Beard With Me: Winston Brothers Page 12

When she was finished, she pulled away with a smile that needled my chest. “Billy Winston, you’re one of the good ones. You take my breath away. You’ve stolen my heart.” Her voice cracked, her smile wobbled. “I hope one day you find someone who steals yours.”

  Another tear spilled down her cheek and she released me, walking past to the door. I heard it open. I heard it close. I closed my eyes.

  Damn.

  I’d hurt her.

  Damn.

  That had not been my intention.

  Damn.

  Dragging my feet, I returned to the dining room. I sat down. I stared at the textbook. What a shitty day.

  I tried to set my mind on studying again. Neither my eyes nor my brain would focus. My limbs were restless and lethargic. There’d been no practice after school today and my body was used to running, working, fatigue.

  I stood, I stretched, I paced the floor, I checked the clock. Still over two hours until the rest of my family got home. Debating my options, I considered going on a run or making dinner. It wasn’t my night, it was Ashley’s night, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t—

  My attention caught on the guitar. I’d placed it on the stand adjacent to the fireplace last night after I’d played for about an hour. I’d also played on Sunday night. Doing so had helped calm me down after my . . . interaction with Scarlet.

  Scarlet hadn’t wanted her first lesson on Sunday when we struck our bargain, said she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on learning until she could, and I quote, “Look at your face without wanting to shave your eyebrows off.”

  Well then.

  I’d left. Two days had passed. Maybe she’d cooled down enough now that I’d get to keep my eyebrows. The sun was still up, mostly. My family was gone. I didn’t have enough time to start and finish a house project.

  The more I deliberated, the more I decided tonight was as good a night as any to get Scarlet started on her lessons.

  Standing at the edge of the forest, the guitar case strung over my shoulder, a plate of food and a thermos of hot chocolate—as peace offerings—in my hand and under my arm, I waited.

  Last time, it only took a few minutes before I heard her, before her voice rose above the sound of wind through the leaves and birdsong. It had been faint, maybe the wind had a part in carrying her voice to me, but I’d heard it.

  I didn’t hear her now.

  I laughed lightly at myself. She can’t sing all the time, Billy.

  I batted that thought away. If anyone should sing all the time, it was Scarlet St. Claire.

  How about, shouldn’t you be studying?

  That question was just as easy to justify and dismiss. Having glanced at the practice questions, I felt pretty confident for tomorrow’s test. Plus, I’d have time after dinner.

  You’d prefer to spend time with Scarlet than Samantha?

  I scowled, unable to think of an answer that made any sense, so I ignored the thought and turned, scrutinizing the horizon beyond the house. The sun was low, throwing spears of orange and pink across the sky. It hadn’t yet sunk below the roof, but it was well on its way. I wouldn’t need a flashlight to see where I was going, but I didn’t know where I was going. Once I was in the woods, I was blind regardless.

  I closed my eyes and waited and listened.

  Birds. Not many, just a few, singing in a short, trilling burst. Crickets. Frogs, maybe? The rustle of leaves falling from trees, the whistle of wind through barren branches.

  A voice. I opened my eyes, an automatic smile tugging at my mouth. Her voice.

  I stepped into the forest and I followed the sound, my heart speeding ahead of me, seeming to push me forward, or lead me forward, or something like that. It was cold and I felt it acutely, a shiver running along my spine making me grateful I thought to bring the hot chocolate.

  As I got closer, and just like the last two times I’d approached her campsite, I began to sneak. Why this was my instinct, I couldn’t figure. But I did it anyway. Stepping lightly, checking for twigs before I placed my foot. I strained my ears and tried to decipher the words of her song.

  And then I stopped, a different kind of shiver running down my spine. She was singing a Nine Inch Nails song entitled, ”Hurt” that had been covered last year by Johnny Cash. She must’ve been singing that version because the tempo was slow, like a ballad. But it wasn’t just the song choice.

  Something is wrong.

