5

Willow

I think back to the conversation I had with Gran yesterday.

“It’s just an apple pie, Gran,” I say. “Don’t you think it’s nice that I baked him one? You always tell me to be kind. I thought I could take it to him and introduce myself. Maybe make a friend.”

“He doesn’t deserve kindness,” Gran replies. “Don’t you have anything else to do instead of spending an hour in the kitchen making that good-for-nothin’ boy a treat? He’ll steal your soul, that’s what he’ll do.”

I laugh. “Gran, that’s a little far-fetched. I thought you said the devil’s the only one powerful enough to do that.”

“Who says he’s any different?”

“It’s just a pie.”

Gran walks up to me slowly, relying heavily on her cane.

I don’t see the fork in her hand until it’s too late. She scoops a bite and chews. I don’t know how she expects me to give it to him now that she’s taken a chunk out of it.

“Delicious, that’s what this is. Sweet, so sweet.”

She sets the fork in the sink. Then she picks up the pie quicker than I would have expected her to and throws it in the trash. It melts and crumbles against the plastic bag.

“Let me tell you something about boys like him, Willow Mae.” I stare at her, slack-jawed. “They’re attracted to sweet more than anything. The sweeter, the better. That boy will make you feel crazy-wonderful, all right. Yep, sure will. And then he’ll break you.”

Gran hobbles to her room and slams the door.

“What is it you want to know?” Beau asks.

I probably shouldn’t trust the way he makes my insides quiver. I place a hand against my stomach to try to steady myself.

“Maybe the things I heard today are true.” I think back to what Jorie told me, hoping he doesn’t plan to chew me up and spit me out like the others.

“And what kinds of things are those?”

His look twists me up, and so I glance into the trees, instead of his eyes, distracting myself with the moss that hangs like tinsel.

“Things like how you break girls for fun.”

Beau laughs, dragging my stare back to him.

“Maybe I want to break you like they say,” he replies with a disarming smile.

“You won’t break me.” He won’t. I mean it.

He runs a finger along the dip behind my ear. Though it’s hard, I take his hand from my skin and place it back at his side. I need to know if the rumors are actually true.

“Do you really have a girlfriend?” I blurt.

His eyes twinkle, wicked-like. “Maybe.”

“What’s her name?” I’m curious.

“Samantha,” Beau replies. “But maybe I don’t really like her.”

“Is that so?” I can’t rightfully judge his words yet, but I think he might be messing with me, telling me what I want to hear while doing the complete opposite.

“It could be so,” he says.

“Or you could be a liar.”

Beau pushes hair away from my face and rubs a thumb against my cheek. It comes away grimy. This swamp is always getting pieces stuck all over me. Mud in places mud should never be. His touch doesn’t linger.

“I am a liar,” he says. “You’re a liar, too. We all are.”

I like the way he presents the truth. Beau has a funny way of looking at me that makes me want to lean into him like I lean into a pillow at night.

“Where’d you get this scar?” I reach up to point at a spot on his forehead.

“There might have been a day when I was climbing the roof to replace a rotten piece of wood and I fell and split my forehead,” he says. Then, “Or there might have been a day when my sister, Charlotte, threw a cup at me in annoyance.”

Well, which one is it? I wonder.

“Or,” he continues. “There might have been a time when I wasn’t nice to a girl and her daddy found out and punched me good in the head to remind me to stay away.”

I look into his riverbed-brown eyes, wondering about the strange boy who lives next door.

“Is one of those possibilities true?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Could be.”

Above us, a bird trills. The swamp, thick like split-pea soup, brushes the shins of the trees, occasionally gurgling and plopping.

“You’re not nice to girls very often, are you?”

“Not too often,” he says.

I think he’s being honest, but it’s hard to tell. “Are you being truthful now?”

He grins wickedly. “I could be.”

“Do you often talk in so many damn riddles?” I ask.

“Do you often curse with such a sweet tongue?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”

I pull my hair up into a high bun to get the sticky sweat off my neck. There’s not much of a breeze today, and the swamp feels especially hot, but I can’t think of another place I’d rather be. Beau respects the distance between us, even though I can see in his eyes that he’s curious about me. Well, he’s not the only curious one. My fascination with him is palpable, as thick as the muggy air around us.

