repeating what he said earlier. Before I can chicken out, I grab two plates and slice into the lasagna with a spatula, heaving sizeable pieces onto them. Covering them with foil, I take the stairs down faster than I normally would, afraid that Jesse will disappear into his attic.
He’s leaning against the back wall, his arms folded over his chest, simply staring at his car when my foot hits the concrete floor. “Does it look different than it did yesterday?”
He smirks. His work clothes are dirty and I see a small scrape on his arm. I’m guessing he’s going to be getting into the shower soon, a visual I don’t need to be having right now.
I hold up the plates. “I thought you and your dad might like dinner.” Dakota’s voice rings out loud inside my head. He has feelings for you.
“Thank you.” He takes the plates and our hands touch briefly.
And that strange sense of comfort I keep feeling around him washes over me in a wave. Regardless of what my mind has decided to protect me from, my senses are telling me that Jesse is safe. That Ginny is wrong about him.
Ginny.
“Shit.” I glance up at the wall clock and see that I have exactly two minutes to get the lasagna to the table. “I’ve gotta go. See you later?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here. Or upstairs.”
I make it to the porch with exactly ten seconds to spare and Ginny’s already waiting in her seat. “Your favorite. There’s enough for a few meals here.”
She frowns. “It’s missing a quarter.”
“Yes, it is.” I load her plate and mine, and then take a seat and stab at it, starving.
“Well?” Ginny’s staring at me now. “Where did it go?
“I thought Sheriff Gabe and Jesse might like a piece, so I brought it over.”
“To Gabe?”
“Nope.” The p in the word pops out of my mouth, and then I shovel a piece of lasagna in my mouth and level her with a look.
For once, she doesn’t answer, deciding to mimic me and fill her mouth with food, either because it’s that good or she’s intentionally shutting herself up. Ginny’s answers are usually more logical and palatable with at least a seven-second delay.
That’s why I wait until she has another mouthful before I say, “I met a Hildy today.” Ginny’s eyes flash with instant recognition, so I know that her childhood best friend hasn’t been forgotten, even after almost fifty years. “She would really like to come visit you.”
She chews slowly, her hazel eyes looking past me, to the fields, to the mountains, to years ago, when things were different for her. Finally, she swallows and says softly, “That’d be nice.”
Ginny is surprisingly chatty for the rest of our meal. She tells me about the time she and Hildy went to the rodeo and saw the sheriff at the time fall off his horse walking down Main Street, an empty flask of whiskey in his hand, the contents already poured down his gullet.
I catch myself smiling, and not because of the story.
Maybe we’re both lucky to have found each other.
“Jesse?”
I fold my arms against the chill. The big storm brought with it milder weather, but the evenings are still on the cool side. He’s not in the garage, so I knock on the door in the back. He did tell me to come by. Kind of. And he did tell me that he might be upstairs.
So I try the handle. The door pops open. A familiar smell fills my nostrils immediately, but I can’t place it.
“Jesse?” I call into the open space. I get no response, but I hear the low voices from a television. Climbing the stairs, I find Jesse sprawled out on his back, in bed. Asleep.
I should feel like I’m intruding, but I don’t. It’s a cozy space, made entirely of wood, and almost as sparse as my attic. The only light comes from the TV, save for a night light plugged into the wall near the stairs. The floor creaks loudly as I step across it to turn it off.
“Hey,” comes a groggy voice from the bed, and my heart swells instantly.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.”
He groans out loud. “I just drifted. Cutting down trees all day sucks ass.”
He hasn’t moved and doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so. “Okay, get some sleep, then.” I shut the TV off and move to pull his bedspread over him.
I freeze when a hand skates up my forearm, gently, slowly, his calluses scratching over my skin as his fingers slip up the sleeve of my sweater. But they stop at my elbow, waiting. For my permission, maybe? I give it to him by sitting down on the bed.
“Stay.”
