#Superfan (11 page)

“An actor, huh? An actor living in Georgia.”

“Funny how that happened.” Eight lets go of my hand long enough to tap a button and raise the window. “I was dead set on never leaving LA. There’s so much life there, so much action. Nothing like the farm where I always felt so sheltered.”

“But you came back to Georgia.”

“Yeah.” His face holds a familiar weariness, one not so different from my father’s. “There was an open audition in Georgia for a small part in a series. I didn’t get the part, but I did find some not so glamorous work on the set.” He shrugs. “I’m no actor. Not bringing in the big bucks by any means, but I’m not working three jobs paying my way through acting school anymore.”

“Being an actor is overrated anyway. You see the crap people like Ayden Vaughn go through?”

Eight frowns. “Yeah, that’s the downside to acting. All your personal business is always splashed in the tabloids. People pick apart the details of these people’s lives on social media. There’s no way I could read about myself. I’d avoid phones, tablets, computers. Turn into a hermit like you.” He grins.

#chapternine

Despite Eight’s understanding attitude after our lunch date with my family, I spend the majority of the next few days worrying my folks have scared him away. But I have no reason to worry. He stops by occasionally to check on my head wound, hang out, and chat. He even takes me to the tow place to procure my car. Still, I’m a worrywart by nature, and I stress over the possibility of losing this person who’s brought something so unexpected into my life.

Concern. Care. He
cares
about me.

I wake up one Wednesday feeling more alive than I have in the past several years. I throw back the covers and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my dresser. My skin is glowing and my hair is askew. The dark bluish eyes I inherited from my mother shine in the morning sun flowing past the parted curtains. I tug at a curl.

“I want something different,” I tell the girl in the mirror.

I touch the fortune still tucked into the corner of the mirror, get dressed, and head out. Six hours later and several hundred dollars poorer, I return to my apartment with a new hairstyle, a bag of makeup, and several bags of new clothes. It takes two trips to my rental car to unload all my purchases.

After throwing on one of my new outfits and playing around with my makeup, I munch on a few veggies—no greasy chips—while I peruse the pantry. New Years was only a couple months ago, but I made no health or weight loss resolutions this year. Mainly because I never keep them. But March is around the corner and what the hell? There’s no pressure to make huge changes, as one does at the beginning of the year. It’s a random late February day. And I’m tossing out my chips, cookies, and crackers. I pop the tops on the two sodas left in the fridge and pour them down the sink. My heart races with possibilities and with fright, because I don’t even know myself anymore.

The rap of someone knocking on my door eight times startles me from my carb unloading. I cram all the cookie packages and Coke cans into the trash. Cally darts back and forth in front of the door, as fast as her chubby little legs can carry her. She’s grown an affinity for Eight, not that I can blame her. I’m sort of partial to him myself.

Eight’s mouth parts in awe once I open the door. Cally purrs and winds herself around his ankles again and again, demanding his attention. I shoo her away and knock a few orange hairs from his jeans. I straighten up and shift from one foot to the other, growing self-conscious under his unnerving, astonished stare.

“Say something.”

Eight swallows. “Something.”

“Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

He steps forward, cupping one hand behind my neck and bringing my face to his. I gasp in surprise at the sudden movement, frozen when his lips press against mine. The kiss is deep. Frantic. Waking me from the semi-trance I initially found myself in. I lay my arms over his shoulders, lacing my fingers together behind his neck and returning his kiss.

One of us should pull away. We always do. But instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and kisses me all the way into the living room. I trip over the throw rug, and we fall onto the couch, laughing and kissing. Kissing and laughing.

“You look beautiful. That’s what I should have said. But damn, the sight of you left me speechless.”

Eight settles between my parted legs. His thumb travels the curve of my jaw and his fingers comb my hair. He tugs the long, silky strands in thought, dropping them and picking them back up again. He brushes them aside and presses his thumb against my painted lips. I kiss the pad of his finger and he groans, his forehead resting against mine.

“Why the new look? Not that I’m complaining.” He gives me a salacious grin and brushes a kiss against my lips.

“Wanted something different.”

