Heath shakes his head. “Pocketknife.”
I’m frowning at him in disbelief before generations of ingrained politeness smooth my features. It would have taken him at least an hour to carve something that precise with nothing more than a pocketknife, which is about fifty-nine minutes longer than the branch he would have had to stand on would have supported his weight. “Hmmm,” is all I say.
A small smile curves one side of his mouth. He pulls a knife from his back pocket, flipping it open in one move. He squats down and picks up a branch about as thick as my forearm that must have broken during the rainstorm the day before. He snaps it in half over his knee. The knife glints in the sunlight as he works on it for no more than a few minutes before slipping the knife back into his pocket and holding the branch out to me.
I step close enough to take it, and the rough wood slides into my hand. Along the side, in letters so even and precise they look printed, is my first name.
Speechless, I look up at him.
“My grandfather taught me to carve. That’s his name right there.” Heath directs my attention to a certain branch, and I swallow when I recognize the same bold, clear lines spelling out a name I know well. “Cal was named after him.”
I nod. “He taught you well.” I’m not sure what to do with the branch I’m holding. Should I give it back? Does he mean for me to keep it? I end up half extending the branch back, but Heath shakes his head and returns his gaze to the tree.
I glance back up at Heath’s name. “I still don’t understand how the branch held you that long.” He must have at least fifty pounds on me and, height aside,Iwould have snapped it.
“I was a tiny kid.”
I widen my eyes at him. “How old were you when you carved it?”
Heath shrugs one shoulder. “Eight maybe.”
I look up again and have this sudden vision of a little boy scurrying up the tree and swinging from branch to branch with a knife clamped between his teeth. My heart skitters a little. I grew up surrounded by saws and blades and all kinds of things that could amputate a finger as easily as cut a piece of wood. Dad instilled a healthy respect for them in all his children, and that included not climbing thirty feet in the air with a pocketknife.
“You didn’t cut yourself?”
Another half shrug. “No. I finished the carving before I fell out of the tree.”
I gasp.
Heath nods. “Broke my collarbone and one of my arms.” For a reason I can’t begin to fathom, he smiles at the memory. “Cal was with me, and when he saw that I wasn’t bleeding—” Heath’s smile grows wider “—he finished carving his own name before helping me.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“Yeah.” Heath moves to sit on the lower branch again, still smiling. “He was mad because I climbed higher than him. Plus he didn’t actually see me fall, so he thought I was just being a baby. He cried when Mom showed him my X-rays, and then he carried my backpack to school for months afterward—wouldn’t give it back even after I got my cast off.” In a quieter voice he adds, “I’d forgotten about that.”
I retake my spot a few feet away from him and set the branch he carved my name into beside me.
“I still feel guilty when I remember stuff like that, you know?”
“Stuff when he wasn’t perfect?”
Heath exhales a laugh and nods.
I look down at the grass, the same kind that grows along the banks of the Wilcox River. “Yeah, I know.”
It feels like I’m running away when I stand, but if I stay much longer I’ll be late for my shift.
“You told me when you got here, remember?” Heath says when I fumble out an explanation. “I know.”
I take a few steps, then stop and turn back to him. “I am sorry about what your family is going through. I didn’t know, but I should have.”
He nods, his gaze unwavering. “That’s on me too then.” Then his voice hardens. “How’d that website get your diary?”
I pause, unsure if I should tell him. I gave my heart and my trust to someone who never loved me, and I can’t help feeling like that says something about me. Heath is waiting for an answer though, and I don’t want to lie to him. I can’t help glancing up at the tree where my and Mark’s initials are still linked. “My ex-boyfriend.”
“What a scumbag.”
I smile at him. “That’s why he’s myex-boyfriend.”