My stomach tightens. What does he want from me? Or expect? Because I don’t know if I can give it to him.
But I also know that I don’t want to leave. “Like last time?”
“Just like last time,” he assures me.
My heart is pounding as I lie down. His hand slips out from my sleeve and then his arm lifts beneath my back, pulling me closer to him, until I can’t help but curl into his chest. To hear his quick, shallow breaths.
I catch movement from his hand in the sparse light only a second before a finger grazes my hair, my neck, my chin.
The edge of my scar.
My right side is lying against his chest but he gently prods my head up, until I’m facing the ceiling and he has access. I swallow hard as he trails a finger up and down the length of it.
“I read what you wrote in my journal,” I finally offer into the silence.
He doesn’t answer, making two more passes along the scar with his finger, as if memorizing the feel of it. And then his hand settles gently on my neck as he leans in, until wet heat from his mouth skates across my skin.
He kisses my scar.
I close my eyes, the sensation stirring a ball of emotions deep within my stomach that I don’t understand but are raw and crippling in their intensity. The tears begin to spill from my eyes.
Jesse stops but he doesn’t pull away, simply pressing his forehead against my scar, his thumb stroking back and forth against my neck soothingly as the tears continue to fall.
Until I drift off.
I’m faintly aware of an alarm going off somewhere nearby, and then I feel someone leaning over me, the scent familiar and warm. Cracking my eyes open a sliver, I see the ridges of Jesse’s chest. I automatically reach for him, curling my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into me . . .
Kissing his throat like it’s the most instinctual thing in the world for me to do.
It isn’t until he slaps the alarm clock that I fully wake up and realize what I’m doing. I pull back with a gasp. “I’m sorry.”
He props himself up, his elbows on either side of my head, cradling me. His dark eyes are twinkling.
“It just felt so . . .” I feel myself frown, searching for the right word. “Natural.”
“In general? Or with me?”
“Not in general.” I pause, hesitating. “Why do things feel so natural with you?”
He shifts to run the backs of his fingers over my cheek, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Do they?”
“Yeah. You must remind me of someone. I feel like I know you.”
He smiles. A sad smile. “Maybe you just want to know me.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes, his thumb drifting over my bottom lip, first over the faint scar left by the attack, and then over the full length, each sweep dragging an exhale from my lungs until my breathing is ragged and my body starts to ache in a familiar way, a way I know I’ve experienced before. I just don’t remember when.
I’m about three seconds from begging him to kiss me when he leans down and closes his mouth over mine.
And the alarm goes off again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dipping his face into my neck. “I have to go.”
Checking the clock, I see that it’s ten minutes after eight. “So do I. The horses need to be let out.”
His mouth closes over my throat to kiss it gently, and I can’t help the moan that slips out.
“You’re killing me,” he whispers—so soft that I barely hear it—and then he lifts himself up. I stand and watch as he peels his shirt off for a clean work shirt from his dresser. It gives me a chance to see the muscular curves in his shoulders and back. And the tattoo stretched from shoulder to shoulder, which I recognize right away as his car. “What came first, the car or the tattoo?”
I hear his smile as he answers, “Tattoo. I got it when I was sixteen.”
“Your parents allowed it?”
“Fake ID.”
Of course. Stepping closer, I dare reach up to run a finger around a tire. “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”
He freezes with his shirt held in front of him, a hiss that sounds a lot like “Jesus” slipping from his lips. I’m not sure if it’s my words or my finger that he seems to be reacting to. He turns to face me, his eyes searching. Begging, almost. “I did really want this car.” He says it like it’s a confession, like it’s something to feel guilty for. I watch his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow as he steps into me, the heat from his bare chest radiating off him like the woodstove I curl up next to each night.
With a hand around the back of my neck, he leans in to kiss me, this time without hesitation, without caution.
With urgency and passion. And fear.
Just as suddenly, he breaks free. Gripping my hand, he leads me down the stairs, past the car, to the edge of the garage. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I smile, waving, until the tail end of his car disappears around the corner of the house.
