Page 21 of Little Bird
“Those are new this year,” I say, following her gaze to where a number of colorful handprints dot the window in front of us. “Kids voted for their classmates at school to get to put up a handprint, then the whole school decorated each one. They’re going to do a drawing on Christmas. The kid who wins gets a prize of $500.”
Her brow creases with a frown. “How did they decide who they wanted to vote for?”
“They voted for the kids who need money the most,” I say simply. “Their parents are sick, or they’ve lost their jobs or have just fallen on hard times. The kids voted for kids who need a boost.”
She bites her lip, and I watch a single tear slide down her cheek.
My heart squeezes in a way that makes me think I might be having a heart attack, and I clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching over and wiping that tear from her cheek. I feel like I might die if I don’t touch her soon. Like my body will actually stop working.
Which is exactly why I can’t reach for her.
“That’s so Hawke’s Wood,” she whispers. “God, I miss this place.”
And that’s the danger here, isn’t it? She says shit like that, and it drives right into my soul and makes me question my entire life. Reaches into my chest, grabs my heart, and plays it like it’s always belonged to her.
The fact that she does it so easily terrifies me.
“Well, you’re the one who left,” I say sharply. “Let’s go get your film developed.”
Thirty minutes later we’ve dropped her film off, bought new film for her camera, and gone through the mind-numbing process of buying food—which included her going back and forth for a full five minutes about the best pancake mix on the shelf.
There were a total of three choices. And she took five minutes talking herself into one and then another.
I leave the market frustrated as hell but brighten up when I see the ice cream parlor across the street. “Ice cream,” I said simply.
“Ice cream?” she repeats.
“Yep. I want it, and you owe me.”
I grab her arm without asking, ready to drag her across the street, but drop it as soon as I realize this is the first time I’ve touched her since she got back. She doesn’t feel the same. She’s more solid. Warmer than she used to be.
The contact leaves my fingertips tingling like I’ve just touched a live wire.
And when I catch her gaze, I can see I’m not the only one who felt it. She opens her mouth to say something, the crease of a frown starting between her brows, but before she gets any words out I hear someone shouting my name. I turn, grateful for the distraction, and see a number of people heading our way.
My friends.
Thank God.
Jonathan, Miller, and Simon rush up, all bundled up against the cold and looking like exactly what they are: the hoodlums of town. Jonathan and Miller are my cousins and friends, while Simon is unrelated to any of us. I’ve known them since I was born, which means they all knew Taryn when she lived here.
And they all saw how hard I crashed when she left.
Miller, the brawniest of us, looks her up and down once, his face registering surprise and then distrust, and Simon follows his example. Jon, whose father is a lawyer down the mountain and who therefore has a somewhat more educated view of the world, at least schools his expression to be neutral, and I’m grateful for that much. Miller and Simon are both blue collar to the bone, sons of the town mechanic and carpenter, respectively, and they’re going to be a whole lot less gentle.
“So, you’re back,” Miller says.
Taryn, who’s at least two heads shorter than Miller, looks up at him, and to my shock, manages to look deeply unimpressed at the larger boy. Fuck, she’s looking at him like he’s the one smaller than her, and I see that single eyebrow rise so high that I swear it’s going to hit her hairline.
“Your eyes still work, then?” she says calmly. “Good to know. Maybe you should use them to find some jeans that actually fit.”
She looks pointedly at his shoes, where the ratty ends of his jeans sit half an inch too short, and then turns her eyes back up to his gaze, looking for all the world like she’s just discovered rotting garbage in her kitchen.
I feel my own eyebrows rise in response. Miller’s one of the most popular guys in town, and no one ever insults him. He’s too charming. Too funny.
Too quick to use his fists on anyone that doesn’t like him.
To my surprise, though, he’s actually grinning at her.
