“We’re not angels,” I said.
“That’s not my place to judge,” he said with a smile that could rival Poppy’s in sincerity.
Now he’s giving us privacy, humming softly to himself while Poppy and I huddle together under the wool blanket he placed over us. She’s still shaking, but with my arms around her and her legs slung across my lap, it’s not as violent as it was only ten minutes ago.
Her crying won’t stop, though. My hoodie is wetter from her tears than from the snow, and every shuddering breath she takes feels like it’s being ripped from somewhere deep inside her—somewhere she’s kept locked for so long that now that it’s open, she can’t force it closed again.
This isn’t just from the accident or from the pain.
Something’s happening inside of her.
Whatever it is, I can’t let her go through it alone.
“Poppy, why didn’t you tell me about your ankle?” I murmur.
Her sobs are so quiet, I can’t hear them over the wind. I can feel the gentle shake of her shoulders, though. If it goes on for much longer, it’s going to tear me apart. And then a suspicion takes hold.
“You were worried I was going to insist on driving when I don’t fit.”
She looks down, and I know I’m right.
“Poppy—”
“I can’t be a drain on people, Oliver. Ican’t.”
The words hit me like a fist to the chest. She drove through a blizzard on a hurt ankle because she thought my comfort—mycomfort—mattered more than her pain. More than her safety.
“You could never be a drain,” I say, but my voice cracks on the last word, and suddenly I’m furious—not at her, but at everyone who ever made her believe she had to give everything to deserve love.
She sniffs. “Oh yeah? At my dad’s trial, they asked him why he thought it was okay to commit fraud, and he said, ‘I just wanted to provide a good life for my little girl.’”
“No. That’s not why he did it,” I say, angry enough to growl. “He did it because he was selfish.”
I feel her shrug against me. “My mom worked herself to exhaustion taking care of me.”
“Because she loved you.”
“I know. But being poor ishard, and I swore I’d never make it harder for her. Do you know what we did on her day off? After she taught me whatever skill of the week I needed to know, we went dumpster diving. We’d find old dressers or tables and fix them up to sell them on online marketplaces. And by the time I was thirteen, I did most of the work so she wouldn’t have to. When my college roommate saw me doing it, she thought it was ‘so cool.’ Like I was some environmental warrior.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “It wasn’t cool. It was the only way I could afford rent. But I couldn’t tell anyone that. Then they’d pity me. Try to help me. I’d rather people think I’m quirky than a service project.” She goes silent for a dozen clip-clops of the horse’s hooves. “I still shop at thrift stores. I feel so guilty buying anything new.”
With every word, I feel like I’m bleeding internally for Poppy. But we’ve reached Samuel’s farm, and there’s no time, no privacy. I want to tell her she deserves the world, that she’s not a burden, that her father’s crimes and her mother’s sacrifices don’t negate her worth.
All I can manage is, “We’re not done talking about this,” and it comes out gruff and pitifully inadequate. “I’m going to get you warmed up inside and I’m taking care of that ankle and you, whether you like it or not.”
She hiccups, and I hold her close. I’ve never wanted to protect someone the way I want to protect her. Not just from danger, but from herself—from the voice in her head that says she doesn’t matter, that she has to suffer to keep people close.
And the terrifying part? I’m starting to realize I don’t just want to protect her.
I want to be the person she doesn’t need to protect herself from.
The farmhouse sits in a clearing, a two-story white building with a wraparound porch barely visible through the snow. No electric lights shine from the windows, but I can see the warm glow of oil lamps flickering behind simple curtains. A few outbuildings dot the property, including a large barn and a smaller building set apart from the main house with solar panels on the roof.
Samuel pulls the buggy up to the front porch and sets the brake.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he tells us before hopping down and disappearing through the front door. Within moments, a lean woman in a plain dress and heavy shawl emerges, carrying a kerosene lantern that casts shadows across the snow.
“You poor things,” Clara says, hurrying toward us. She’s younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with kind eyes and brown hair pulled back in a simple bun. “Samuel told me what happened. Are you hurt?”
“She twisted her ankle,” I say. “And she’s pretty shaken up.”
