Tyler went for Copper. That was the right call. It was practical, immediate, the horse was still going, and that was Tyler all over. I went for Falon. I dropped to my knees in the arena dirt beside her, put my hands on her shoulders,and said, "You're okay, hey, you're okay," before I'd even confirmed that she was. She blinked up at me, stunned and dusty, and I helped her sit up, brushed the dirt off her sleeve, and then pulled her in because she was shaking and I didn't know what else to do with my hands.
She was twelve. I was fourteen. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
Then Kevin Bennett's crew found it funny.
Three of them, older, loud in the specific way boys that age are loud when they think cruelty is the same thing as humor. Nice ride. A laugh. Something else I don't need to repeat.
I stood up.
I didn't raise my voice. Didn't move more than one step. I looked at the ringleader. He was a broad-shouldered kid named Garrett, whom I haven't thought about in years, and said, quietly and flatly: Say one more thing.
They didn't.
I didn't look back at Falon right away. Just cut one sideways glance to check, and see if she was good, and she gave me the smallest nod I'd ever seen. I held her eyes for half a second longer than I needed to.
Then I walked back toward Tyler as if nothing had happened.
I told myself later that it didn't mean anything. That it was just the right thing to do. That she was Tyler's little sister, and I was being a decent person, and that was the whole story.
I got pretty good at telling myself that.
Standing in this bar now, watching her stand close without being asked, I think about how long I've been filing things under you, imagining it. How many times have I talked myself back from the edge of something true becausethe timing was wrong or the promise was there, or I just didn't have the nerve?
She chose where to stand tonight.
Same as she always has.
I still haven't told her the truth. About Tyler's call. About Kevin being the reason I had a reason to stay close. About the promise that started all of this and the way it's fraying at every edge.
But right now, in this room, she chose where to stand.
And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending.
Chapter 12
The Sting
Falon
Gossip in Everwood runs faster than the speed of light, and if anyone didn’t believe me, then they have never lived in a small town.
By the time I've finished the morning feed and checked the water levels, my phone has logged fourteen texts and two missed calls. There was no reason to read them. I already knew what they said. And I doubted that any of them were texting to see what I fed the chickens or if I had any eggs. Everwood has one speed when something happens, and it isn't slow.
After morning chores, I place my phone on silent and shower, pull my hair back, and go about my regular Thursday. I’m getting my second cup of coffee when I go through today’s list. My list has a few to-do’s and a couple errands on it, and even though I know town will be like bees on honey, I still have to hit the pharmacy and pick up dad’s prescription, stop by the garden center and pick up a pot because I broke the one in the living room when the latter tipped over, and the feed store for a new pair of leather gloves. Nothing big, but when my phone lights up again, I groan.
Because it’s most likely Kevin. He’d most likely be calling to backpedal. Kevin made a fool of himself. Bo didn't take the bait. Sheriff Palmer handled it. That's the whole story, and Kevin would try to spin it, and the town can have whatever version of it they want. I wasn’t there, but I trust Millie, Daisy, Alex, and Bo.
I tried to park in front of Ethel’s and walked across the street from there.
First errand: the pharmacy. Prescription pickup for Dad, plus the specific brand of hand lotion Mom likes that they only carry at Dawson's.
The Pharmacy was empty, but Mr. Dawson gave me a sympathetic look.
“You okay?” he asks when he hands me my dad’s meds, and I place Mom’s lotion on the counter.
“Yep, just running errands.” I pay while he keeps giving me knowing looks over the rim of his glasses. See, Falon, it’s just a normal Thursday. I lie to myself.
“Well, you tell your daddy I hope he feels better, and don’t worry, Falon, today’s news is tomorrow's trash.” He tries to comfort me, but we all know better than that. The gossip clubs will be chewing on this one for a while.
