This time, he kissed me.
“I need you to trust me to protect you,” he said after a minute.
“I do.”
I leaned into his chest, closed my eyes, and hoped he couldn't feel how my heart was racing. The truth was complicated.
I trusted Targen.
I did.
But I couldn't explain to him that no matter how much I trusted him, the fear that I had learned at Chauncey's hand was hard to forget. And then I couldn't ignore that unease that hadbeen brewing inside me--Alma Annette Miller had always taught us to trust our gut.
Mine was telling me that a reckoning was coming.
And it wasn't me I was worried about. Somehow, impossibly, I loved him enough now that the thought of losing him terrified me almost more than anything.
Suddenly, someone knocked on the window. I almost jumped out of my skin. Targen noticed, his eyes narrowing.
“Theory–”
“I got Ev's stuff, not that you seem worried,” Hyacinth popped, holding up a bag.
I flipped her off. She balled up the fist with the brass knuckles and shook it.
“Does she have a permit for those?” Targen asked.
“If she doesn't, Brae will whip one up before she ever gets in trouble.”
“He likes her like that?”
“Helovesher,” I corrected. “But she can't forgive him for... I guess that's their story to tell.”
“Yeah. Seems like all y'all have one.”
I looked up as someone cleared his throat. Juvie was staring at us, nose pressed against the window.
“All that money you got, T, get this girl a room!”
And just to be fair, I flipped him off, too.
Louisiana heat hitdifferent in the daytime. Shit was so thick it made the air feel like it was moving slow. It didn't stop life on the farm, though. Soft moos blended with higher-pitched neighs as cows and horses ambled slowly in the farm's huge pastures, the lush, bright green grass not yet baked by the shimmering sunlight. Somewhere closer to the house, a truck roared to life loud enough for the sound to carry across the property. The raucous laughter of farmhands spilled out of the open windows of the big barn. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scents of smoky barbecue and sweet honeysuckle that permeated the heavy air.
Then I turned my head. Inside this shed smelled like the old oil that had soaked deep into the concrete floor. I stood just inside the open doorway looking at the empty spot near theback wall where Theory’s granddaddy’s vintage 1957 Chevy Bel Air used to sit. A year ago, she had brought me out here late one night while we wandered the farm, half talking, half flirting. The whole property had been quiet except for crickets and the sound of her voice as she pointed out pieces of her childhood. I remembered that she'd opened the shed dramatically, like she was revealing buried treasure.
“This is PawPaw'srealfavorite child,” she'd announced.
The old Chevy had sat looking better than some brand-new cars. It was Matador Red with chrome trimmings polished to perfection. The interior was immaculate. No doubt, the car was beautiful.
And dead.
The engine never turned over, no matter how many years her grandfather worked on it.
“He still think he one part away from getting it running. That man been saying that since I was little,” she told me.
I remembered circling the car slowly while she leaned against the workbench watching me and smiling.
“You like it?” she’d asked.
