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“Kaleb,” I hear Noah chide.
But snickers and snorts break out around the group, and despite the twinge of anger I feel, my eyes start to burn.
Away. He looks down at me, jerking his chin again. Away.
You’re not going.
Jake stands in the truck bed, suddenly aware something is going on, and I clench my jaw to fight the tears. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be away. Where I can’t be seen or looked at or detested.
“No, it’s fine,” I say quietly to Noah, choking on the tears in my throat.
And I back away, turning for the house.
“Tiernan,” Jake calls.
But I cut him off. “I didn’t want to go anyway,” I tell him, my eyes watering. “Sounds boring.”
And I jog up the stairs and walk into the house, hearing the engines rev, and after a moment, the high-pitched whir of them speeding away.
I head for the staircase, but I halt in the middle of the living room, realizing there’s nothing up there for me either. Another closed door. Another place to hide. Another room to pass the time until…
I drop my eyes, needles prickling the back of my throat.
Until I don’t have to worry about being seen.
My chin trembles, and a tear falls. I swipe it away.
I don’t want to think, because then I’ll be fucking alone, and that’s all I ever am.
The truck fires up outside, and I close my eyes, thinking I should be relieved my uncle is leaving, too. I should be thankful he didn’t come in after me. Neither one of us is the heart-to-heart kind, are we?
He’s giving me space.
But he just leaves, the sound of his engine disappearing down the road, and I stand there for less than a minute before setting off upstairs and opening my bedroom door.
I bypass my suitcase, still laying empty on the floor, and grab my backpack, double-checking my little First Aid kit is inside and take my sunscreen, stuffing it in the front pocket. Pulling my phone off the charger, I leave the room and head downstairs, filling up a water bottle and packing a few snacks.
I walk toward the front door, but then I stop, remembering.
Protection.
I head back through the kitchen and open the door to the garage, stepping down the few stairs and gazing at the row of rifles on the rack.
I wish I didn’t have to carry one. I’d look like an idiot—or a terrorist—walking down Ventura with a firearm slung over my shoulder. But my uncle is right. This isn’t the city. I could run into trouble.
I chew my lips, no idea what I’m really looking at. I don’t know about preciseness or ease of use, so I just grab the one I know how to use and open the drawer underneath, finding the bullets. Loading the weapon, I swing the strap of the rifle over my shoulder.
Quickly, I sift through my uncle’s tools, finding a flashlight, and then grab a clean towel off the basket on top of the dryer. I put everything in my pack, zip it up, and pull it on, ready to go.
Stepping out of the shop and around the house, I head for the woods, climbing the steep incline Jake took me through on the horse the other day. I think I remember the way. It’s a straight shot up and around some rocks, and then I continue on, going deeper into the trees. There should be a worn path… I would think.
I should text my uncle and let him know where I’m going.
But instead, I keep my phone tucked away in my pocket.
Reaching the top of the hill, I follow the dirt path around some boulders, keeping my eyes open and my ears trained, but after a few minutes, the headache that always seems to be aching around the back of my head fades away, and I inhale deep breaths, smelling the needles of the evergreens and the wet earth under my shoes.
Maybe I should turn back and put on Noah’s old boots he loaned me yesterday, but I can’t care that my sneakers have zero traction right now. My stomach is unknotting, and all I can hear is the creaking of the trees and the water coming from somewhere.
