After dinner, I decide to go for a walk. Yes, I’m a coward. No, I don’t want to talk to Ryder. So I’ll conveniently be gone when he gets here, that’s all.
Glancing back over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching me, I skim down the porch steps and head away from the house. It’s finally starting to feel like fall, the air slightly crisp. It’s a welcome change, that’s for sure. I zip up my hoodie and slip my earbuds into my ears as I follow the path down toward the creek, my feet slapping the earth in rhythm to the music. It’s a slow pace, but I’m not in a rush.
When I finally reach the creek, I stop short at the sight that greets me. Of the four picnic tables that used to grace the sandy banks, only one is still standing. I’d known this was the case—Daddy had told me the day after he’d gotten back from Houston, after he’d spent the day riding around our property on an ATV, assessing the damage. But seeing it for myself is something else entirely.
Those tables had been there forever—all my life and probably most of Daddy’s, too. The wood was perfectly weathered, smoothed to perfection. But the storm had damaged three of them so badly that they’d had to be completely removed. Sure, we could replace them, but it wouldn’t be the same. Kind of like the barn.
I know I should feel grateful that it wasn’t worse than this, that our house is still standing, the damage minimal. Hundreds of families lost their homes in Hurricane Paloma and the tornadoes that ripped through the state in its wake. We were lucky, especially considering what a close call it’d been. The twister that leveled the barn had touched down not five hundred yards from the house. Had it decided to drop down from the sky just a little bit to the west, things would’ve been worse—so much so that I don’t even want to think about it.
I sigh as I make my way over to the one remaining table and climb up onto the tabletop, lying down on my back so that I can watch the setting sun paint wide swaths of color—orange, pink, and lavender—across the sky. It, at least, hasn’t changed. The sky, I mean. It remains just as it always was—the same as when I was five, ten, twelve, fifteen.
I close my eyes and turn up my music, wanting to lose myself in it. And I do—so much so that I start to doze off. At least, I must have, because when I open my eyes again, the sun has fully set and the first stars are twinkling in the sky above me.
I’m vaguely aware of the sound of approaching footsteps, but it takes me a second to make the connection—to remember why I’d come out here in the first place.
“Jemma?”
Damn. I sit up and pull the earbuds from my ears, swinging my legs over the side of the table.
“Figured I’d find you out here,” Ryder says, drawing up beside me.
I decide to act surprised. “What are you doing here?”
His brow creases. “I told you I was coming, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“By the way, you might want to call your parents and tell ’em where you are.”
I shrug. “Did you see Nan?”
“Yeah. She looks okay, considering she just had brain surgery. She’s awfully quiet, though.”
“It’s better when she’s quiet,” I mutter, remembering the way she yelled at me for not plumping her pillow just so after dinner. “Trust me.”
“Mind if I sit?” He tips his head toward the spot on the table beside me.
“Knock yourself out.” I slide down and make room for him.
He digs his cell phone out of his back pocket and climbs up onto the table beside me. “So, I was thinking about your project. You know, the movie? I know things have been rough for you lately, what with all that’s happened. So . . . um, here.” He tilts the screen of his phone toward me. “I . . . uh, tried to get all the places you had in your original footage. You know, the square, the bridges, the Ames House and all that. Showing what it looks like now, after the storm.”
He hits play, and the first series of images roll across the screen. I watch in amazement as he clicks through several different video files, each a couple minutes in length.
“I know it’s not much,” he says once the last video ends. “And the quality’s probably not good enough. But maybe you can use some of it.”
“I can’t believe you did this.” I shake my head, a little stunned. “Thank you. This is awesome, Ryder. Really.”
He smiles at me, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. And, okay . . . maybe my heart melts a little bit. Just a smidgen.
Heaven help me. . . .
“There’s more,” he says, reaching into his pocket again. This time, he produces a folded slip of paper. “I Googled Faulkner quotes—you know, looking for things about strength or courage. I only found a few that fit, but I wrote them down for you.” He hands me the slip of paper. “They’re all cited and everything.”
Our fingers brush as I take it from him, electricity seeming to skitter across my skin at the contact. He must have felt something, too, because he jerks his hand away like he’s been burned.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and then I look away. I hope he doesn’t see the tears gathering on my lashes. I have to swallow a lump in my throat before I can speak. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Ryder. This means . . . so much. But . . .” I trail off, gathering courage for what I’m about to say.