  Like before, her voice was beautiful, robust, heavenly. Unlike before, she sounded . . . Sad? No. The song was sad. It was one of those true emo songs, and I might’ve teased her about it, except she didn’t sound just sad.

  Tortured. Agonized. Lost. Broken.

  Forgetting to sneak, I plowed ahead, my eyes wide and watchful. I found her flat rise of earth easier this time, my feet carrying me straight there. As soon as I crested the incline, I saw her. She was lying on her side, her back to me. Curled into a ball from the looks of it, she faced the campfire. Scarlet wore no blanket, no jacket. Just jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. But her headphones were on.

  I didn’t want to scare her, like I’d done the last two times, but I couldn’t think of a way to approach without freaking her out again. I waited, listening to her song, waiting for it to finish and growing more restless with each stanza.

  Just when I thought she was done, she reached forward, pressed a button on her Walkman, and started singing again. From the beginning.

  Well, this could go on forever.

  I let the guitar fall from my shoulder, guiding the case carefully to the ground and placing the food and hot chocolate next to it. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I crossed to her and, hesitating just a second, I knelt next to her on the blanket, tapping her shoulder and bracing myself for something unexpected, like perhaps a fist to the face.

  She stiffened. She stopped singing. But she didn’t move. She didn’t make a sound.

  Licking my lips, I pulled the headphone facing up away from her ear. “Hey. It’s me. Billy.”

  Scarlet leaned further forward, giving me more of her back. “Leave me alone.”

  I frowned at the faint curve of her cheek visible and studied her more closely. Her hair was a tangle, looked unwashed, greasy. Her faded black shirt had smudges of dirt and a stain on the lower left. Or maybe it wasn’t a stain, maybe it was a wet spot. Her jeans were too big and yet threadbare. And she had a hole in her shoe.

  “Scarlet, why aren’t you in the new clothes my momma bought?”

  “Go away!” she screamed, startling me, her hand on the blanket in front of her balling into a fist.

  I rocked back on my heels, shocked. Yelling was one thing when we were arguing like on Sunday. But screaming? I stood, shoving fingers into my hair and getting a better view of her face. She’d been crying. A lot. Her face was red and puffy, her eyes near swollen.

  I had a sister. So I knew teenage girls were prone to odd fits of emotion, crying and the like. Just like me and my brothers were prone to spells of aggression. But this didn’t seem like one of Ash’s monthly no one understands me fits. This seemed—felt—serious.

  Walking around her head, I came to stand in front of her, hoping she’d look at me at least. Instead, she turned into the blanket, her dirty hair covering her face.

  “Scarlet . . .” I crouched low and reached my hand out but didn’t put it on her. My heart and mind were racing. “You can keep singing, if you want. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  She made a small sound, a wretched whimper, and my stomach dropped.

  “Go away. Please. Please.” She was crying again, her hand now limp in front of her. “Just go away.”

  I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t. It wasn’t in me.

  Instead, I did touch her. I placed my hand on her shoulder. I crept closer when she didn’t flinch away and—again, hesitating for just a moment—I slipped my other hand under her arm against the blanket. Close now, I lifted her up, using my grip on her shoulders to bring her body to mine.

  Surprisingly, she didn’
t fight me. She came to me, alarmingly docile at first, letting me bring her to my chest and cradle her. But then she reached for me. Her arms wrapped around my neck like I was a life preserver, and she buried her face in my neck, crying. Crying and crying.

  Her body shook with her cries. I had to blink against a stinging behind my own eyes. Holding her tightly, an achy, cold sensation swirled in my stomach.

  Something is wrong.

  And something about this, the weight of her crushing sadness, seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s all right. I got you,” I said, because that’s what my momma had said to me when I’d been so angry and completely inconsolable after—

  I stiffened, a shock of memory hitting me in the back of the brain. My eyes widened with suspicion and my arms reflexively tightened around her. She winced, pulling back and crying out in pain. I immediately opened my arms.

  “What? What is it?”

  She retreated, bowing her head like she was too tired to hold it up.

