Twice now, she’d asked if I had feelings other than friendship toward Hope. She’d reminded me Hope was four years younger than me, then advised I should be friendly but not too friendly.
It’d been hard, but I kept my temper and didn’t yell. I didn’t bother telling her that where romantic entanglement was concerned, I wouldn’t be getting involved with anyone—let alone a little girl who knew far too much about my family.
Mom gave me a half-smile that pissed me off. A smile that said she didn’t believe me and put up with my denials because she thought she knew better.
She didn’t know better.
My life was perfect just the way it was. I’d been a full-time farmer for a year. I didn’t have to interact with anyone if I preferred not to. I could work as many hours as I wanted. I could hide for however long I needed.
The solitude was good for my sanity, giving me the ability to be a better son when spending time with those I cared about.
I ensured each time I saw Mom, I gave her a hug—no matter that my heart raced with fear of losing her. I made sure to clean the house once a week, so she didn’t have to. I put my grubby work gear in the washing machine and made her dinner as often as I could before I passed out on the couch from the early starts.
Mom was busy with her own projects, breaking in the rescues that Aunt Cassie had inherited, tending to her flowers, and caring for all of us. For the most part, our lives brushed against each other in a way that said we were close but not dependent.
So far, I’d kept my promise to Dad.
Mom seemed to be coping, if not happy, and I was able to keep my fears of losing those I loved from prying eyes.
However, despite the fact that Hope was thousands of miles away, she never left me alone for long. Her letters were like clockwork; whenever I relaxed after a few weeks of no correspondence, one would be waiting for me, placed on my pillow by a mother determined to force me into meaningful relationships.
The letter would taunt me with gossip I didn’t want to know and stories I had no time to read. Then again, I didn’t really mind the waffling news of Hope’s new life in Scotland. I was glad she was riding, exploring, learning, growing up. But once she’d filled me in on her world, there were always a hundred questions about me.
Endless questions about what I was doing, how I was going, what my goals and dreams were.
She believed we were friends.
And it was all because of that goddamn locket.
What the hell had I been thinking?
What possessed me to do such a thing?
Even worse, what made me buy something from the only antique store in town and believe it would stay a secret with the nosy busybodies of this place?
I’d bought it purely out of common-sense. She wanted the lace with her at all times, but a pocket wasn’t a safe place for something so light and flimsy.
A locket made perfect sense.
After all, Mom kept a photo of Dad around her neck. It was a place for precious things that needed safekeeping.
It didn’t mean anything more than a solution to Hope’s problem—not that other’s (especially Mom) saw it that way.
“You should write back.” Mom kept her eyes averted, folding laundry with the TV on low behind her. “There’s been a few now that you haven’t replied to.”
I merely stuffed the letter farther into the box of random stuff I didn’t really need. Things like old running gear from school and the blazer I’d worn to the movie premiere and would never wear again.
When I didn’t reply, Mom stopped folding and came toward me. More boxes waited patiently by the front door, ready to move with me now that I was leaving the nest.
She slowed to a stop before me. “Are you sure you’re ready? There’s no rush, Wild One. None at all.” Her eyes glossed with tears before she smiled bright and swallowed them back.
I picked up the box, carrying it to the exit. “It’s not like I’m leaving, leaving.”
“You are. This house will be so lonely without you.”
I couldn’t look at her. The eternal guilt of letting Dad down when I made Mom sad suffocated me. “I’m just across the meadow, Mom.” I glanced through the open door toward the small cabin nestled, almost camouflaged, against the treeline. “You can still see me. Besides, you knew this was coming. You helped me build it.”
In the past year, everyone had chipped in. Even Uncle Liam—who pulled long hours as a cop in the next town over—had come to help hammer nails and cut wood.
The cabin wasn’t much.