I drift off staring at the crystal-blue water. Day dreaming about the girl with crystal-blue eyes.
13
Jasper
My dad and I are usually the ones who take the quads out, but yesterday he won at the casino. So today, he bought two more so we can go adventuring as a family. We live in a double-wide and eat an awful lot of mac ‘n’ cheese by the end of the month, but dad loves his toys and never hesitates to spend on them.
We’re squeezing in a quick maiden ride in after our typical Sunday family dinner. We may not have a lot of spare cash, but we’re happy.
And it’s fun.
The light is golden, and so are the leaves falling from the trees above the ditch. Fall is in the air, but it’s warm tonight, almost hunting season, and I can’t wait to do that with my dad too.
We clear a covered culvert and I catch a little air—grinning. I can hear my little sister, Jenny, laughing wildly behind me and can almost envision the way her light brown hair is whipping out the back of her helmet as she gets more comfortable adding speed.
Her new unit is smaller, lighter—easier to handle than what Dad and I are driving. Mom’s looks like some sort of Barbie quad with its neon pink paint job.
With a glance back, I see my parents moseying behind Jenny while I lead the way, serpentining up and down the ditch walls.
My parents are bickering because Mom doesn’t know how to handle the vehicle properly, but she also doesn’t want Dad telling her what to do.
It makes me smile.
I know the spot we’re coming up to. Dad and I have ridden it a million times. He’s put the fear of God into me with this crossing. Two highways intersect near a bend in the road, and a copse of trees can mess with perception coming out of the ditch.
We’ve practiced it, over and over again.
“I’m going!” I call back.
My dad’s hand shoots up, offering me a thumbs up. “Pay attention! Let us know how it looks from the other side,” is his response.
I guess now that I’m fourteen, he believes I know what I’m doing out here. Pride blooms in my chest as I climb the incline onto the shoulder and carefully check both ways.
I look, I listen, and when I deem it safe, I rev my engine and shoot forward across the highway safely.
I stop and turn on the other side to catch a view of the bend in the road. A large semi with a trailer is coming, and I can see the rest of my family on the other side. All together. Smiling and laughing—even through the bickering.
Again, I feel proud that my dad trusted me to be the first across. I feel capable. I feel grown-up.
We’ve spent years practicing safety protocol, so I know all the signals. I lift my hand straight above my head, the sign we use for “stop” any time we go out on the quads and, in the winter, the snowmobiles.
Except Jenny doesn’t know these hand signals, and she must mistake it for a wave, or me ushering her over. Or maybe it’s because the sun is low and in her eyes.
Either way, I see her grinning at me from the other side of the highway as her wrist twists the throttle.
I scream at her to stop. Dad lurches forward as though he can grab her and stop her.
But it’s too late.
And I’ll never stop feeling responsible.
I wake, nauseous and unsettled. That dream always does it to me. I keep my eyes closed, trying to think of something happy for four seconds. But everything is shit right now, and the only thing that pops up is the shy smile Sloane hits me with sometimes. The one she gives right before she tucks her hair behind her ears and drops her eyes.
She’s the only person I’ve told about the hand signal, about how I’m responsible for Jenny’s death. Other people know the Coles Notes version of the day my life went to shit but have no idea I can still make my shoulder ache from wishing I hadn’t lifted my arm to show off that I knew those hand signals that day.
When my eyes crack open, I take a brief inventory of my body, noting the aches and pains in certain spots that grow more persistent with age.
My vision gains some focus, and then my eyes catch a figure down at the edge of the lake. Sloane is standing there in a terry bathrobe, staring at the water. Her hair is pulled up in a tight bun, the elegant lines of her neck silhouetted against the setting sun. Water that was blue now reflects the dramatic sky, all purples and pinks and golds, dark clouds streaking across a perfectly still lake.
I bet it would be a good lake to play hockey on when it freezes. But I’m the one who freezes as the robe drops from her shoulders. And then her thongclad ass, tight waist, toned back, and black bra straps are all I see.
Her fingers curl into her palms, and her shoulders scrunch up. It’s like I’m watching her give herself a mental pep talk.
I smile at the sight.
Round ass cheeks fold in equal turn as she walks slowly toward the water. She dips one toe in daintily and snaps it back with a shiver that racks her entire body.
I see the deep breath she takes before she charges into the water. A little wild, a lot brave. There she is.
I swear I can hear her squeal as she dives into the water, fully submerging herself under the still surface for a few beats that seem to last a lifetime. Her head breaks out several feet from shore, rivulets of water streaming off her bare face as her hands come up to push the wetness away from her closed eyes.
She treads water and turns away to look at the mountains, just black silhouettes against the fiery sky.
I sit up and stare. It could be a painting. A photograph. A beautiful woman in a beautiful lake.
It’s peaceful. Serene. So unlike how I feel inside. It makes me wonder what view Beau’s looking at right now.
I find myself up and walking out the sliding door, needing fresh air, wanting to touch this view somehow. Commit it to memory. Like running my fingers over the mounds of oil paint. It almost doesn’t seem real. I need to prove to myself that it is.
My socked feet grow cold as I walk over grass that is just a little too firm. It has a slight crunch when my weight presses into it, evening frost already descending over the picturesque mountain valley.
When I get to the water’s edge, I feel the finest grains of sand slipping through the fabric, lending a gritty texture to the bottoms of my feet. But I don’t care. I’m still entirely focused on Sloane.
My friend Sloane, who is still treading in place gracefully like this is just another dance for her. I wonder what she’s thinking about. I wonder if she feels as shredded as I do—as tattered and torn.
Almost in slow motion, she glances over her shoulder, the tip of her nose wiggling just once as she turns to face me. “Hi.”
It’s one simple word, and somehow it still tugs at my chest. I’m so at peace in her presence. I always have been.
“Hi.” I shove my hands in my pockets, pressing my thumbs against each fingertip in turn to calm my nerves. Trying not to think about my friend’s bare ass and all the things I’d do to it.
And then I give in. But only for four seconds. I give myself four seconds of chaos before I rein it in and pack it down—before I force myself back into control.
Sloane’s head quirks. “What are you doing?”
“Counting to four.”
“Is that a dumb jock joke?”
I huff out a laugh. “Really nice, Sunny.”
She gives me a perfectly innocent look, all doe-eyed. “Ya’ll aren’t famous for your brains.” She’s teasing me but I don’t bite.