  I pushed her hair from her face, tried to tuck it behind her ears. “Scarlet, this isn’t you. Where are you? What happened? Tell me what happened.”

  She shook her head, looking everywhere but at me, and then closed her eyes. “Please don’t make me talk about it.”

  The last time I’d been this frantic, I’d done something reckless but not stupid. I’d been twelve, and I’d swung a baseball bat at my father.

  “Okay. You don’t need to talk about it.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and gently brought her back to my chest, tucking her forehead under my chin. “Just don’t ask me to leave. I’m not going to leave.”

  I felt her face crumple again, but no tears.

  I suspected she was out of tears.

  Chapter Nine

  *Billy*

  “She tries to wear her pain on the inside. She always has. It’s the trademark of the oldest sibling, I think.”

  Laura Miller, My Butterfly

  She led me out of the woods. I still couldn’t find my way without her. And then I led her across the giant field to the house. We snuck in the back and I felt her reluctance with every step.

  “Your momma has been so good to me. I shouldn’t—”

  I snatched her hand, held it tightly. “Please. Don’t talk. You’ll wake Cletus, he’s a light sleeper.”

  That shut her up.

  I pulled her up the stairs, down the hall, and into my room. I used to share it with Jethro. Now it was just me, but his bed was still there, all made up and ready. Roscoe sometimes used it when he had a nightmare. So did Cletus. So did Duane. And so did Beau.

  But never Ashley. When her nightmares came, she slept with our mother.

  Flipping on the light next to my desk, I turned to my dresser and riffled through the bottom drawer, looking for my warmest pajamas. Finding a pair of flannel ones—which would be huge on her, but they’d keep her warm—I faced Scarlet and stopped short.

  She was holding herself about the middle, her eyes puffy and unfocused, like she was remembering—or reliving—something. Shoving back a sense of helplessness, I moved to her and tucked her hair behind her ear to get her attention. She blinked, lifting her head and coming partway out of the fog to look at me.

  “Hey.” I gave her a small smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She nodded, accepting the folded pajamas as though on autopilot. Stepping around her, I opened the door and peeked out. When I was sure the coast was clear, I grabbed her hand again and pulled her down the hall to the bathroom.

  Stepping inside, she looked around, as though this were the first time she’d seen a bathroom. Something about it suffocated me, made the blood pump quicker and angrier in my veins.

  “The towels are in there,” I rasped out, pointing to the closet on the other side of the toilet. “When I hear the shower stop, I’ll wait another few minutes so you can get dressed, then I’ll knock. Like this.”

  I tapped two times on the doorjamb, paused, and then tapped again.

  Scarlet again nodded. She’d been doing a lot of nodding instead of talking, even at the campsite where there was no Cletus to wake up. That, too, felt suffocating.

  Searching her dazed, downcast eyes one more time, and feeling restless to do something that would make a difference, I asked inanely, “How do you like your hot chocolate?”

  Her stare lifted to mine, cleared, held. “Four big marshmallows. If you have them.”

  “Okay. You got it. See you soon.”

  She gave me a weak smile, turning away as she closed the door. I waited outside. Listening. Listening.

  When I didn’t hear what I expected, I leaned into the door and whispered, “Lock the door, Scarlet.”

  “Oh! Sorry,” she whispered back, followed by a soft click of the lock being engaged.

  Standing there, suddenly out of breath, my mind was a mess. Someone hurt her. Someone worked real hard to break her spirit. I’d recognized her agony because it had once been mine.

  Pushing away from the bathroom, I didn’t get two steps from the door before it opened again, just a crack.

  I hurried back. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Scarlet stared at me, looking distressed. She held up a white towel, her eyes glassy. “I can’t use any of these towels.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re all white.”

  Studying her, and then the towel, I failed to see the issue. “It’s okay. We use bleach to keep them white. Nothing you—”

  “What about blood?” she blurted on a harsh whisper, her hand holding the towel began to shake. She lowered it, her gaze dropping too. “I shouldn’t be here. I can’t accept this. I shouldn’t—”

  Alarm and dread and protectiveness had me stepping into the bathroom. I closed the door, taking a second to lock it before turning to her and tucking her hair behind her ears to get her attention again.

