Page 12

NINE

Seated on my bedroom floor—listening to old Madonna tapes—I add a dozen stars to the skyline above the sketch of Oak. The portrait has become a record, an archive of all the moments we’ve shared.

A knock vibrates through the walls of the house, and I drop the notebook to the floor, hurrying out to the living room.

But I’m too late.

Archer reaches the front door before me, the shotgun already held at his side. “If you came for a tulip…,” he barks as he pulls open the door. “You can fuck off.”

There is a heavy pause, feet shifting against the rotted wood boards of the front porch. “I’m looking for Lark,” a voice answers.

I dart across the living room, peer over my brother’s shoulder, and find Oak staring back. He’s earlier than I expected—the sun not quite set—or I would have met him at the end of the driveway.

He stands with his hands slid into the pockets of his dark jeans, looking like he was blown in by a stray summer breeze and deposited on our front porch like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz .

Archer’s expression sours, pulls tight.

“It’s okay. I know him,” I tell my brother. But he shoots Oak a warning look before finally stepping back into the kitchen out of sight.

Oak blinks at me like he’s briefly forgotten why he’s here. “Sorry, should I not have come to the door?”

“No, it’s fine. My brother’s just a little jumpy.”

I hear Archer let out a grunt from the kitchen.

But Oak seems to relax. “You ready?”

I flash my eyes back into the kitchen, where Archer is frowning at me, eavesdropping, wondering who the hell this boy is. But I look back at Oak and nod.

In the driveway sits a rusted gray truck, the hood sunburned and peeling, the side mirror on the passenger side sheared off—it’s old, 1970s probably, the kind of thing that surely breaks down all the time. Hardly worth the scrap metal it’s made of.

“Is this yours?” I ask as he opens the passenger door for me.

“I bought it when I turned sixteen. Been repairing it ever since.” He smiles as if there’s more to the story, but he moves around the front of the truck, then climbs into the driver’s seat. Surprisingly, the engine fires right up.

The night is starry and clear, and he drives us to the far edge of town, past the lumber mill and the Rabbit Cross Bed and Breakfast, but when he turns down the red-gravel road, heading west, I flash a look at him. I know where we are, where he’s taking me, and a coil of tension rises up in my gut.

Ahead of us, the road opens into a clearing, where I can see three other cars are already parked on Cutwater Ridge, overlooking the abandoned quarry. This is the place Cole Campbell invited me to, back when the tulips first bloomed. A place where kids from school park their cars and kiss beneath the moonlight. A place I’m sure Archer visits all too often.

I’m about to tell Oak that I don’t want to be here, when he steers the truck away from the other cars and onto a narrower road that leads back into the trees—a road I didn’t know existed.

“You didn’t think I would take you to Cutwater Ridge, did you?” he says, shooting me a furtive look.

“Then where are you taking us?”

But he only winks at me.

The road is rocky and uneven and steep, but finally we emerge from the trees, and I realize where we are. The road has led us down the cliff, and now Oak parks the truck beside a large, glittering lake. The quarry has filled with water over the years, and there is a sandy beach leading down to the water’s edge.

“How did you know this was here?”

“I told you, I don’t sleep much at night.”

Oak steps out of the truck and hurries around to open my door.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, walking toward the water, drawn by its still, mirrorlike surface. The moon sparks off the lake, making it feel like the sky has dipped into the water.

Oak bends down and begins taking off his shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“Going swimming,” he answers, pulling his shirt over his head and then unbuttoning his jeans.

“No,” I answer out of reflex.

“Why not? You took me swimming in the pond.”

“That water was warm…. This water, I’m sure… is not.”

He backsteps away from me, in only his boxers, smiling.

“I’m not going in,” I add, defiant, shaking my head.

He sticks out his bottom lip, as if I’ve broken his heart, then wades in up to his knees. He cringes slightly, the cold unmistakable on his face, but he keeps going. “You’re going to love it in here,” he calls. “I promise.”

“No way.”

He turns, dives forward beneath the water, and when he emerges a few yards away, he lets out a whoop, brushing his hair back from his face, his skin dripping with cold lake water.

I can’t help but laugh.

“It feels incredible!” he shouts.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit!”

“You didn’t have a swimsuit at the pond,” he counters. “And that didn’t stop you.”

I clamp my mouth shut, feeling chilled just watching him.

“Lark Goode…,” he says, his tone serious now. “Get in this water!”

I shake my head.

“You won’t regret it.”

I exhale, dropping my eyes. I take a few cautious steps forward, slipping free from my flip-flops and touching the water with my foot. It’s frigidly cold, and I yank my foot back. “Nope!” I tell him. “Not happening.”

