Page 102 of The Tattered Gloves
I turned around to see Sam standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with panic as they settled on the bag of clothes.
“Why are you here?” I asked, not bothering to stop what I was doing. I had to get out of here.
“You ran out of the gym like someone was chasing you down. Allison said you were fine one minute, and the next, you were as white as a ghost.”
He stepped forward, and I immediately stepped back.
His shoulders slumped as his expression fell. “You’re scared of me?”
“No,” I answered immediately. “I’m just—”
“You’re just what? Willow, please talk to me. Why are you packing?”
“I have to go. I can’t stay here anymore.”
“Two hours ago, we were making plans for the store, and now, you’re bailing? I don’t understand.”
“I just can’t do this anymore, okay?” I shouted. “This place isn’t me. I don’t fit in.”
Silence fell between us.
“You should go,” I said. “You’re probably in a load of trouble for ditching school, and the bookstore—”
“Screw school! Screw the bookstore! All I care about right now is you!” His eyes were blazing as his voice rang through the house. “I know you’re lying. You can’t hide from me. You just can’t.”
“He’shere,” I said, finally breaking. “The man who — he’s here.”
Sam pulled me into his arms as tears fell for the first time since that dark night in early September when a selfish, evil man had stolen my innocence away from me.
“How do you know?” he asked after several long minutes.
I pulled back slightly, watching him wipe the tears from my eyes. He knew now that there were no walls between us. No borders.
I trusted him.
I always had.
“His voice,” I said, shaking my head, as I thought it out. “You know how, in comic books, the hero always wears a mask but never bothers to alter his voice? No one ever notices. Well, believe me, you never forget. Ever,” I said with effort.
“The new teacher?” His sad eyes searched mine as he pieced it all together.
“Yes.”
“We’ve got to go, Willow. We’ve got to go tell the school.”
He grabbed my hand, but I wouldn’t budge.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t be here,” I explained. “I can’t be anywhere near here. I’m not brave like you.”
“Then, I’ll go with you,” he decided, taking my bag with his other hand and slung it over his shoulder.
“No.” I shook my head back and forth, tears streaming down my face. “That’s not how this works. Your life is here — your family, your roots. What kind of person would I be if I took the first Shepherd in a million generations out of Sugar Tree?”
“It’s not a million,” he said. “And you wouldn’t be making the decision. I would.”