That’s when I notice Meredith sitting on the deck with a mug in her hands. Watching.
My cheeks flame immediately. What must be going through her head right now? She knows what happened to me. She knows I was carrying some man’s baby only months ago. Would she approve of me being with her son? Would she want him mixed up with someone with my past, given his own?
I give her a quick wave—because it would be rude not to—and then I rush toward the barn, a nervous sickness rolling in my stomach the entire way, as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Which is ironic, since everything about Jesse feels right.
“Zoe asked if we could change this sign,” Ginny says from atop her stepladder, unhooking the dust-covered horseshoe that reads “Peaches.” She holds it within her palm for a moment, studying it, before adding, “I guess I’ll need to go into town to get a new one carved for Lulu. Ironwoods is still open, right?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Not because I don’t know—I drive by the iron and millwork shop every day on my way to work. It’s because my mouth is hanging open.
“Well?” she snaps, turning to find me gaping at her. “Should I waste my time going all the way into town and dealing with those gossipers if it’s not there?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, still leaning against the counter, her chin in her palm, staring at Jesse. Almost through Jesse. And then it’s as though invisible fingers snap in front of her, because she startles. “Hi, Jesse! It’s good to see you.”
A horn honks from just outside the store. It’s a big green truck with “Hart Brothers” stamped into the side and a young guy sitting in the passenger seat, his hand slapping the side of the door as if to the beat of music.
Jesse gives my waist a light squeeze. “Gotta go. Just wanted to stop by.”
“See you later?” The question’s casual enough.
“Yeah, I’m around.”
I watch him climb into the back of the truck cab. Wondering what the hell “Yeah, I’m around” means. That I’ll see him because he’s around and, by default, I may literally see him? Or should I go visit? Or maybe he’ll come visit? Or . . .
“He has feelings for you.” Dakota’s eyes have that dreamy look in them. “Deep, consuming feelings. The kind that dominate your thoughts and control your decisions. And feed your soul.”
My stomach leaps to my throat, her words sparking something inside me. Hope, that’s what that is. And it’s silly. “We barely know each other, Dakota.”
Her wide mouth spreads into a smile. “And yet you know each other. Your spirits are . . . entwined.”
“Did you smoke something while you were tossing the trash out back?” I exclaim.
That smile simply hangs there for a few seconds. And then she starts to giggle.
Lasagna—one of Ginny’s favorites—is cooling on the stove when I first hear the rumble of Jesse’s car. I practically jump out of my chair and run to the window in time to see him pull into the garage and cut the engine. The door slams and a moment later, he strolls out to the edge of the garage.
And then he turns to my window.
The lights are off in here so I doubt he can see me, and yet he stares for so long that I perhaps think he can.
“I’m around,” I mutter, repeating what he said earlier. Before I can chicken out, I grab two plates and slice into the lasagna with a spatula, heaving sizeable pieces onto them. Covering them with foil, I take the stairs down faster than I normally would, afraid that Jesse will disappear into his attic.
He’s leaning against the back wall, his arms folded over his chest, simply staring at his car when my foot hits the concrete floor. “Does it look different than it did yesterday?”
He smirks. His work clothes are dirty and I see a small scrape on his arm. I’m guessing he’s going to be getting into the shower soon, a visual I don’t need to be having right now.
I hold up the plates. “I thought you and your dad might like dinner.” Dakota’s voice rings out loud inside my head. He has feelings for you.
“Thank you.” He takes the plates and our hands touch briefly.
And that strange sense of comfort I keep feeling around him washes over me in a wave. Regardless of what my mind has decided to protect me from, my senses are telling me that Jesse is safe. That Ginny is wrong about him.
Ginny.
“Shit.” I glance up at the wall clock and see that I have exactly two minutes to get the lasagna to the table. “I’ve gotta go. See you later?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here. Or upstairs.”
