Midnight Lily (Signs of Love) (3 page)

I sat there quietly for a couple more minutes, gathering the strength to get up and turn back around. I'd been moving uphill, and I knew all I had to do was go back downhill to find my way out. Taking another drink, my eyes moved around the forest in front of me, my gaze caught by what looked like a small animal lying at the base of a tree. Frowning, I stood up and moved closer. A rabbit, it looked like. I knelt down and looked more closely. Its eyes were open and glassy and ants covered its bloody, matted fur. I whipped my head up, suddenly feeling . . . watched. It felt as if a clutter of spiders had scurried down my spine. I jerked to a standing position, turning around in a circle. The woods suddenly seemed oddly silent, the quiet oppressive,
wrong
. Walking backward, I moved slowly away from the dead rabbit, going back the way I'd come.

My shoulders relaxed slightly when I entered an area I'd walked through only ten minutes before—a grassy glade filled with warm sunshine, only a few trees dotting the mostly open area. But I immediately tensed again when I heard a high-pitched squealing, calling to mind some kind of wailing banshee. Drawing in a sharp breath, I ducked behind the nearest tree, pinning my back to it, my heart drumming in my ears.
Shit, shit, shit.

Peeking out, I spotted the animal that was making the terrible shriek—it was a wild boar. And it appeared to be caught somehow, or possibly injured. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I leaned back against the tree and took in a big lungful of air. I almost laughed at myself.
Get your shit together, Holden. It's a fucking pig.

Still, I'd be wise to move on. I didn't have a weapon and wild animals of any size could be dangerous. Hadn't the king on Game of Thrones been speared by a wild boar while hunting? Come to think of it, it wasn't the worst way to go: something very manly about it actually. Much better than being found in your own vomit on some bathroom floor, which would more likely be my end the way I was going.

Suddenly, the pig let out another high-pitched squeal, turning toward where I stood as if it had somehow sensed me. It doubled its efforts at struggling and wailing. I could see now that its leg was trapped somehow. It squealed and grunted fiercely, trying in vain to free itself. I was hit by a sudden head rush and leaned back against the tree, panting for air. Suddenly a bird came swooping out of the sky, barely missing my face. I felt the feathery brush of its wings as I yelped and fell forward, my heart rate spiking sharply when I saw that the pig was free and charging straight toward me. I scrabbled backward in the dirt and pine needles, letting out a deep yell, finally pulling myself to my feet.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,
my manic mind chanted. Fear arced through me as I pulled myself to my feet, turned and ran, tripping and sliding back down the hill, my thoughts pooling together in disjointed alarm, my stomach at risk of spewing its contents at any minute. My whole body was shaking. I'd never been so fucking terrified.

By the time I reached the lodge an hour later, I was breathing normally, and feeling like a complete and utter pussy. What kind of coward was I? Is that what a big, strong quarterback did?
Weak, weak, weak.
Not strong enough
. . . Some far back corner of my mind screamed before I shut it down. I groaned. Sudden, intense nausea caused me to stop and draw in long breaths of air so I wouldn't lose the contents of my stomach. The headache was coming back again.

Weak, weak, weak.

No, it was okay. I just needed to get my thoughts in order, and the pills would help me do that.
Maybe just one to take the edge off.

I imagined what I must have looked like running from that wild pig through the woods, and almost felt sorry for the paparazzi for missing that shot. Hysterical laughter bubbled up my chest. I was seized by it so violently I lay on the grass and literally rolled with hilarity. I stopped almost as quickly as I'd started, the laughter dying a quick death on my lips. Jesus . . .
Jesus. Somebody save me.

Lily

I dragged the brush through my damp hair, angling my head toward the fireplace to help it dry more quickly.

I ran my hand up the bare skin of my leg, thinking about the girls I'd seen at the lodge at the edge of the woods—the ones who wore the tiny swimsuits and danced to loud music on the deck. I wondered what it'd feel like to be that comfortable in my own skin. I'd been too curious and leaned out too far. One of them had spotted me and they had all started shrieking and screaming and slipping on the deck as they clamored out of the hot tub and ran inside.

I'd wanted to laugh out loud, but I hadn't.

Then several men had come to the edge of the woods with flashlights. I'd just watched them from behind a spruce tree. I hadn't even had to work to hide.

Staring unseeing into the leaping flames of the fire, I wondered again about the man. He'd almost gotten himself speared by a pig today. If that low-flying bird hadn't caught his attention, he wouldn't have even known the pig was running right at him. I pressed my lips together, untangling a knot at the end of my hair.

Who in his or her right mind would leave someone obviously incapable of taking care of himself out here? Alone.

The man had spotted me a few times and I wondered if he would tell anyone about me? Would they believe him if he did? It seemed to me a case could be made that he was off his rocker. I'd watched him stumble around the lodge—I could see him outside on the deck and inside through the tall, uncovered windows, too. And he did a lot of yelling and ranting at no one in particular. And then the day before yesterday he'd stumbled halfway down the outside stairs before he'd caught himself and fallen on the ground half-moaning/half-laughing. I'd waited to make sure he could actually stand up before leaving. Yes, most likely, he was insane. I supposed there was some kind of irony in me pointing out his insanity, being that I was locked away in a mental institution and all.

