Saving Rain(97)

How could I have been so stupid?

“How does he know you?”

I had always assumed that, if my relationship with Noah continued, I’d eventually have to answer these questions. But I had never anticipated when or how he would ask, and so I’d never prepared myself to answer.

Part of me wanted to tell him to talk to his mom. To get whatever answers she was comfortable giving him. But then another part—a louder, more incessant part—told me to be honest with him. That hearing it from me would be better for him, as well as me, so I took a deep breath and went with it.

“I grew up in the same town as your parents,” I said. “I mean, I think you already knew that about your mom, but your dad was there too.”

Noah nodded softly, focusing on his lure bobbing in the water. Waiting for a fish to bite. “Were you friends?”

“No.” I shook my head, unable to fight my bitter chuckle. “Definitely not friends.”

“I figured.”

“Yeah, we, uh … we didn’t get along well.”

“Did you get into a fight?”

I chortled at that as I nodded. “We did actually.” Then, I turned to face him, pointing at the scar on my cheek. “Your dad gave me this quite a few years back.”

Noah’s lips actually quirked into a half smile. “So, that’s where you got that scar.”

I tipped my head with curiosity, and Noah’s smile broadened.

“That was one of the first things I asked you, remember? I asked you if you got your scar in jail.”

I laughed, reaching out to grip his shoulder and give him a playful little shake. “That’s right. I forgot about that.”

His grin faded as his eyes dropped to my hand. Then, he said in a small, quiet voice, “My dad said you’re a murderer.”

There it was. The question I had dreaded the most. The one I’d been avoiding.

“He did,” I replied, holding steady to the rod and my composure.

“Why would he say that?”

“Because”—I sucked in the scent of the beach and exhaled—“I killed someone, Noah.”

“What?” He was shrill, shocked, and—fuck me—scared, and I wondered how he’d managed to live in this town all these months without hearing someone say something about my past.

“Listen to me,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not a murderer. It wasn’t intentional. But someone died because of something I had done a long time ago, and that’s why I was in prison.”

The fear seemed to dissipate from his eyes as the tension left his shoulders, and I was filled with relief. But he was still clearly uneasy about what I’d told him, and who could blame him? Death wasn’t an easy concept for anybody to understand or accept, especially not a kid who had yet to experience a loss of that caliber. To stand beside someone you knew—someone close—who had ended someone else’s life was an even more difficult thing to come to terms with, and I couldn’t expect him to take it in stride.

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” I told him, filling the air with something other than the seagulls above and those ladies’ muffled whispers. “But if you want to, if you have questions or whatever, I want you to know you can ask me.”

Noah nodded, keeping his eyes on the pole in his hands. “Well … who died?”

“My best friend, Billy,” I told him. “Remember that friend I tell you about sometimes? The one who passed away?”

He nodded.

“Well, that’s the friend. We had known each other for a really long time.”

“Oh … were you sad when he died?”

I didn’t mean to scoff, but the question seemed as absurd as the audacity of those women. Openly staring at a guy who was clearly trying to enjoy a nice day with a kid who could’ve been his son.

“Of course I was sad,” I said, incredulous. “He was my best friend, Noah. I didn’t want him to die. It was a horrible accident—that’s all.”

“But then why did you go to jail?”

“Because his death happened as a result of something stupid I had done,” I tried to explain without wanting to divulge that I’d been making money as a part-time drug dealer. “And because I had made that stupid mistake, I had to pay the price for it, so I did.”

“Oh,” he repeated, nodding with a little more acceptance than before. “So … you’re really not a bad guy.”

“No. Definitely not a bad guy.” Then, I pursed my lips and looked up to a sky of fluffy clouds. “Well, at least, I don’t think so anyway. But I guess, if you ask around, you might find someone who thinks I am. I mean, the jury’s still out on Mrs. Montgomery …”

“Yeah, right.” Noah laughed, rolling his eyes in my direction. “Mrs. Montgomery loves you. She stopped by the library the other day and told Mom that if she were younger, she wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off of you.”

I barked with a laugh, staring at Noah. “She did not say that.”

“Oh, yeah, she definitely did. She also said you have a nice butt.”

“That old perv.” I chuckled heartily, still unsure of what to make of that old woman.

My laughter faded as we stared off into the distance, watching the lures out in the water, bobbing against the surface, not catching a damn thing. It was the gamble you took when you went fishing—a lesson I’d learned years ago. Sometimes, you came away with nothing but a nice day outside. Other times, the day itself was hideous, but you brought home enough fish to feed your family for a couple of weeks.