Part 21 (2/2)

I coughed out a small bitter laugh. ”I don't think it was the time that did it. I think it was the kissing him and then him seeing Chris kissing me.”

”Oh, Amy.” She let out a groan and threw her arm over her eyes.

”It all happened so fast. I was trying to tell Chris there wasn't anything between us and he turned into John Cusack in Say Anything and then he was kissing me and before I could do anything Luke was maiming lockers.” I snuggled into the pillow, the tears coming again. ”And he's right. I'd be mad too. And he's Mr. Manners guy so you know this was not something he'd see and go, oh yeah, oops.”

I sniffed, trying to hold back the tears and waiting for her to say something, anything that might at least ease the pain.

”Amy?” A small voice came from the end of the cot. Tom stood there, the picture of child-patience with both hands behind his back, glancing over his shoulder occasionally. For one wild moment I thought Luke had sent him. ”Amy, are you crying?”

I wanted to say no, but that seemed dumb, what with the tears, sniffles, and red eyes. Rachel pulled the cot next to hers closer to make one big s.p.a.ce and room for Tom.

”A little, Tom.” I was surprised to find him in girl territory. ”What's going on? Everything okay?”

He sat cross-legged at our feet and bit his lip. Sucking in a deep breath, he gushed, ”Luke's really mad and I thought you could maybe come make it better. He's never mad when he's with you.”

When I'd thought things were worse than anything, I hadn't really taken this into consideration.

”I don't think I can, Tom. Luke's mad because he thinks I did something. In a way I did, but not really.” I glanced at Rachel wondering if I could osmosize all her years with little sisters. ”And, he's right to be mad, even if he might not be mad for the right reason.”

Tom's brows came down and he nodded. When he stopped, he met my eyes and said, ”That makes no sense.”

”I know, buddy. But it's the best I can do.”

Tom sat there looking uncomfortable. I knew the little peacekeeper well enough to understand he was sorting through ideas to try to fix things. Just like me, he came up empty.

”I think I should go check on Luke,” he said.

I nodded and thought, I should, too. But I couldn't seem to work myself up for heartbreak number two that day.

Chapter 26.

When Dad and I couldn't stand the idea of sleeping on those narrow Red Cross cots any longer, we drove down to the overflowing edge of the river. Dad pulled the car into the shade next to the Johnson's pickup truck and threw it into park. The engine sputtered in the heat before shutting down.

”Do you want to talk about it?”

He'd been amazingly good about not asking the hard questions. I could tell he wanted to. I could see him trying not to make up for six-years almost-absence with a fast takeover of my life with questions I didn't even want to ask myself.

Like, what could have driven me and Luke from a three-inch cot-canyon to opposite sides of the gym? Yeah, even if he asked, what could I say? That the perfect guy had done everything to get my attention, rescued me from potential death and destruction, and finally lost patience with me when I kissed his mortal enemy? Yeah. Not so much.

I'd like to say I didn't know where Luke stayed while I laid next to his empty cot each night, but that would totally be a lie. I was aware of him every second. It was as if that kiss connected us, tied me to him in a way I could never have antic.i.p.ated.

I finally replied as we walked over the hopefully stable bridge. ”Not really.”

We trudged down the sloshy mud lane to the house, both of us slowing before we made the final corner.

Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. He'd touched me more this week than in the last six years. ”Whatever we find, it's going to be okay.”

He sounded so sure. If there was ever a time I needed to not think, to just let someone take the reins and allow me be a thoughtless teenager, it was then. Thank G.o.d my dad had finally come home.

With a hard shove, he pushed the front door open, the ankle-deep mud collected in the foyer slowing the process. He squeezed through and I followed, not squeezing as much, but still having to turn sideways.

The thick mud soaked through my sneakers and clung to my ankles as I slogged over to where he stood making slow, surveying circles.

”Amy-girl?” He glanced over his shoulder to look at me. My shadow caught him across the face camouflaging his expression. ”You brought this all in here?”

The heavy furniture I couldn't get up the stairs surrounded us. The water had made it about an inch up the first step, but everything above that was dry and whole. Dad pointed to the oversized chair on the landing above us.

”How did you get that up there?” I could hear the awe in his voice.

”Luke.”

I studied mom's chair holding court over the lesser furniture below and teared up. Luke couldn't have given me a greater gift, but that was Luke. He was always giving you stuff whether you realized it or not.

It was odd, my dad had only been back a few days, but he knew how hard that one word was. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me into his side. We stood in the foyer looking at the mess where only sterile tidiness had been before. With a deep breath my dad shrugged.

”I'll go get a shovel.”

The week of clean up went really, really, really slowly. Digging dirt out of your house isn't how any girl expects to spend what was supposed to be the first week of school. But, my dad and I kept at it-reclaiming the first floor inch by inch.

I'd brought home some of my paintings and escaped into them when my arms weren't too tired to lift. They were quiet. They didn't ask questions.

”That's...” My dad's voice trailed off before he could even form the next word. When I faced him, I couldn't help but notice his eyes. The joy and pain reflected out as if he had no option but to bleed emotions through those soul-windows. He shook his head, forcing his gaze to move to me. ”I had no idea.”

I glanced back at the painting of my mom. The one I'd been working on for three years. During the evacuation, I'd gone to the art room and gently wrapped it in canvas to lug it home. I'd realized, standing there studying it one more time, that it was done. Part of the perfection was the fuzziness. There were still those perfect places in the curve of her neck, the angle of her stance, the sun-kissed wheat of her hair. But the fuzziness was what made it complete.

This was my mom. She was gone and my memory would s.h.i.+ft and grow for the rest of my life, in and out of focus as thoughts of her washed over me and receded.

”It's okay, right? To bring it home?” It suddenly dawned on me my father had walked into the back room looking for me and run directly into what he'd been hiding from for the last six years.

He slid an arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his side, his gaze locked again on the painting. ”It's more than okay. I think, once the house is fixed, we should hang it in the living room. So she's there with us.”

He stepped away from the painting and drew me down on the lawn chairs we were using for furniture, his hand wrapped around mine.

”Amy-girl, you look just like her.” His eyes welled up, but his gaze never left my face. ”I'm so ashamed that I let my pain hurt you so much, but every time I looked at you I felt so lost. In trying to ignore losing your mom, I lost you too. Only, that was my own fault.”

For someone who hadn't cried much since she was eleven, I sure was making up for time. My dad pulled me into a full hug, his long arms wrapping around me, holding me tight, not letting me go. Just letting me cry it out.

”This is one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me.” He said when he let me go. ”Not only getting you back, but knowing how you see your mom and that she really is still here with us in so many ways.”

We stood there together for a moment, both of us in our own minds till my dad gave me one last squeeze and headed toward the kitchen. It wasn't that I no longer cared, or that the sadness had gone away, but I'd learned that nothing brought back the past and that the present was more precious than grudges or walls.

I lifted a fresh canvas onto my easel. There was a new moment that burned in my memory. It twisted my heart so badly it left it limp like a soggy rag doll. The paint spread over the canvas one agonizing brush stroke at a time, the urgency not flowing from my fingers quickly enough. Pus.h.i.+ng me to save the moment before it died inside me.

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