Meanwhile, I’m wide-eyed in the passenger seat, wondering if this whole ride home is a concussion hallucination. Are those a thing?
Then Adam hands me his phone. I look at it, then him, in confusion.
“Plug in your address.” He cranks the engine and it roars to life.
“Oh. Right,” I mutter under the rumble of the diesel engine.
He throws his truck into reverse. “And send yourself a text, while you’re at it. I need your number.”
Chapter 7
Adam
Stevie has a picture of me on her phone. I’d be flattered, except she thinks it’s Bigfoot.
I’m not going to be the one to tell her. I can’t get over the fact that this bright, intelligent woman believes that sasquatches exist. She’s fidgeting in my passenger seat, her red hair braided and tossed over her shoulder, looking like a totally normal person.
Except she believes in Bigfoot, I remind myself.
I knew there had to be something wrong with her. She’s too perfect, otherwise. And I’m not surprised she didn’t recognize me in the photo. I’m covered from head to toe in a shaggy green-and-brown ghillie suit. I guess I can see how she mistook me for a giant hairy primate. And I’m not about to admit that I hang out in the woods wearing a shrubbery costume, observing wildlife like a weirdo. I mean, it’s part of my job, but still. The part where I wore a ghillie suit was totally voluntary.
“This one?” I ask, with a nod toward what I think is her house. It’s barely more than a cottage, with faded brown shingle siding.
“Uh-huh,” she sighs. She sounds down.
I sneak a glance out the corner of my eye, and she’s frowning. I want to ask her why she’s sad, but she doesn’t know me. I don’t have that privilege. I want to know, though, so I can fix it. She’s a Carrot Cake without frosting right now. I don’t like it.
I pull into her driveway, and Stevie unbuckles her seatbelt with another sigh. “Thanks for the ride.”
When she moves to open the door, her head lolls to the side like she’s dizzy again.
I’m taking this opportunity. “Wait right there.”
Before she can protest, I’m out the door and helping her down from the truck. I take her hand, swallowing down the feelings that flood through me at the softness of it. Everything about her is so delicate. I’m such an ox, I’m worried I’ll accidentally break her. I take extra care not to hold her too tightly when I wrap my other arm around her shoulders to steady her.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, sounding noticeably perkier. “This can’t be part of your Forest Service job description.” Her lips curve upward.
“I don’t work for the Forest Service,” I stutter, slightly stunned by her smile.
Why did I say that? She doesn’t care, and no one likes to be corrected.Adam, you doofus.I don’t know why I’m like this. While other kids were learning how to interact with people, I was chasing iguanas through mangroves, and it shows.
I try to fix it: “I mean, it’s close enough. I work for the Biddeford Land Trust.”
If both of my hands weren’t occupied, I’d be face-palming so hard right now.
I lead her to her front porch, which is covered with pots and planters full of every color of flower. A vine of yellow blossoms—Allamanda cathartica—is growing around her door out of a big terra-cotta pot. Huh. Those plants don’t generally do well thisfar north. She must baby that thing to keep it alive in the winter. And it is thriving—she almost has to part the flowers to unlock her door.
“Hmm.” The doorknob squeaks when she turns it, and she swings the door open. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
I want to look inside. I want a glimpse into the life of the forest mascot with the huge brown eyes, but I know I shouldn’t. I’m desperate for an excuse to keep her talking.
She believes in Bigfoot, I scold myself with some disappointment.Back away from the beautiful, crazy woman.
But that reminds me. “Hey, Stevie?” I make sure she’s steady before I move my hands away.
She turns, her bright smile back in place. “Yeah?”
“Don’t go into the woods alone.” That sounded like a command. And with that, I am never leaving the forest again. I don’t deserve to mingle in society.