But anyway, he
was
handsome; I'd give him that. More than handsome, beautiful even. Could men be beautiful? Well, he was. Evidently he knew it, too. He’d ranted about that a whole lot out on the deck by himself. I myself might have found him appealing if he wasn't so obviously crazy and useless. I shook my head, my brush running through the partially dry locks of my long hair, the rhythm and the fire putting me into some sort of mild trance as I thought about
him
.

What was it about him that made me so curious despite his obvious lunacy? I laughed quietly to myself. Okay, so, maybe he wasn't a lunatic, but there was definitely something wrong. The thing was, he wasn't
only
crazy, he was sad, too. He seemed very . . .
alone
, and not because he was actually living a solitary existence, at least for the moment. For some other reason I couldn't understand. But I could relate and perhaps
that
was why I was drawn to him. Yes, maybe that was it.

"Why is he so sad?" I whispered to the fire. It was late August, and the night was only mildly cool, but it was so drafty in here. So big, so cold. The warmth felt nice. The fire snapped as if in answer to the question I'd asked, a log rolling over suddenly and breaking apart, a small spark jumping out and landing on the rug at my feet. I used my brush to smash it out and then went back to brushing my hair, wondering where the man was right now—inside or outside? Howling up at the moon perhaps? I smiled to myself.

How long would he stay? I assumed the lodge in the valley was more a vacation home than anything, used primarily in winter when the ski slopes were open. Although why he wanted to vacation all alone during
any
season, I wasn't sure. I wondered again what the man who'd called out his own name—Holden Scott—was doing right that very second.

Holden

I was vomiting. Again. Kneeling on the floor and gripping the porcelain bowl, I emptied the contents of my stomach and then groaned in misery as I fell over onto the floor, resting my cheek on the cool tile. "Fuck me," I moaned hoarsely.

I closed my eyes, but the room started spinning and so I opened them immediately, staring at the baseboard in front of me.
You can't keep going like this. You can't keep living this way.
Brandon's words came back to me and I groaned again, pulling myself up. "Jesus, I know, okay? I know."

I made my way into the living room and flopped down on the couch, keeping my eyes fixed on the enormous, bronze chandelier hanging from the beamed ceiling above. I was just so tired, always so tired, but I could never sleep for very long. Outside the window, the first light of dawn was shading the sky a thousand hues of gray. If only I could sleep . .
.

I didn't see the kid sitting on the ground on the side of the bleachers, his head in a book, until I practically tripped over him. "Darn, sorry," I said, hopping quickly to the side, righting myself and switching my football helmet to my other hand. The kid looked up at me, revealing a large black and blue mark on his right cheekbone, the eye on that side of his face red and partially swollen shut. "Whoa, what happened to you?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

He frowned and then reached his fingers up to touch the bruise lightly as if I'd just reminded him it was there. "Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, shaking his shaggy, dark blond hair so it fell over his forehead into his eyes, hoping I'd go away.

"You sure? ’Cause that looks like a real shiner. How'd you get it?" I knelt on the grass next to him. His expression was confused as if he didn't know how to react to someone talking to him.

"Uh, I walked into a door by accident," he said.

I tilted my head, considering him. He was lying. He'd probably gotten into a fight. I raised my eyebrows. "Nah, you can come up with a better story than that. That one's been used a million times." He looked surprised for a second, and then he made his expression go blank again.

"Story?" he asked.

"Yeah, like, you know, you gotta be more imaginative." I tilted my head and looked up at the sky, thinking until it came to me. I looked back at the kid. "That creepy janitor who always
just happens
," I set my helmet down and used my fingers to make air quotes, "to be walking through the locker room when we're changing tried to abduct you, but you fought him off with the Ninja skills you learned from the old Chinese guy who manages your apartment building when he's not growing bonsai trees."

The kid looked at me silently for a couple seconds and then said, "I don't live in an apartment building, I think you mean Japanese, and that story is not imaginative at all—it's a clear Karate Kid rip-off. And also, it could get an innocent janitor in a whole lot of trouble—maybe even fired from the job he might need to feed his three foster kids."

"That guy has three foster kids?" I did a fake shudder.

He shrugged. "He could."

"See, that's what's wrong with social services. They give foster kids to guys like him. I hear, like, the whole system is a joke."

The kid narrowed his eyes—well his one good eye at least—and stared at me for a few moments. Then his lip tipped up slightly and he laughed a short laugh. When he stopped, he looked . . . bewildered. Yeah, bewildered. That was the word. And it'd just been on a vocab test the week before. I took a moment to pat myself on the back for using it.

"I'm Holden," I said. "Holden Scott."

He paused for a second before reaching out and gripping the hand I held out to him. "Ryan Ellis."

