Him and me. And the what-if that lingers between us.
I root my feet to the earth, trying to hold myself together.
But the sky cracks open instead—a mantle of storm clouds scraping across the horizon, turning everything black—and a second later a downpour of summer rain crashes over us. I wince, the sound deafening, drops exploding against the earth, pinging off the boat, and I’m surprised when Oak reaches out for me, takes my hand in his, and pulls me toward the house.
My breath shakes in my lungs as we run, and we’re soaked by the time he pushes through a back door and we step into a quiet, dark room: a mudroom lined with boots and sneakers against one wall, coats hanging from hooks on the other. Organized and tidy. Clean.
Rain spills from my hair, drips from my clothes onto the floor.
“Wait here,” he says softly, releasing my hand and vanishing into another room. A light is switched on somewhere, and I can see a kitchen illuminated ahead of me. I step into the massive space, with a gray concrete floor and white countertops, cream-colored walls and a lemon scent. I blink, trying to take it all in. It’s the kind of home I’ve read about in books but never imagined I’d see in real life.
Oak appears behind me, holding out a large white towel. “Here,” he says, his voice changed, all its sharp edges gone. He folds the towel over my shoulders, but it isn’t enough; my whole body trembles, the cold saturating my skin. “You need dry clothes,” he adds, clutching my shivering hands in his, before turning and slipping away into another part of the massive house. I sense that he doesn’t want me here: His home is a place he wants to keep private. Secret. A part of his life he doesn’t share.
The cold sinks even deeper, my bones feeling like they’re rattling against my skin. I clutch the towel around my shoulders and step carefully into the living room—searching for a source of heat. But it feels like a museum, hardly lived in, all modern, clean lines and cold walls. Not the kind of place where a family wakes up on birthday mornings, the smell of waffles rising through the air while the sound of laughter echoes down the halls. This is a home of ghosts. Of a past left to die.
A fireplace stands against the far wall, and I find a switch on theright side that ignites the fire. A quick burst of light illuminates the vast room, and I hold my hands toward the gas-fed flames, the heat starting to dry my shivering skin.
Above the fireplace, the mantel is lined with framed photographs—the first sign that a family resides inside this catacomb. I scan each one, photos of Oak as a young boy, with warm green eyes and dark hair cut short. His mom is in several of the images, a woman with amber skin and long, dark hair and bright, beautiful eyes. I see Oak in her, in the kind, gentle slant of her face. I peer at photographs of their family at the beach, at an amusement park, Oak waving from a Ferris wheel. A few depict Halloween costumes, and several show the family beside Rabbit Cross River, Oak and his mom sitting in the same green boat he took me in days ago. His father is visible in only a handful of images—he was likely the one always snapping the photos. He is a tall man, like Oak, with broad shoulders and gray eyes. He is handsome, and there’s something enigmatic, perplexing, about him—the same unnameable quality I see in Oak.
At the end of the row of photos, a stack of books rests on the mantel. They are old books, small, and most of the spines are so worn, they’re unreadable. They look like poetry volumes. But it’s not the books that my eyes settle on, it’s the corner of something beneath the stack.
A single, loose photograph. I don’t know why my eyes linger on it, why I feel compelled to pull it free from under the books—there is a throb at my temple, a prick of curiosity from some unknown place inside me.
I slide the photo free, holding it carefully between my fingers.
The light from the fireplace dances across the image, and mymind tumbles over itself, confused, off-balance, unsure what I’m looking at.
Oak’s father is standing on a dock, nestled in a harbor, the mast of a sailboat rising up behind him, the afternoon sun slanted over his features.
But the woman standing beside him… is not Oak’s mom.
It’s someone else.
A woman with sable hair and dark, bewitching eyes. A woman with betrayal in her smile, a woman who left everything she knew and broke apart her family without a word.
The woman is not Oak’s mom.
She’s mine.
My eyes shiver over the photo, trying to take in every detail: Oak’s father with his arm around her waist, her shoulder leaning into him.
My head thuds.
My heart begins to scream in my ears.
When Mom left, she fled Cutwater without a word. There was a secret inside her, a lie, a deceit. But I’ve always wondered if she left with someone she’d met. A man she kept secret from us. A man who couldn’t resist a woman with the Goode last name. A man who finally helped her escape this town.
And now, fingers trembling, I wonder if this is the secret.
Tears well quick and icy behind my eyes, but the anger is scalding in my chest. And when I look up, Oak is standing at the edge of the hallway. Watching me.
He’s shirtless, wearing a dry pair of jeans. But his eyes fall, and he sees what I hold in my hand. His face loses all meaning.
“Did you know?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, his chest rising quickly with each inhale.
“My mother? And your father?”