I make it to the porch with exactly ten seconds to spare and Ginny’s already waiting in her seat. “Your favorite. There’s enough for a few meals here.”
She frowns. “It’s missing a quarter.”
“Yes, it is.” I load her plate and mine, and then take a seat and stab at it, starving.
“Well?” Ginny’s staring at me now. “Where did it go?
“I thought Sheriff Gabe and Jesse might like a piece, so I brought it over.”
“To Gabe?”
“Nope.” The p in the word pops out of my mouth, and then I shovel a piece of lasagna in my mouth and level her with a look.
For once, she doesn’t answer, deciding to mimic me and fill her mouth with food, either because it’s that good or she’s intentionally shutting herself up. Ginny’s answers are usually more logical and palatable with at least a seven-second delay.
That’s why I wait until she has another mouthful before I say, “I met a Hildy today.” Ginny’s eyes flash with instant recognition, so I know that her childhood best friend hasn’t been forgotten, even after almost fifty years. “She would really like to come visit you.”
She chews slowly, her hazel eyes looking past me, to the fields, to the mountains, to years ago, when things were different for her. Finally, she swallows and says softly, “That’d be nice.”
Ginny is surprisingly chatty for the rest of our meal. She tells me about the time she and Hildy went to the rodeo and saw the sheriff at the time fall off his horse walking down Main Street, an empty flask of whiskey in his hand, the contents already poured down his gullet.
I catch myself smiling, and not because of the story.
Maybe we’re both lucky to have found each other.
“Jesse?”
I fold my arms against the chill. The big storm brought with it milder weather, but the evenings are still on the cool side. He’s not in the garage, so I knock on the door in the back. He did tell me to come by. Kind of. And he did tell me that he might be upstairs.
So I try the handle. The door pops open. A familiar smell fills my nostrils immediately, but I can’t place it.
“Jesse?” I call into the open space. I get no response, but I hear the low voices from a television. Climbing the stairs, I find Jesse sprawled out on his back, in bed. Asleep.
I should feel like I’m intruding, but I don’t. It’s a cozy space, made entirely of wood, and almost as sparse as my attic. The only light comes from the TV, save for a night light plugged into the wall near the stairs. The floor creaks loudly as I step across it to turn it off.
“Hey,” comes a groggy voice from the bed, and my heart swells instantly.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.”
He groans out loud. “I just drifted. Cutting down trees all day sucks ass.”
He hasn’t moved and doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so. “Okay, get some sleep, then.” I shut the TV off and move to pull his bedspread over him.
I freeze when a hand skates up my forearm, gently, slowly, his calluses scratching over my skin as his fingers slip up the sleeve of my sweater. But they stop at my elbow, waiting. For my permission, maybe? I give it to him by sitting down on the bed.
“Stay.”
My stomach tightens. What does he want from me? Or expect? Because I don’t know if I can give it to him.
But I also know that I don’t want to leave. “Like last time?”
“Just like last time,” he assures me.
My heart is pounding as I lie down. His hand slips out from my sleeve and then his arm lifts beneath my back, pulling me closer to him, until I can’t help but curl into his chest. To hear his quick, shallow breaths.
I catch movement from his hand in the sparse light only a second before a finger grazes my hair, my neck, my chin.
The edge of my scar.
My right side is lying against his chest but he gently prods my head up, until I’m facing the ceiling and he has access. I swallow hard as he trails a finger up and down the length of it.
“I read what you wrote in my journal,” I finally offer into the silence.
He doesn’t answer, making two more passes along the scar with his finger, as if memorizing the feel of it. And then his hand settles gently on my neck as he leans in, until wet heat from his mouth skates across my skin.
He kisses my scar.
I close my eyes, the sensation stirring a ball of emotions deep within my stomach that I don’t understand but are raw and crippling in their intensity. The tears begin to spill from my eyes.
