I lift the broken end up as high as I can. Water continues to bubble from the top, drenching me.
Gradually, it slows to a trickle. “Girls, come have a drink.”
The sisters approach. Natasha pushes Genevieve forward. I tip the pipe down carefully and let her have a turn drinking from it. Then Natasha.
“Now you,” I tell Ben. I hold the pipe for him, too.
“Now you,” I say to Luke.
“I don’t want any.” His brother’s probably dead, so Luke’s willing to die, too. I hate him—this boy who has everything that I don’t have.
I narrow my eyes. “Get over here and drink some water.”
“Or?”
“Or I’m going to make you.” I’m big for my grade, butLuke’s a year older and stronger than me. I don’t care. If I have to fight him over this, I will.
An awful smile breaks across Luke’s face. He stands and takes hold of the pipe. “Save your energy, Sebastian. You might need it.” He drinks.
Chapter Nineteen
Two weeks had passed since he’d kissed her in the grocery store coffee aisle. Every day of those two weeks had been paradise for Sam. Every one of them torture, too.
He stood at the far end of his dining room, staring out the window at the dark of early morning. The exterior lights revealed frost crusting the contours of his land. Mist hovered above it like an overprotective mother.
Exactly the thing he’d known he couldn’t let happen was happening.
All his focus, passion, and meaning were narrowing and narrowing to one small person.
It left him feeling stupid. He had no idea what she felt for him and no sense of their future, which meant that he couldn’t adjust his own emotions accordingly.
He made a rough scoffing sound.
Even if he did know how she felt about him and had a sense of their future, what chance did he have of adjusting his own emotions? He’d already been trying his best to hold them back. He’d already kept himself apart from her as much as he could stand.
He didn’t want to keep himself apart from her.
She was the best thing in his days. She was the joy in his dull, gray, lonely life.
He refused to stop what they had.
Yet his gut kept whispering to him over and over that he was setting himself up for a fall.
What time is it?” Grandma Woodward asked Genevieve the next day.
It was the third time Nanny had asked the question since Genevieve had arrived for their visit. “It’s 11:40.”
“What time is my appointment?”
“Let’s take a look at your schedule.” Genevieve rose from where she’d been sitting near her grandmother’s wheelchair. She drew the older woman’s attention to the small whiteboard resting on top of the bureau in her aunt and uncle’s living room.
Months ago, her grandmother’s caregivers had begun listing her daily schedule on the whiteboard. Not only did it keep everyone on the same page as to the day’s calendar, it calmed Nanny’s anxiety to know how her day was constructed.
Both Genevieve and her paternal grandmother depended on their daily schedules, it seemed.
Nanny didn’t respond to the whiteboard with either an affirming word or gesture. Her expression went blank.
Genevieve returned to her chair.