“You’re beautiful, Willow. Where do you come from?”

I choose to save some things for myself. “Does it really matter?”

“I want to know about you.”

Since I’m no good at keeping my mind straight, I tell him. “I’m from Georgia, moved to Florida, then back to Georgia.”

“Why are you here now?”

My skin tingles with excitement, happy that he wants to know more. Or maybe it’s the mosquitoes.

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“How will I ever break you if I don’t know more about you?” he says.

I’m not actually sure if he’s joking.

“Like I said, there’s not a chance of you breaking me, Beau Cadwell. I have too much Bell blood running through me for that sort of thing.”

“Old Lady Bell is a strong one, I’ll give her that. And you are her all over again, that’s for sure. But I think you might be nicer.”

I spot an otter swimming slow-like through the water, marveling at how it seems to float with no effort at all, until it disappears back beneath the surface.

“I think you might be right,” I agree.

We watch the swamp, quiet to catch the noises. Mostly, the frogs croak and silence follows. But only for a few seconds before an osprey calls to the sky and mosquitoes buzz and water laps. It’s a peaceful place to be. So we do just that: be.

Beau and me. The swamp and nothing else.

Beau seems content with the swamp, too, like this is where he belongs, and so it’s only natural for him to close his eyes and lean on roots like he does. His smile tells me next to nothing about him but makes me want to know everything.

I study his face. Short lashes and thick lips. Soft freckles on his cheeks and a slightly wide nose if you look at it just right. His olive skin and features make me wonder where his family relocated from before settling here. His jaw is strong, and his eyes are sure when they pop open to find me staring.

“I heard you moved here when you were ten,” I say. “Where’d you come from?”

“I was born in Atlanta. My dad, too. But my mom is from the Philippines.”

I see it in his features. “Have you been to the islands? I’ve never traveled outside of the US.”

“A couple of times when I was younger.” Beau smiles like the memory is something special to him. “Mostly, the island is with me in stories told by my mother.”

I want to ask about his parents. I haven’t seen them once since moving across the way. But Beau edging closer interrupts my inquisition. I look away quickly.

“Willow,” he says, less than an inch from my ear.

Something tells me that if I turn back to him, he’ll kiss me. Or maybe I’ll kiss him. But I’m not ready to kiss Beau, thank you very much. Yet, that is. I need to know a boy first. And I still can’t tell if he’s messing with me about having a girlfriend. I think I now understand Jorie’s statement: he has half the girls at our school in love with him. Mysteriousness does work well for him. Makes a person want to know more.

“Better get back,” I say, ignoring the fact that he just said my name. For now, I like the idea of us being friends. “Gran will be up.”

It’s true. She’ll know that I’m gone, and the boat, too.

I stand up and work my way back through the mud to the boat. Beau follows. Until I can resist him, I avoid looking at his face. Being instantly attracted to someone I hardly know makes me uneasy and isn’t something I have experience with—the rope tethered to my navel, dragging me toward his look, his touch, his crooked grin.

I pick up the oars and begin rowing home. Only boys I ever kissed had been friends of mine first. And while that was nice, the whirlwind in my gut tells me that this might be something nicer. More enticing. More exciting. I always did have to be drawn to mystery, didn’t I? And Beau is that, a complete and total mystery.

“Willow.” His voice is deep, and I finally turn his way. “You want to ride with me to school on Monday?”

I think of Jorie. I’d like to see her again. I’d also like to ride with Beau.

“I can’t,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend on the bus.”

We pull up to the bank and drag the boat back to the spot where it lives under a thicket of leaves. It’s harder to do with the metal coated in mud and slime, but Beau makes it look easy.

“Thanks for the help,” I say.

He ties the boat to a tree and makes sure the knot is good. When it rains, waters rise like a dam bursting, swallowing land. A boat will float away without a good knot.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

We walk the path back to the dividing line, over a carpet of leaves pressed flat into the ground by rains.

Beau pauses. “How about this? You ride with me to school and ride the bus home after school. Then you’ll see me and your friend.”

