Numb to the scrapes I’ve collected, brushing tree after tree.
I never wanted you to see me, Blue.
It’s easier this way, when I’m out before the sun rises. Easier to imagine that the wind is Mom’s breathing beside me. That the quick crunching of leaves is the sound of our steps in sync.
Not like this.
Faster.
Not like this.
Harder.
Not like this.
I screech when my toe catches on a rock, my eyes widening, and I crash in a crumpled mess on dirt, leaves, and branches. Panting. My palms burn from taking the brunt of the fall. Ignoring the sting, I push off the ground and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
Chest heaving, I stand in the center of hundreds of trees, unable to move.
A sob sticks in my throat, but I’m caught between letting it out or swallowing it down. She wants me to let it out, but until what point? Do I just cry forever? Will I be a stupid, faulty faucet for the rest of my life, forever ready to leak?
Dragging my hands through my tangles, I press my fingertips to my scalp and squeeze. “What do I do, Mom?” I whisper. “How do I survive this without you?”
Answer me.
Frustration pours over my body like boiling liquid, colliding with the sorrow. Of course she doesn’t answer. She’ll never answer again.
I don’t run as I head back the way I came. I move at a zombie-like pace, my head throbbing from the pressure behind my eyes. I don’t want to be a broken faucet anymore.
Leaving the woods behind, I make my way across our dirt-ridden field and almost trip over myself when I see someone standing outside the cottage.
Joshua.
He paces back and forth, his huge frame shrinking the cottage door. I watch as he lifts a fist to knock, then drops it. Lifts it again, then swipes it behind him in one smooth movement, grabbing the back of his neck instead.
My heart leaps, my pulse racing faster than it ever does when I run.
He pauses, facing the door, muttering something too quiet to understand while making gestures with his hands. I choke out a strangled laugh. He’s practicing what to say. It’s adorable and sweet, and suddenly, I’m crying all over again.
Stupid leak.
He whirls around at the sound. The instant our gazes collide, nerves light up my body like rapid fire.
It’s almost impossible not to race to him. Especially when he looks at me like that—his eyes darkening and his shoulders tense like he’s fighting to keep from moving toward me too. It would be so easy to fall into him. Let him hold me, prop me up when my legs give out. But, somehow, I manage to walk slowly. Calmly. Even when the temptation to run into his arms causes a physical ache.
Because Mom’s words are screaming at me, and, deep down, I know what I have to do.
I should have stopped walking five steps ago. Ten steps. Fifteen steps. Instead, I stop when I’m within arm’s reach. Relieved the faucet shut off, for now.
We don’t touch.
“Blue ...” My name is a low rasp on his lips.
It’s thick, the tension building between us and brushing the back of my neck, like the teasing strokes of a candle’s flame.
I swallow, my palms clammy. “Hi.”
His brows turn down as he scans my face, and he raises his hand, seconds from brushing the tears from my cheek, before I touch his wrist, stopping him. Something flashes in his eyes; he drops his hand.