He is the one who laughs now, and he starts wading closer to the shore.

“Don’t you dare!” I say.

He lifts his hands in the air. “I’m not going to pull you in,” he promises. Instead he holds a hand out to me, eyes bright and treacherous. His mouth curved into a persuasive grin.

I shake my head, but my resolve melts away, the fear dissolving on my tongue.

I strip out of my clothes, down to my underwear, shocked that I’m really doing this. Slowly I wade in up to my ankles, my knees, but the water gets colder the deeper I go, and I stop.

Oak reaches me and holds out his hand once again. I take it. “I trust you,” I say, raising my eyebrows at him, hoping he won’t try to throw me in.

“Only when you’re ready,” he promises.

I pull in a deep breath, hold it, and when I finally let it out, I nod at him. With his hand still in mine, I force my legs forward until I’m waist-deep, and I can see the ground drops away ahead of me. The water is dark, intimidating, but the moon is still bright, and I suddenly don’t feel afraid.

I release Oak’s hand, look at him one last time, and dive forward into the water. The shock of the cold rips the air from my lungs. But when I break the surface, I let out a gasp—he was right… somehow it feels incredible. Like shedding an old skin. One I no longer need.

Oak swims to me, and I tilt my head back to the stars, feeling—oddly, for some reason—like I might cry. Like I needed this more than I knew. Like the cold is swallowing up all the pain, all the hurt that’s been tangled inside me. Like Oak is setting me free.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

But when I drop my gaze, I see something in his eyes, something that makes me want to kiss him. Makes me want to drift forward and forget that I am a girl who cannot be loved. Let the moon sink beneath my flesh and make me reckless and wild and unafraid.

I can see he’s thinking it too.

He’s thinking that maybe out here, in the cold, alone, our mistakes won’t follow us home. That we have nothing to lose.

“You’re really not afraid of me?” I ask, my lips touching the surface of the water.

He shakes his head. “I’m definitely afraid,” he admits, watching me with heat in his eyes, something primal in every blink, every drop of water that falls from his lashes. “But I’m still trying to figure out who you really are.”

“The villain, you mean?”

“No. A girl who seems to believe what other people say about her. Who pretends to be someone I should be scared of. But who is also so…” He shakes his head. “You’re so unlike… I mean you’re…” Again he loses his words, like he’s certain he’s saying all the wrong things. “I understand why you want to leave this town… because you’re better than this place. Better than the stories that everyone tells about you.” He swallows, looks me in the eyes. “This town doesn’t deserve you. You’re not the monster or the myth they’ve made you into….”

My heart is hammering against my ribs. No one has ever spoken to me like this—like he sees some part of me that I’ve kept hidden, that I’ve forgotten.

I lift my hand—without thinking—and I touch his face, catching drops of water along his cheek. I run my fingers down his jaw as if they are brushstrokes, reciting him to memory, painting him onto paper. My fingers find his mouth, tracing his lips, suspended there—maybe the closest I’ll ever allow myself to be. My fingers stall, and he watches me like he’s going to shatter. Like neither of us will make it out alive. My eyes flutter closed as I absorb the cold of the water and the softness of his lips against my fingertips. And I feel more alive than I have words for.

I lift my eyes, and he’s so close, I could press my mouth to his and finally know what it feels like. Know the warmth and surrender and taste of his skin.

But he speaks, and it crumbles the almost-moment. “You’re shivering.”

I blink at him, because I hardly feel a thing, hardly feel the cold. But he’s right, my skin is pricked with gooseflesh, my bones vibrating.

“We should get out,” he adds. There is still warmth in his eyes, but a flicker of doubt has edged along his mouth. Like some part of him knows we’ve taken this too far.

I nod, a storm of emotion breaking inside me, and we swim toward the shallows.

At the pond it was me who pulled away—me who felt the danger of getting too close to him. But tonight it’s Oak who’s severed the moment.

We wade from the icy water onto the beach and grab our piles of clothes, then head toward the truck. “I have towels inside,” he tells me, the cold air piercing me down to the bone.

We’re almost to the truck when I hear voices.

Up on the ridge.

In the trees.

Getting louder.

Someone is walking down from the cliff.

A moment later three shadowed figures appear from the tree line, talking loudly, laughing. I narrow my focus through the dark and see Olive Montagu, Sebastian Marks—who I had ethics class with sophomore year—and Titha Roberts.

They draw closer, and I feel them eyeing us.

I just want to get into the truck before they recognize me.

“It’s way too damn cold!” I hear Titha exclaim. They must have been up on the ridge, then decided to hike down to the water.

“I’m not getting my hair wet,” Olive adds.