It’s a good solution.

“Can I have your number? I’ll text you when I’m getting ready to leave, and you can meet me out front, if you want.” He watches me. “Do you want to, Willow?”

I pull my cell out of my pocket. “How about you give me your number?”

He rattles it off, and I send a one-word message.

Yes.

His phone chimes in his pocket, and an instant later, he pulls it out and reads the text. His look, heated and gleaming, makes me take two steps toward him.

“I don’t trust your eyes,” I say.

He grins. “You’re smart not to, Willow Bell. Come to my house in the morning. I’ll give you a ride, and maybe you’ll consider telling me just a little bit more about yourself.”

“You’ll never get my soul,” I warn, thinking of Gran’s words. I smile because I know what she means. A girl could fall deep into a look like his, maybe lose parts of herself while there.

“I don’t want your soul, Willow.”

The sound of the front door slamming tells me that Gran is now outside, most likely watching us.

“All I really want,” Beau says, taking a few steps backward on his way to his place, “is you.”

…

Later that night, under a star-speckled sky, I sit on my porch. There’s no breeze to be felt, so my tank top sticks to me like gum. Even with my hair braided to one side and the sun having fallen beneath the horizon, I feel the lingering heat from the day. A nature song plays in the background, composed of frogs croaking, insects humming, and cicadas buzzing like a live electrical wire.

Each light in the house is off, due to everyone but me being in bed, fast asleep. I can’t help that the swamp makes a night owl out of me. I like the calm of it all. I look forward to evenings alone, the moon my only friend. But I know a moment later that I’m not alone. In the distance, murmurs sound.

“I’m telling you, I saw it here.”

I perk up at the sound of a female voice coming from the house next door. I wonder if it’s Beau’s sister.

“You’re sure?”

I recognize the person responding, though I’ve only heard his timbre a handful of times.

“Beau, I saw it. It’s over there.”

From a window to the side of the house, a light turns on, voices drifting out. I catch sight of Beau exiting the front door and making his way outside.

“Did you find it?” the girl asks.

I still can’t see her. What I do see clearly is Beau. He bends to the ground and retrieves a small creature.

“A squirrel.” He holds the tiny thing up to the light.

“Do you think it fell from a nest?” she asks.

Beau looks skyward, to the tree that hangs overhead.

“Probably. I need a flashlight.”

I wait in silence, watching from my spot on the porch swing. A hand extends from the window, a flashlight gripped in pink-tipped fingers. Beau turns it on. Never does he shine it my way.

“There.” He finds the nest, lit up by the flashlight beam. “I need you to hold the squirrel while I climb up on the roof.”

“Not a chance.” The girl remains in the room.

“Come on, Charlotte.” I sense the frustration in his voice, but he remains calm. “I have to climb, and I can’t do it one-handed. Once I’m on the roof, I’ll take it from you and replace it in the nest. That easy. Help me out here. You don’t want it to die, do you?”

My suspicion is right. The girl is his sister.

“You know I don’t mind creatures. It’s just that it’s so small. What if I hurt it?”

This time, Beau’s tone is kind. “You won’t.”

After a moment, an arm reaches back through the window to hold the squirrel. Beau hands it over and quickly begins climbing the side of the house until he’s on the roof, stretching back down. He’s gentle when taking the creature, careful to hold it close to his chest.

Who is this boy who rescues fallen animals?

He balances the flashlight between the crook of his arm and his ribs.

I don’t dare swing. I don’t want to call attention to myself. I want to watch from the shadows while a curious boy who claims to be wicked so gently rescues a tiny animal.

He places the squirrel in the nest and smiles down at the window.

“There. All finished.”

When he makes his way back to the front door, he pauses and swivels toward my house. I inhale sharply. Don’t dare to exhale. Under the porch light, Beau looks more like a painting than something real. I can’t be sure, but I almost swear I see him grin. And then he’s gone. Back inside his cabin. The window closes, and the voices are silenced.

Beau saved a baby swamp squirrel. His sister asked him to do it. They are nothing like the people Jorie spoke of. Still, Beau’s reputation precedes him. I can’t help but wonder why.