Page 52 of Love Again

I watched his hand on the stick shift of the Ford truck. His palm was wide and his fingers were evenly spaced—perfect hands. There was a burn on the right outside palm, probably from batting embers off. With each shift, the tendons and muscle moved in his forearms. That hand eventually rested on his thigh. His profile remained locked onto the road as he negotiated first the access road, then the dirt road, the asphalt, and then the smooth paradise of the highway. It was like I was watching a movie, a really sexy movie, in the tunnel vision of the truck cab. Once in a while, he’d turn to glance at me, and I’d quickly shut my eyes.

I didn’t want him catching me looking at him.

Why?

Why was I so awkward around men?

Once, when I asked Laurel how she managed so many boyfriends, she said, “Eye contact.”

That’s the one thing I couldn’t do. What if I started something and couldn’t stop it?

People—everyone, even my family—think that I’m this tough, can-do person. That is what I project. That is what I want people to believe. It’s what I believe. The big joke in our family is that I’m the daredevil.

I am a daredevil . . . but not with my heart.

When I jumped off that bridge with a bungee cord the night of high school graduation, it wasn’t just for a thrill.

There was a piece of me that realized then that I would do anything to save my family. I don’t mean in a philosophical way, either. I would risk my life for them, and if any more of us died, that meant three of us would be gone. Mom, Dad, and one of us.

I had to keep everyone safe.

At seventeen, I couldn’t bear both the realization and the responsibility. If I died saving one of them, they wouldn’t be able to bear it. There was this tiny, evil part in the back of my brain when I launched myself off that bridge that told me if I didn’t make it, they would get over me quickly. Then, I would have saved them the agony of living with the fact I died for one of them.

Yes, it’s twisted.

But that evil little part grew like a cancer after Max died.

I could never bear the idea that Luke would die for me, or that his need to get to me in a crisis might put any of our crew in danger again.

After the jump, Claire told me I had to leave. Instead of being hurt, it was a relief. I know she thinks she hurt my feelings, and she keeps trying to make it up to me. We have these intense conversations where I say nothing and she cries, but really—it was a relief.

The fact she made me leave meant I wouldn’t ever be in a position to choose which of them to save, if it ever came to that. After Mom and Dad were killed, I used to have dreams of The Inn on fire. I could hear them all screaming as I kicked down doors or levied an ax at the wood, trying to find my family.

These were full-blown nightmares.

That’s when I started sleepwalking. I was trying to find them, and then the dreams morphed into something even more cruel.

In these dreams, I knew where they were, but the choices were Laurel or Travis, Chloe or Claire.

I’d wake up in a sweat.

In truth, if Claire hadn’t kicked me out, I probably would have left anyway. I can’t bear the responsibility of hurting the people I love. So, I act tough. I am tough. For the most part, it works. I’m a petite woman who parachutes into fire with a pack that weighs ten pounds more than I do. Who’s going to question me?

When people find out that’s what I do, they shut up. And men? They don’t even know where to begin, they’re so intimidated by me.

I remember glancing at Luke through my eyelashes at the gas station. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, and I watched him as he reached across and put his hand on my shoulder for a moment.

Instead of shrinking away, instead of trying to rally to say something funny or smart to prove to him I was okay, all I could do was close my eyes and cough. When his hand gripped my shoulder and he tried to hold me still, instead of feeling as though he thought I couldn’t handle it, I was grateful. Not mad. Not embarrassed.

The coughing was something I couldn’t stop, and in two hours, he had catapulted us to a hospital.

I was so groggy when we pulled up to the ER entrance, it took me a second to figure out where we were. Luke put the truck in park with the engine idling. A man and a woman, emergency workers, opened the truck door, and one of them very gently took the mask away from my face. They must have seen the dried blood on my nostrils or my lips. They had a gurney ready, and they carefully loaded me onto it. As someone stretched the safety straps across my waist and started to tighten them, I realized we were going to be separated.

I was going to lose him. This man who tore up fire to save me.

I remember reaching out in his direction. Pathetic, now that I look back on that afternoon. He pulled the truck away so fast, the orderly barely had time to slam the door shut.

My brain was hazy with loss, and fuzzy. The coughing returned now that the oxygen had been taken away.