Page 103 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Juniper doesn’t appear to be feeling any of the embarrassment I am, though; in fact, every now and then she looks at our clasped hands and smiles, a tiny slash of her lips that’s both amused and, for some reason, smug.

“Okay, enough,” I say finally when she does it again. I close the refrigerator and then nod at her. “What’s with the smirking?”

Her smile widens as she attempts to pull her hand away.

“Mine,” I say with a frown, holding tighter. “Are you gonna answer the question?”

“I knew you would be like this,” she says, now looking nothing short of radiant. She gives our intertwined hands a little shake. “I had a theory that you were prickly on the outside, but if I managed to get through all that, you’d be the kind of guy who never let go. Following me around the kitchen with your arms wrapped around me from behind—or keeping my hand in yours even though you’d be more efficient without it.”

She’s right, I realize with a start. I am doing that—hoarding her touches, storing them up in case of a long winter without them.

Or, in other words, in case she changes her mind about me.

“So just tell me already,” she says with a sigh, interrupting my thoughts. “Say whatever it is you need to say. So that we can keep holding hands.”

And I’m not sure I want to, not sure I’m ready to, but we’re floating in this strangely shaped space where we can’t move forward and we can’t move back.

“I’m concerned,” I say, my voice hoarse, “that it’s going to change how you feel about me.”

Juniper rolls her eyes, pulling her hand out of mine. She scrubs both hands down her face and then glares at me. “You’re just gonna have to deal with that. Spit it out now, before I get any more attached to you. If I end up hating you it’s already going to hurt.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face as my eyes go wide. “Are you—is that supposed to be helpful? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Of course not,” she says. “This isn’t all aboutyou.Now just tell me. What is it? Were you secretly married before?” Her eyes narrow on me. “Do you have a kid somewhere? It wouldn’t be an immediate no, but—”

“Good grief.” The words burst out of me, echoing around the kitchen. Then I point to myself. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask—do you really think I could keep a child secret?”

“You can do anything if you put your mind to it,” she says solemnly, with just enough sparkle in her eyes that I know she’s joking. It doesn’t erase the tense lines around her mouth, though, or the rigid set of her shoulders.

I sigh, gesturing to the bag of groceries still on the counter. “Grab your chips and guac and let’s talk.”

I move into the living room with slow, dreamlike steps, a lamb to the slaughter, while Juniper trails behind me clutching her tub of guac to her chest as the bag of chips swings from one hand.

I don’t know how she’s going to take this, so I’m just preparing myself for a little of everything. She might hate me, I guess. She might be apathetic. She might cry. I really don’t know.

I sit.

She sits.

I take a deep breath.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

I speak.

“When you were in high school,” I say, “you went to a foster home for a few months.”

Something in Juniper’s eyes sharpens; alertness enters her frame. “Yes,” she says without inflection. “That’s correct.”

I rip the Band-aid off. “I was the one who reported your mother to CPS.”

There are different kinds of silences. Some are warm. Some are cold. Some are heavy, and some feel like they could blow away in the breeze.

The silence that falls over the room now is a death silence—cold and motionless and heavy. Another dead body, one of my own making this time, lying in the space between Juniper and I.

“You—reported her?” Juniper’s words are hollow, her eyes far away. We’re both sitting on the couch, and she’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, but I don’t. Her hands are white-knuckled as she clutches the tub of guacamole to her chest; the bag of chips crinkles loudly as her grip tightens there too.

“Yes,” I say. “I reported her.” I swallow past the impossible knot in my throat. “I was worried about you. That’s all I told them. That I was concerned.”

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