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“I never thought you were.” I insist she hears how serious I am.
“I know I’m bubbly, and my folks like to call me naive, which I get. I believe most small-town girls can be naïve, but telling Emily that I went off with a truck driver was hard for her to believe. I’ve only been with two people before you, and that’s fairly good for most people my age these days. And—”
“I’m not judging you at all, Sadie. Remember, we aren’t taking this too seriously. I won’t judge you, and I hope you won’t judge me either.”
I hope this helps. I don’t need to feel all the feels.
“Men aren’t judged like we are.” She laughs.
She’s right about that, and I understand why she wants me to know this.
“Fair enough. And I hope I make you feel better knowing that I don’t think any less of you.”
She extends her arms for a hug, and I oblige. I tell you, there isn’t a much better feeling than the honest comfort her arms give me. I feel like I’m nestled in a carefree, judgment-free zone as her apple-scented lotion tickles my nostrils. I stroke her auburn hair and kiss the top of her head. More than anything, I want to place her between my sheets, but I know she needs to be on her way home. Sure, I feel like the big boss in this relationship, but she has my heart feeling like a young man. I may have to lock my heart away.
“So…wanna play a round of War, Speed, or Crazy Eights?” I nod at the cards on my nightstand. Just maybe, I can convince her to stay a little longer.
She checks the time and gives me a shrug. “I want to, but I think it’s best if you take me home. I promised Savannah I’d watch this movie with her, and plus, I’m sure my mom wants to toast my new job with me.”
“Not Braxton, huh?”
She smiles. “It’s hard for Dad to celebrate. I think he takes celebrations as goodbyes since the day they celebrated you when you got adopted.”
That pinches at my heart. There’s a lot we foster kids go through. I slip my shirt on, wishing I could rewrite some of Braxton’s life. Hell, some of mine, too. But that’s no way to live. We all have to acknowledge our pain and find a way to deal with it.
After slipping my clothes back on, I watch Sadie fix herself in the mirror by the door. She’s so precious. And this is beyond her sexiness, her curiosity, and her tenacity. There’s something really wholesome, that whomever she settles with better take real fucking good care of her. Once this season of my life is closed, I can’t see myself smiling happily on the phone with Braxton if he were to tell me something like, “Sadie’s getting married.” I swallow this horrible scenario and insist that I live in the present. Because in the present moment, Sadie is all mine.
Chapter 9
Sadie
It’sbeenaboutaweek and a half since Freddy took me to Chicago. Back in Hillpike, I assume it’d be the big city on my mind. Apparently, it is only Freddy who’s on my mind. From my last days at the coffee shop to plunging in full speed at “Nightingale’s” or even the usual drama my friends have in their own lives…nothing seems to keep my mind away from the hot energy Freddy gives me.
I’ve seen him twice since he made rules for our relationship. Both times we were hungry for each other and made love in his motel room. Seeing a man work a highly successful job while camping in a small-town motel is interesting. He has a rigid morning routine that he sticks to, and I have the highest respect for that. He could easily go to the Holiday Inn, but he believes we would most likely be spotted there since it’s closer to town. He has a point about that. So the drab Dartmouth it is.
The last time we were together, we spent five hours after lovemaking watching old documentaries about world wars and the fanatical men behind them. It’s interesting sharing our perspective about egotistical dictators and all the harm they’ve brought the world. Freddy admitted how much of a history buff he became thanks to his adopted father. His parents have retired and now live in California. He communicates with them often and has ensured Dustin keeps in contact with his paternal grandparents while staying with Courtney’s family. Interesting to see how much Courtney is clearly the problem.
We have been entrenched in each other’s lives while pretending to live under the umbrella of “guarding our hearts or enjoying the moment for moment’s sake.”
I have so much I want to say. Keeping this secret bites my nerves. I feel like I need to carry a large sign in town announcing my growing desire for the hunky guy with tattoos. Oddly enough, Emily brought him up the other day.
“Is that man with the salt-and-pepper hair and tattoos your uncle? Because he is fuckinghot.”
Huge emphasis on the “hot.” I can’t stomach it whenever I hear something like this.
“He and my dad were in the same foster home. No relation at all,” I tell Emily.
I wish I could tell her more, even though I don’t trust her. I tried writing about it in my journal but tore up the pages, afraid Savannah might enter my room and read my secrets. I tried releasing it all to the trees when I jogged along our town’s prairie path, but the leaves weren’t having it. I tried telling myself it was okay to live a secret life, but that didn’t satisfy me.
This is how I wind up here, right in front of the turquoise shack that separates the town from the woods. It’s where the one ostracized person of Hillpike takes up space. It’s where scary stories about this town originate. It’s where my mother and father have told me to stay away from. This little raggedy shack has two brass rocking chairs on its nearly dilapidated porch. A neon sign flashes the words “Psychic readings. Come inside.”
I’ve heard of out-of-towners leaving remarkable or bizarre reviews of the woman who lives here. Her name is Flora, and she has gray-and-dirty blonde locs. She is usually spotted wearing the stereotypical floral ankle-length skirts. Whenever I see her, her eyes gain width, and she draws back as if she knows a secret about me. This has always been the case. She’ll come to my father’s shops for wood parts or something to fix up her house. Every time she’s there while I’m there, she gives me that look that makes me feel like we’re somehow connected. Odd, but it never scares me. It’s almost comforting even with my mother having told me several times, “Don’t make eye contact with her. She looks at you strangely.”
It’s Thursday, a day off for me, when I park in front of the blue shack in my mother’s little Honda that she claims she’ll be giving me this fall. I turn off the engine and watch Flora’s psychic sign sway in the afternoon breeze.
It’s not long until she emerges through the front wooden door. I’m eager to see what’s inside, so I hop out of the car and stroll toward her.
“You’re the hardware store owner’s daughter.” She smiles, and her teeth are sharp and small.