“Uh-oh,” he says with a wince. “There’s a ‘but’?”
“Yeah. I’m not applying to NYU.”
“What? You have to.”
I let out a sigh. “I can’t, Ryder. Not now.”
“Why? I just saw Nan.” He gestures vaguely toward the house. “She seemed okay. Your mom said—”
“You don’t understand,” I say, cutting him off. How can I explain? “It’s just . . . everything’s so messed up. There’s too much . . . change . . . as it is. It doesn’t feel right. Not now.”
“But you’re the same, Jemma. You haven’t changed. This is what you want, remember?”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I have changed. And”—I shake my head—“I don’t even know what I want anymore.”
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but closes it just as quickly. A muscle in his jaw flexes as he eyes me sharply, his brow furrowed. “I thought you were stronger than this,” he says at last. “Braver.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “When I get home, I’m going to e-mail you these video files. I don’t know anything about making films, but if you need any help, well . . .” He shrugs. “You know my number.”
With that, he turns and walks away.
I leap to the ground. “Ryder, wait!”
He stops and turns to face me. “Yeah?”
“I . . . about Patrick. And then . . . you and me. I feel awful about it. Things were so crazy during the storm, like it wasn’t real life or something.” I take a deep, gulping breath, my cheeks burning now. “I don’t want you think that I’m, you know, some kind of—”
“Just stop right there.” He holds out one hand. “I don’t think anything like that, okay? It was . . .” He trails off, shaking his head. “Shit, Jemma. I’m not going to lie to you. It was nice. I’m glad I kissed you. I’m pretty sure I’ve been wanting to for . . . well, a long time now.”
“You did a pretty good job hiding it, that’s for sure.”
“It’s just that . . . well, I’ve had to listen to seventeen years’ worth of how you’re the perfect girl for me. And goddamn, Jem. My mom already controls enough in my life. What food I eat. What clothes I wear. Hell, even my underwear. You wouldn’t believe the fight she put up a few years back when I wanted to switch to boxer briefs instead of regular boxers.”
I swallow hard, remembering the sight of him wearing the underwear in question. Yeah, I’m glad he won that particular battle.
“Anyway, if my parents want it for me, it must be wrong. So I convinced myself that you were wrong for me. You had to be.” His gaze sweeps across my face, and I swear I feel it linger on my lips. “No matter what I felt every single time I looked at you.”
Oh my God. I did the exact same thing—thinking he had to be wrong for me just because Mama insisted we were a perfect match. Now I don’t know what to think. What to feel. What’s real and what’s a trying-to-prove-something fabrication.
But Ryder . . . he gets it. He’s lived it too.
I let out a sigh. “Can you imagine how different things would be if our families hated each other? If they were feuding like the First Methodists and the Cavalry Baptists?”
“I bet it’d be a whole lot less complicated, to tell you the truth. Heck, we probably would’ve already run off together or something by now.”
“Probably so,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
“There’s something else,” Ryder says, shuffling his feet, looking uncomfortable. “It’s about Rosie. I wasn’t being honest with her, or with myself. You were right—I was leading her on. At Josh’s party, I mean.”
“But . . . but why?” I stammer.
“Truth be told, I think I was trying to make you jealous. It wasn’t fair to her, and, well . . . I came clean to her and apologized. I just wanted you to know.”
“Uh-oh, I bet that wasn’t pretty,” I say.
“Yeah, you could say that,” he answers with a wince. “She was awfully mad. Not that I blame her.” His lips twitch with a smile. “You’re tryin’ real hard not to say ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you?”
“I admit, it’s taking some serious restraint,” I say. Glancing down at my cell, I notice that I’ve missed three calls. Two from my parents—probably wondering where the heck I am—and one from Lucy. “It’s getting late. I should probably go in.”
“C’mon, I’ll walk you.”
He holds out a hand to me. I take it, falling into step beside him—marveling at how right it feels. I glance up at him, his face illuminated by the moonlight. Something in his expression sparks a memory. Ryder at the beach, watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Ryder at school, glancing at me from across the hall. Ryder at Magnolia Landing, sitting across the table from me at Sunday dinner, watching me eat. I always interpreted his expression as something bordering on contempt—disdain, maybe. But now . . . now he’s looking at me with that exact same expression, and I realize that maybe I was wrong all along.
In so, so many ways.