“Did you get stitches?”
“Five. I remember it hurting like hell.”
“Why’d you jump out of a tree?”
“My brother dared me. For a week he had been trying to convince me that I could fly if I had enough speed.” His eyes smile at the memory. “I believed him. And I also probably just wanted to impress him since he was my older brother. So I jumped.”
He tilts his head back to look up at the sky, sewn together with stars.
“Maybe you didn’t have enough speed,” I suggest, smiling and craning my head back to look up at the same stars.
“Probably not. But I don’t think I’ll test the theory again.” His smile fades. “My brother felt terrible,” he goes on. “He carried me all the way back to our house while I sobbed. And after I got stitches, he sat beside my bed and read me comics for a week. You’d think I lost a leg, he felt so guilty.”
“He sounds like a good brother,” I say.
“Yeah. He was.”
A breath of silence weaves between us.
Sparks swirl up from the charred tree trunk into the dark. Bo clears his throat, still staring into the flames. “How long has that sailboat been sitting down by the dock?”
The question surprises me. I wasn’t expecting it. “A few years, I guess.”
“Who does it belong to?” His tone is careful, as though he’s unsure if he should be asking. The focus has quickly shifted from him to me. From one loss to another.
I let the words tumble around inside my skull before I answer, conjuring up a past that lies dormant in my mind. “My father.”
He waits before he speaks again, sensing that he’s venturing into delicate territory. “Does it still sail?”
“I think so.”
I stare down into the mug held between my palms, absorbing its warmth.
“I’d like to take it out sometime,” Bo says cautiously, “see if it still sails.”
“You know how to sail?”
His lips part open—a gentle smile—and he looks down at his feet like he’s about to reveal a secret. “I spent almost every summer sailing on Lake Washington growing up.”
“Did you live in Seattle?” I ask, hoping to narrow down the city where he’s from.
“Near there.” His answer is just as vague as the last time I asked. “But a much smaller town.”
“You realize I have more questions about you than answers.” He was built to conceal secrets, his face revealing not even a hint of what’s buried inside. It’s both intriguing and infuriating.
“I can say the same about you.”
I draw my lips to one side and squeeze the mug tighter between my hands. He’s right. We’re deadlocked in a strange battle of secrecy. Neither of us is willing to tell the truth. Neither of us is willing to let the other one in. “You can take the sailboat out if you want,” I say, standing up and tucking a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “It’s late. I think I’ll head up to the house.” The flames burning in each stump have been reduced to hot embers, slowly chewing through the last of the wood.
“I’ll stay up and make sure the fires are out completely.”
“Good night,” I say, pausing to look back at him.
“Night.”
EIGHT
The orchard looks different. Pruned and tidy, like a manicured English garden. It reminds me of how it used to be in summers past, when ripe fruit would hang bright and vibrant beneath the sun, beckoning the birds to pick at the ones that had fallen to the ground. The air always smelled of sweet and salt. Fruit and sea.