Jesse stops but he doesn’t pull away, simply pressing his forehead against my scar, his thumb stroking back and forth against my neck soothingly as the tears continue to fall.
Until I drift off.
I’m faintly aware of an alarm going off somewhere nearby, and then I feel someone leaning over me, the scent familiar and warm. Cracking my eyes open a sliver, I see the ridges of Jesse’s chest. I automatically reach for him, curling my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into me . . .
Kissing his throat like it’s the most instinctual thing in the world for me to do.
It isn’t until he slaps the alarm clock that I fully wake up and realize what I’m doing. I pull back with a gasp. “I’m sorry.”
He props himself up, his elbows on either side of my head, cradling me. His dark eyes are twinkling.
“It just felt so . . .” I feel myself frown, searching for the right word. “Natural.”
“In general? Or with me?”
“Not in general.” I pause, hesitating. “Why do things feel so natural with you?”
He shifts to run the backs of his fingers over my cheek, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Do they?”
“Yeah. You must remind me of someone. I feel like I know you.”
He smiles. A sad smile. “Maybe you just want to know me.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes, his thumb drifting over my bottom lip, first over the faint scar left by the attack, and then over the full length, each sweep dragging an exhale from my lungs until my breathing is ragged and my body starts to ache in a familiar way, a way I know I’ve experienced before. I just don’t remember when.
I’m about three seconds from begging him to kiss me when he leans down and closes his mouth over mine.
And the alarm goes off again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dipping his face into my neck. “I have to go.”
Checking the clock, I see that it’s ten minutes after eight. “So do I. The horses need to be let out.”
His mouth closes over my throat to kiss it gently, and I can’t help the moan that slips out.
“You’re killing me,” he whispers—so soft that I barely hear it—and then he lifts himself up. I stand and watch as he peels his shirt off for a clean work shirt from his dresser. It gives me a chance to see the muscular curves in his shoulders and back. And the tattoo stretched from shoulder to shoulder, which I recognize right away as his car. “What came first, the car or the tattoo?”
I hear his smile as he answers, “Tattoo. I got it when I was sixteen.”
“Your parents allowed it?”
“Fake ID.”
Of course. Stepping closer, I dare reach up to run a finger around a tire. “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”
He freezes with his shirt held in front of him, a hiss that sounds a lot like “Jesus” slipping from his lips. I’m not sure if it’s my words or my finger that he seems to be reacting to. He turns to face me, his eyes searching. Begging, almost. “I did really want this car.” He says it like it’s a confession, like it’s something to feel guilty for. I watch his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow as he steps into me, the heat from his bare chest radiating off him like the woodstove I curl up next to each night.
With a hand around the back of my neck, he leans in to kiss me, this time without hesitation, without caution.
With urgency and passion. And fear.
Just as suddenly, he breaks free. Gripping my hand, he leads me down the stairs, past the car, to the edge of the garage. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I smile, waving, until the tail end of his car disappears around the corner of the house.
That’s when I notice Meredith sitting on the deck with a mug in her hands. Watching.
My cheeks flame immediately. What must be going through her head right now? She knows what happened to me. She knows I was carrying some man’s baby only months ago. Would she approve of me being with her son? Would she want him mixed up with someone with my past, given his own?
I give her a quick wave—because it would be rude not to—and then I rush toward the barn, a nervous sickness rolling in my stomach the entire way, as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Which is ironic, since everything about Jesse feels right.
“Zoe asked if we could change this sign,” Ginny says from atop her stepladder, unhooking the dust-covered horseshoe that reads “Peaches.” She holds it within her palm for a moment, studying it, before adding, “I guess I’ll need to go into town to get a new one carved for Lulu. Ironwoods is still open, right?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Not because I don’t know—I drive by the iron and millwork shop every day on my way to work. It’s because my mouth is hanging open.
“Well?” she snaps, turning to find me gaping at her. “Should I waste my time going all the way into town and dealing with those gossipers if it’s not there?”