Two guys from my team walked by and I heard them snicker under their breath. "Hey, Holden, dude," Vince Milne said, "is it adopt-a-loser day and no one told me?" He ribbed Jeremy Pratt who was walking next to him and Jeremy laughed.

"Yeah it is, Vince," I called. "Are you already taken?"

"Eh, fuck off," he muttered under his breath before walking away. I hated that asshole. And he was a suck-ass football player, too.

I turned back to Ryan who was trying to look like he was busy organizing his backpack and hadn't heard anything Vince and I were saying. I could tell he had though because his face was hot and bright red.

"Anyway, what way do you walk? I'm headed home if you are, too."

"Uh, I walk toward Bridgetown Road," he muttered.

"Me, too. Come on." I stood up, gathering my helmet, and he stood slowly as well. We were about the same height, although Ryan was real skinny. He zipped his backpack and hefted it onto his shoulder.

"Your backpack looks like it weighs two hundred pounds."

Ryan smirked. "It does. It's how I got all these muscles."

"Ha. So what grade are you in?"

"Seventh, same as you," he said.

I nodded, feeling bad that he obviously knew who I was, but I'd never noticed him before. I cleared my throat. "So, hey, do you want to stop at Skyline and get a couple Coneys? Are you hungry? I'm starving. I go there after practice a lot. Some of the other guys might be there, too. The cool ones."

He shook his head. "No, I can't. I have to be home."

"Oh, okay. Another time then."

As we started walking, Ryan said, "So you, uh, obviously play football."

"Yeah, I love it. Man, it's my life. I'm number twenty-two. I'm gonna go pro someday," I said excitedly. "I'm gonna live in a big mansion and date celebrities, and have my own personal chef, and drive the coolest cars." It was all I ever dreamed about. "Do you play at all? Even just for fun?"

Ryan shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Nah. I like watching, though. I like the Cowboys."

I turned to him. "That's my favorite team. Holy shit, they're awesome!"

Ryan smiled and nodded.

"If you like football so much, why don't you play?"

He pressed his lips together and stared down at his shoes as we walked. "My dad . . . the gear and stuff, you know. It's just . . . not in our budget." His face turned kinda red. I nodded so he would know I understood.

"My parents are on a budget, too. I know what you mean. My dad had to pick up extra hours so we could afford for me to play."

Ryan nodded, looking like I'd made him feel better. "I go to all the school games. I think I've seen your parents at them, too—holding up number twenty-two signs."

I nodded. "Yeah, that's them, all right." I rolled my eyes. "The one's dressed entirely in our school colors, waving pom-poms, foam number-one fingers, and holding up signs with my number. It's so embarrassing." I kept talking. I always talked so damn much. Like my brain had no off switch. All my thoughts just flowed right out of my mouth. "My parents thought they couldn't have kids. They tried for years and nothing, then, boom! When my mom was forty-nine, she found out she was pregnant with me. You should see her, when she tells the story, she looks all dreamy like God himself came down and knocked her up, you know? So they kinda go overboard with the whole parenting thing. Like I'm their miracle child."

Ryan smiled a small smile. "I guess you kinda are."

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "So what about your parents?"

Ryan stiffened and stared down at his shoes again. "It's just me and my dad." I waited, but he didn't go on. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye as we walked in silence for a few blocks, getting up the nerve to ask the question I really wanted to know.

"Did your dad do that to you?" I asked as casually as possible, nodding to his eye when he turned his head to me. His expression was surprised for a second, then he looked kinda mad, then he closed his eyes and looked ahead, deciding to answer honestly.

"Yeah."

I was quiet for a minute, wondering what it was like to have a dad who hit you in your face. What did a kid do to deserve something like that? "Your dad sounds like a real asshole."

"Oh, so you know him," Ryan said sarcastically.

I breathed out a small laugh. "Hey, you know, so, why don't you come over sometime? We could watch a game. And it would give my parents someone else to fall all over."

Ryan looked like he might be just a little bit mad about the offer, but then he shrugged. "Maybe. Hey, this is my street. I gotta go."

"Okay," I called after him as he walked away. "See you tomorrow then."

He didn't turn, but I heard him mutter, "See you tomorrow."

I woke up with Ryan's name on my lips. I sat up abruptly and groaned at the pain that throbbed in my head. I was sprawled on the couch in the living room, the morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I'd fallen asleep at dawn so I couldn't have been asleep for long. But I'd dreamed. For the first time in a really long time. I lay back down. Something about the dream niggled at my brain, but I couldn't figure it out. Something felt
off.
But it'd left a lingering feeling of . . . happiness.
That
was it—I'd had the first
happy
memory of Ryan. I laughed softly to myself. Maybe there was something to this feng shui after all. And maybe, just maybe, I'd venture out into the woods again to look for my ghost. Something in me was having a hard time believing she didn't exist—I'd
seen
her. Besides, what the fuck else did I have to do? Wild boars be damned.