“It’s different all right.” He kisses me again, our chests flush. Our hearts pound in a dizzy, sputtering rhythm. “Makes me almost forget why I stopped by.”

His fingers splay over my thigh, below the hem of my dress. I bend my knee and the dress skirts down, along with his exploring hand. Butterflies flutter in my belly, rising to my chest.

“There’s a reason you stopped by? Other than to maul me?” I play with the soft curls near the nape of his neck, twisting the strands in loops around my index finger.

His hand stills and leaves my leg completely. Sighing, he raises himself from between my legs and sits back on the couch. I rise up as well, on my elbows, waiting for him to explain his sudden mood change.

“Was it something I said?” I ask, sounding lame. Laughing uncomfortably, I sit up and cross my legs underneath me, fanning my dress to cover my skin.

“No,” he says, then laughs as well. But his laugh is gruff. Tired. “Well, yeah. Now I remember why I stopped by.” Eight rubs the space between his eyebrows and gazes at me with a tender, fragile expression. “I wondered if you’d go somewhere with me.”

“Yeah, of course. Where do you want to go?”

Eight bites the corner of his lip. “Back to the farm. To see my brothers and sisters. And my parents.”

“Your parents?” Not gonna lie; the thought terrifies me. “After the disaster with my family, you think it’s a good idea to introduce me to yours? You do realize the two of us don’t have a good track record with parents.”

“I’m not even sure they’ll see me.” Eight shrugs. “All I’m sure about is wanting you by my side if they do.”

Eight reaches for my hand and threads his large fingers through my smaller ones. Gone is the cocky guy I first met. The only time I find him vulnerable is when he speaks about his family, or those few stolen moments when we kiss.

“So what do you say?” he asks, squeezing my hand. He stares at me like I’ll say no. Like there’s any chance I’d shoot him down during his most powerless moment.

“Let me grab my purse.”

***

The vegetable stands are the first hint of the community after traveling through miles and miles of dense woods and old country roads. The stands line the road on both sides in front of field after field. Clapboard houses rise in the distance, each one stark white and blinding even under the overcast sky. Red barns and silvery silos fill the spaces between houses. Smoke dwindles from the tall chimneys of each house.

I read aloud from a large sign propped against one of the rough-cut wood stands. “Brussels sprouts, cabbage, winter greens. Beets, potatoes, winter squash. No peas or corn?”

Eight arches an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Hell no. I never kid about food.” My belly rumbles in agreement.

“Peas and corn are out of season, Six.” Eight’s condescending smirk makes a fabulous return. I’m not sure when the urge to smack it off his face went away and kissing it off began, but it’s there. It’s so there, the attraction I feel for him blossoming. Growing and growing as each layer of his secrecy is peeled back.

“How am I supposed to know what’s in season? You can buy corn all year long at the grocery store.”

“You shouldn't eat food out of season.” Eight shudders. “It’s not normal to grow corn in February. Probably some genetically-engineered crap.”

“Conspiracy theorist much? Maybe they grow it in a greenhouse or something.” We pass the sheet-covered veggie stands. “They just leave the vegetables out for anyone to get?”

“You think there’s a leek thief lurking around somewhere?” Eight’s face brightens. “Maybe he’s a beet thief. We’ll call him the beet burgler.”

This time I do hit him. “Asshat.”

Eight snickers, and the nervous edge of his face wanes but makes an ultimate return. The car slows to a lazy crawl. He flips on the blinker to signal a right turn.

“This is it,” he mutters.

A long dirt drive looms ahead leading to one of the two-story white homes. Large solar panels rest on black poles, their dark surface tilted toward the sun. More panels shine from the rooftop of the house.

The closer we grow to the house, the larger the bundle of nerves builds inside my belly.

The lawn around the house, although frail in the winter weather, is immaculate. No spotty patches of dirt screaming from underneath ruined grass. A red barn rests to the left of the house. A couple curious horses stand behind a white, wooden fence behind the barn, their elongated faces watching as we pull to a stop in front of the house.

Eight cuts the engine. Deafening silence greets us. He looks at me, grimacing. “Too late to back out?”

“Too late to back out.” I even open the door and step out first, slamming the door behind me.