Oak reaches into the back of the truck and pulls out two yellow-striped beach towels. “You’re trembling,” he says, folding one around my shoulders. But I can no longer tell if it’s the cold making my body convulse or the nerves building inside me. I reach for the passenger door, just wanting to get inside so we can leave.

Oak’s eyes flick to the group as they pass the truck, and he seems unconcerned, as if there is nothing for us to fear. I watch as they head for the water, and I think we’re in the clear—they’ll just keep going. They haven’t seen me. Or maybe they can’t tell who I am—hair wet, lake water dripping from my skin.

But Olive’s face turns in our direction, and I can see the recognition land in her eyes. “Oh shit!” she remarks, grabbing Titha by the arm. The others stop and swivel around, and I know it’s too late—they recognize me.

Oak rubs the towel through his hair and starts around the hood of the truck to the driver’s side, when Sebastian calls out, “You should be careful, man. You know that’s Lark Goode?”

The air plummets into my stomach. My heart starts to race.

Oak frowns and takes a step back toward me, so he’s partly blocking their view of me.

“She might seem harmless, but she isn’t. You’d be better off just leaving her out here. Save yourself, man.”

Titha chuckles at this, but it’s Olive’s gaze that makes me the most uneasy. She takes a step closer to us, then another. Sebastian reaches for her but doesn’t grab her in time; she’s striding in our direction.

“Please!” she says, her eyes focused solely on me. “I only need one, that’s it. Just enough to get him back.” I remember Olive’s desperation that morning in front of the school, the ache in her eyes as she grabbed at me. She wanted a tulip so Tobias would love her again. She felt the heartache a single tulip can cause. And she covets one still. “I’ll pay you anything. Please!”

I feel paralyzed as I watch her move closer, hating that Oak is witnessing this, hating the look in her eyes. Wishing I could do something to make her see that a tulip won’t get her what she wants. It’ll only make things worse.

“Lark,” Oak is saying, and I look up at him. “Get in the truck.” He’s opened the door and is urging me inside. I climb up to the seat, body shivering, the towel still wrapped around my shoulders. He closes the door behind me, then hurries around to the driver’s side, swings himself in, and turns the key in the ignition.

Olive reaches the truck and presses her hands to the window. “Lark!” she begs. “I know you have them—that boy wouldn’t be here with you if you didn’t. Just one,” she pleads. “You don’t need them all.”

Her pleas are all too familiar, the same appeals I heard that day on the school lawn. I stare at her, into her wide blue eyes, and feel a sadness for the pain the tulips have caused her. But before she can reach for the door handle, Oak leans over me and slams his palm against the lock, ensuring she won’t be able to get inside.

He puts the truck in reverse, and in an instant we’re backing away from Olive, leaving her standing in the headlights, the lake shimmering behind her. Oak puts the truck in drive, hits the gas, and peels away, steering us back toward the tree line. He drives as if we’re fleeing a real threat, a lake monster risen from the deep, a girl with heartache on her lips.

We are quiet the entire drive home, and when we pull up to my house and he kills the engine, I feel a hollowness inside me—certain how this will end. Oak may have brushed off all the rumors whispered about the Goodes, but it’s another thing to see how my classmates react to me. To hear their warnings, to see Olive coming after me.

“I’m…” I shake my head, looking down at the pile of clothes in my lap. “I’m sorry for that. It’s not…” My eyes turn to the window, looking out at my sad, sloped house, and I feel stupid for thinking this thing with Oak could ever be more than a delusion. A few days of pretending I could be like any other girl in this town. “Thank you for tonight.” I don’t let my eyes find him. I unlock the door and start to open it.

“Why are you sorry?” I look back at him. “Those kids are idiots. You don’t need to apologize for the things that other people say or do.”

His eyes are soft, gentle, but I still feel embarrassed. I still feel like I should say goodbye, leave his truck, walk to the house, and not look back.

And mean it.

But he keeps his eyes on me, refusing to let me go. “Can I take you somewhere else, since tonight didn’t end like I’d hoped?” He releases his hands from the steering wheel. “I want to show you something. But it won’t be for another few days, maybe more. The timing needs to be just right.”

The air in my lungs feels caught, stalled between an inhale and exhale. “What is it?”

He smiles, and it destroys me. The way his mouth forms, tugging up on one side. “It’s a place I’ve never taken anyone to before.”

I thought he’d want to be rid of me after tonight, but he looks like a boy simply asking a girl if he can see her again… shyly, with a hint of hope in his eyes.

“Okay.”

He nods. “You can keep the towel.”

I open the truck door and step out into the night air. “Thanks.”

“Good night, Lark Goode.”