  “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” I took the towel from her, set it on the counter, and pulled her forward by the shoulders into my arms. Keeping my hands above her mid back—because every time they’d accidentally traveled any lower it seemed to cause her pain—I rubbed a slow circle between her shoulder blades.

  “It’s not okay.” Her voice was monotone, and it sent a shiver up the back of my neck, making me afraid she was about to run out of here. But her hands fisted in my sweater. “I should leave.”

  “Scarlet, don’t leave. Please.” I leaned away, tilting her chin up, and using my palm to brush her hair back from her cheeks. “Don’t worry about the towel. We got lots of towels. And, like I said, bleach’ll remove just about anything. Use the towel.”

  Our eyes locked. I got the impression she was searching for something within me, like she was on a hunt for my intentions, and I confused her.

  “Why are you doing this?” She gave her head a subtle shake, releasing my sweater and stepping away. She glanced around the bathroom again, like she didn’t remember how she got here, then her eyes cut back to mine. “What do you want?”

  I wanted to reach for her again, comfort her, but I saw that would be ill-advised. I crossed my arms. “I want you to get clean, take a shower, change into those pajamas, and go to sleep in a warm bed inside this house. That’s what I want.”

  “You know what I mean, Billy.” She sounded more like herself—challenging, firm—I took the show of strength as a good sign, even if it meant she was arguing.

  As I debated how best to respond—what words would entice her to do what I wanted—I remembered Dolly Payton’s words of wisdom about managing people. I’d applied Dolly’s logic to handling my brothers and my teammates. In my desperation to help Scarlet, I figured there was no reason I shouldn’t use the same method now.

  What does Scarlet need from me, right now, in order to accept my help? What can I say that will get her in that shower, in those pajamas, and sleeping the night in a warm bed?

  Inhaling deeply—mostly to stall because I had no idea what Scarlet S
t. Claire needed from me in order to make good, logical choices—I finally settled on, “I came to the campsite this afternoon to teach you guitar because I always keep my word. I can’t teach you guitar and fulfill my part of the bargain if you’re sick and upset. Can I?”

  Her eyebrows flickered together, her gaze turning introspective.

  “Whatever happened to you,” I added, since she was listening, “you don’t have to tell me. I’m not going to push you on that. Just . . . let me help.”

  Scarlet’s attention swept down and then up my person, assessing. “You won’t ask any questions?”

  Seeing I was winning her over, but not wanting to lie, I shrugged and gave her a nonanswer. “Why would I? Is it my business?”

  “Okay. That makes sense.” Something behind her expression cleared and her shoulders visibly relaxed. She seemed to breathe easier. “Then, uh, if you want to get started with the guitar lessons, I’m going to need your help with something after I take my shower.”

  “What’s that?” I worked to keep my tone neutral even though every instinct told me to take her by the shoulders, hold her, and demand she tell me what happened. I wanted to know who’d hurt her, who’d taken her fiery spirit and dampened it, tried to snuff it out. Who’d made her sing that way? Because I never wanted to hear her sing that way ever again.

  And then I’d ask how she wanted me to make them pay. Vengeance was on my mind.

  However, neutral seemed to be what she needed. So be it.

  Again, Scarlet’s stare grew assessing, pointed, but not for long. She turned, her fingers going to the back of her shirt to lift the hem. My gaze lowered to the small of her back and I was very, very thankful she’d turned away.

  In that moment, I knew I looked anything but neutral.

  She was bleeding. A bandage had been placed crookedly and it was soaked through. I couldn’t see the new wound. But I didn’t need to see the fresh cuts to know what lay beneath the bandage. There were plenty of old scars that told me exactly what to expect.

  She cleared her throat. “I can’t reach it and I can’t see it real well, even with a mirror. I tried to change it earlier, at the camp, but I think I messed it up.”