My stomach does a free-fall.
From his back pocket, he takes his packet of candy hearts and holds it out to me.
“Happy Valentine's Day, Madison,” he says. His voice drops into something velvet and dangerous, wrapping around my name like a caress.
I shouldn’t take those hearts.
It feels like opening a door that I ought to keep firmly shut. Refusing would be the safer thing to do. The wise thing to do.
You can’t get hurt if you don’t open up your heart.
But I’ve never played it safe. And I’ve only been wise for about the past four days of my life.
I take the candy hearts from him.
As our fingers touch, I’m suddenly very aware of how close he is. How easily he could lean in, and then his lips would be on mine.
But he doesn’t lean in.
He pushes off the truck with a final tap of his knuckles against the metal. I track every movement as he walks away. The upright set of his strong shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride, the way he glances back at me as he heads to his own truck.
Then I peel out of the parking lot like the devil himself is on my heels.
A devil whose eyes just happen to be the color of the sea.
CHAPTER 4
Game Face
The second I’m swinging open the front door to my house, a cold, wet nose presses into my palm. My dog Buster’s dark eyes peer up at me adoringly as he huffs a hello.
“Hey buddy,” I whisper, dropping to my knees. My arms twine around his enormous bulk as he gives me a lick.
I wrinkle my nose and keep my voice quiet as I speak. “You smell like bacon, you sneaky old mutt. Was Dad giving you treats? Doesn’t he know the vet told you that you need a special diet?”
Busters huffs again in that way of his that meansyes. To both questions, of course.
The TV flickers, lighting up our small living room. Dad’s asleep in his recliner, as usual.
My gaze flickers around the room, landing on a white display cabinet filled with butterfly figurines made of crystal or porcelain or enamel.
My mother collected them, apparently. I’ve spent so many years turning each one over and over in my hand, wonderingwhat made her choose this one or that. They’re delicate and beautiful. Each one is unique.
Once upon a time, she cared about pretty little things.
Once upon a time, she was part of this home.
Once upon a time, a time I wish I could remember, my mom held me and took care of me.
Maybe I’m kidding myself, but I like to think she loved me too.
Gently, I take the remote that’s still in Dad’s hands. Since it’s three o’clock in the morning, it’s only infomercials on at this point. I click it off. The room is bathed in darkness. Buster settles back into his favored dent on the couch with a sigh.
A snore issues from the recliner in front of the TV. Dad is sprawled out, sleeping peacefully as it gets for him these days. With every year his back hurts worse, and it’s more comfortable for him to sleep elevated.
I don’t like to think about my dad getting older and hurting more with every year that goes by. It makes me feel scared and helpless, like a little girl. He’s my only family.
What am I supposed to do without him?