Eight joins me near the front of the car. He shoves his shaking hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “This was a bad idea.”

“It was your idea,” I remind him. “Let’s go.”

Nodding, he relaxes his shoulders and takes my hand. Wrapped in the eerie silence of the farm, we walk to the porch steps. There are no children playing outside. No hard-working men trudging from the vegetable gardens. There are no hardened women hanging sheets on the clothesline, clutching their crucifix necklaces in repentance whenever they think to complain about the mundane task.

Eight knocks on the door and takes a step back. “Weird, I never imagined having to knock on the front door of the house where I grew up.”

“After today, maybe you won’t.”

Eight placates me with a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

We stand for what feels like forever. Eight knocks again. Nothing. Not a clicking of heels rushing to the door. Not a rustle of lace curtain beyond the glass in the window. The only sound is the rising wind as night approaches.

“Where would they be?” he mumbles, more to himself than to me.

Wooden windchimes chatter from the eave of the porch, sending a shiver creeping across my flesh. The sound of windchimes has always creeped me out.

“Do they travel outside the community?”

Eight shakes his head. “Not if they can help it. Only if they’re called for jury duty, or if someone is really sick and needs hospital care. But they’d have to be near death. There’s more than one naturopath in the community.”

Eight scratches his head and trots down the porch steps onto the lawn. I lean against one of the columns on the porch, watching the inquisitive line of his brow as he glances to the neighboring farms.

“There aren’t any lights on anywhere.” I join him on the lawn. “You think they’ve all left?”

“No one leaves willingly. The only way out is banishment, or death.” Eight chuckles, but his laughter dies away with the wind. Even as nightfall approaches, I see the life flush from his cheeks.

“You think someone died?”

“That would explain why no one is home.”

That bundle of nerves in my belly turns into a ball of dread. “Where do they bury the dead?”

“There’s a cemetery five miles up the road.” Eight drags his fingers through his hair. His hand is trembling again. “You think?”

“Seems like the only explanation,” I tell him quietly.

Eight nods, his face tight. A sense of understanding drifts between us when his eyes connect with mine. As broad as the countryside community is, it’s still small-town in comparison to most places. Everyone knows everyone. The people are close. Tight-knit. Someone Eight knows has possibly died. Someone he potentially knows well.

A sudden desperation runs through him. I see it in the way he rushes to his car, in the way his entire body seems to jitter with nerves. I snap out of my hazy dread and climb in the car beside him, cringing when he shifts into reverse and nearly takes out the wooden fence.

We pull into the cemetery minutes later. Eight’s headlights sweep over the stoic figures of men, women, and children trudging away from the graveyard. They don’t look as I expected. They wear plain, outdated clothes, and the women wear strange little hats. They all stare at us with cautious surprise, especially the wide-eyed children holding their mothers’ hands.

Eight cuts the engine. The headlights fade and people shuffle past. Eight looks straight ahead, his white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel.

“Are we getting out?” I whisper. Why I’m whispering, I’m not sure. It’s not like the people outside can hear me. And the dead certainly aren’t worried by me.

“I’m waiting.” His voice is hollow, his emotions scooped out like the termite-eaten guts of an old log.

“Waiting for what?”

Eight bites his bottom lip. “Waiting to see if my family passes by.”

And if they don’t? If they don’t pass by … if they linger by the graveside alone, the entire big lot of them, possibly one person shy from their family …

“Do you see them?”

“Yeah.” Eight releases the poor steering wheel and shrinks against his seat.

The last of the stragglers pass by. A group of people, some tall, some petite, stand in the distance. Their silhouettes cradle the curve of a bloated belly of upturned dirt. A simple wooden cross juts from the earth past the grave.

“Yeah,” he repeats, his voice soft. Mournful. “I see them, but not all of them.”

Fear springs to life in front of my eyes. Eight opens the door and climbs out. I follow suit. The group of mourners don’t turn. Not until we’re standing a handful of feet away.

The eldest of the bunch looks up from the grave. His shoulders are hunched, and they don’t straighten even when he sees his son. It’s as though the sorrow has curled him into himself, gripped him so violently he’ll never stand tall again.