He stopped, his shoulders rolled under his backpack, his hands shoved deep into jeans pockets. He didn’t turn to face me, just waited for me to catch up.
I broke into a jog, moving around him with my arm outstretched with the pasta and lemonade. “A peace offering.”
The second I caught sight of his face, the sunshine—that had been pretty a heartbeat ago—became absolutely breath-taking. The gorgeous weather was no longer just sun and sky; it was utterly sublime. Everything seemed brighter, sharper, more real now he was back.
A five o’clock shadow covered his throat and jaw, a leaf clung to his dirty blond strands, and a smudge of earth contoured his cheekbone.
He looked wild and rugged and full of warning like any forest creature that didn’t do well with humans. The hardened edges he kept sharp and shiny were somewhat duller, though—as if he’d found what he needed in the trees, and exhaustion had found him in return.
“Hi,” I whispered again, unashamedly drinking him in from his dirt-stained T-shirt, faded well-used boots and everything in between.
I had the privilege of witnessing his jaded, weary eyes flare as I blocked his path. No doubt he’d expected me to be in clothes and not a bikini. Thanks to my jog over here, the towel had slipped to my waist, revealing the lycra-covered breasts Dad tried to deny his young daughter had and the curves that would make me a perfect double for some 1920s pin-up.
“Why are you mostly naked?” His voice was charcoal and ash as if he hadn’t spoken in days, which was probably true from camping in the woods on his own.
Unless he talked to owls and mice.
Or ghosts.
“I’ve been swimming.” I grinned, squinting in the brightness, thankful for the beads of water trickling from my hair. The droplets kept me cool while Jacob’s face shone with sweat. I had so many questions. So many worries. So many everythings.
But I swallowed them all back, reminding myself for the millionth time since I’d found him missing that I wouldn’t push so hard. That I’d be kinder in my approach and not rise to his anger. I would be soft and understanding, and if he got mad at me, so be it.
I wouldn’t enter another argument.
Or at least…I hope I won’t.
Smiling as if we were best friends, I offered the pasta again. “You must be hungry.”
His tongue darted between his lips, leaving them wet. I did my best to ignore the answering squeeze deep in my belly. His gaze fought to stay on my face, but he lost the battle—just like I lost whenever I saw him shirtless—his dark eyes hooded and turned smoky, trailing down my water-speckled skin.
I breathed harder as his stare burned me like a candle held too close, flickering over the triangles hiding my breasts and the towel hanging precariously low on my hips.
His jaw tightened, his body tensed, and he stepped away as if I’d done something wrong.
Keeping my smile genuine and wide, I sank into the thick grass with its pink, purple, and yellow flowers, looking up at the tall boy who carried such pain.
Pain he thought he masked with temper and rage, but pain I glimpsed regardless. Whether it was a moment in a fight or this moment in quietness, he couldn’t hide from me, and he knew that.
He sensed that.
He felt what I did and that made me a threat.
And in a way, I liked that I threatened him. It meant I made him feel. He couldn’t look at me with the same barriers in place. He couldn’t talk to me with walls firm and firearms ready. I forced him to come out from behind those shields, and I had to remember that with that power came a huge responsibility of care.
Dad taught me that.
He’d been at the brunt of Mom’s disappointment and constantly craving nature for years. Her unhappiness at having all her dreams come true didn’t make sense, but she was empty inside, eaten away to a rotten core, unable to be grateful for even the simplest things.
She didn’t care we had more than most.
She didn’t sit in awe at what she and Dad had created.
She just set her goals higher, strove for bigger, fought for better, slowly killing herself with the impossible.
Dad would just stand and weather her violent mood swings, never once shouting back or striking her when she struck him. He stayed calm and cuddled her close when the storm had passed, and Mom was herself again.
He’d caught me spying on a massive fight the night after some red carpet party. I’d dashed to my bed and hidden beneath the covers still in my pretty lemon dress. But he’d pulled back the blankets and explained that Mom didn’t mean what she said. She loved us really. She just couldn’t see how lucky she was.