North Country(20)

Emery’s shoulders dip with relief, as if she really would have gone through with it had my answer been different. “Apologize to Mr. Landry, girls.”

I don’t miss the emphasis on Mr. and girls, as if to remind all of us about the massive age gap.

A chorus of mumbled apologies follows.

“Isla, put the fire out and get inside. I want to see Cody’s car heading down our driveway within the next five minutes, with Holly and Paige in it. I’ll be calling your parents tomorrow morning to let them know what happened. They can decide how you’ll pay your share of the window repair. ”

The third girl hasn’t said a word, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Isla huffs and opens her mouth.

“Now!” Emery barks, pointing toward her house.

Their shoulders hunch as they march through the dark, the blond stealing a last glance at me. I don’t miss the coy smile.

Neither does Emery, I suspect. “Clock’s ticking!” she hollers.

They pick up the pace, their whispered curses carrying.

Gooseflesh erupts over my skin, but I ignore the chill, this moment too surreal to be disturbed by discomfort. I’ve known Emery for almost four decades, even if half that time was in my memory, and here she is—the girl who pelted me with snowballs and played hide-and-seek for hours within the crops of trees. She looks like the girl I grew up with and yet also nothing like her.

I can’t believe Emery McAllister is standing in front of me again.

I had to let go of so many things to survive prison. I had to let go of her. But all the promises and feelings long since buried are flooding back to me like a rapid river through a busted dam.

All those summers racing horses across these fields.

All those nights looking up at the stars.

She’s ten times more beautiful than I remember.

“I heard Holly yelling your name and I came running but …” Emery’s gaze flickers over my chest before diverting quickly to my face, as if catching herself. “I don’t know what they were thinking.”

“Music’s on. I didn’t hear anything.” And I’m pretty sure I can guess what Holly was thinking. “How old are they?”

“Sixteen. Well, actually, Holly’s still fifteen. Her birthday is next month.”

“Jesus.” I shake my head. Despite the fact that I’m in desperate need of feeling a hand on my dick that isn’t my own, I have zero interest in that need being met by anyone who can’t legally drink or vote.

“Holly’s a wild child. Anything she shouldn’t be doing, you can bet she’s doing, including flirting with older men.”

“You know they’re into the booze, right?”

“Oh, I do. I’ll find cans of Twisted Teas in the blue bin tomorrow morning. ”

I have no idea what those are. Something sugary, if I had to guess. “And you’re okay with that?”

“It’s not that I’m okay with it, but they’re gonna do it, anyway. At least this way I can let them have a few while making sure they don’t chug ten coolers and pass out in a ditch or worse.” She snorts. “Clearly, I failed at that task tonight. The one with the red jacket is—”

“Isla.”

Surprise flickers across her face, but then it fades. “Right. Annie’s letters.” Emery seems pensive.

What is she wondering? What else I know about her life? Everything. My mother could moonlight as a professional archivist.

“She looks exactly like you,” I say.

“Really?” Her attention veers to her backyard, where the glow of flames from the firepit has suddenly vanished. “I’ve always seen more of her father in her.”

“For her sake, I hope not.” Would I recognize that dickhead? I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

Her mouth curves with a tiny smile that she hides by reaching down to tuck her flannel pajama pants into her rubber boots. “I wasn’t planning on leaving my couch tonight.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Her eyes flash to my half-naked body again. My boxers have a tiny red moose pattern on them. “You should probably get back inside.” But she makes no move to leave, and neither do I, content to memorize this version of her so, when I’m lying in bed tonight, staring up at a ceiling that isn’t concrete for the first time in forever, it’s what I see.

“Who did you think it was?” Emery asks suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The wrench. You thought it was someone else down here, throwing a stone through your window.”

“Right.” I’ll bet her suspicious cop brain is always churning. “Someone angry that I’m out? No one specific. Definitely not a group of teenage girls wanting to invite me to hang.” I frown curiously. “Would you actually have had them arrested?”

“Yes,” she says without missing a beat .

My deep chuckle carries. It’s a foreign sound, even to me.

She cocks her head as she studies me. “Why is that funny?”

“I don’t know. Just seems wrong, given how many times your dad dropped Jay off in his cruiser at our front porch with nothing more than a warning.” I don’t think there was a mailbox within a five-mile radius of Cold River without dents in it, courtesy of my brother and his baseball bat.