Preston's Honor(12)

She was only thirty-five now, but looked about fifty. She’d been here for sixteen years and no dreams had resulted—only a broken body and a broken spirit. I supposed I couldn’t even blame her for hating me the way she did. I couldn’t blame her but it still hurt—it hurt down to my soul.

“Las manos del diablo,” she murmured.

Hands of the devil. My hands.

I sighed. Sometimes it seemed she said things like that to keep her dislike for me alive and well—especially in moments when I was being kind to her. It was as if she accepted my generosity but wouldn’t allow herself to feel anything for me. “Silencio, Mama,” I said, not disguising the weariness in my voice. Hush, Mama. I continued massaging her until her muscles were looser under my hands.

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll come with you tomorrow and help clean so you don’t have to bend.” I didn’t mind cleaning in general, didn’t mind hard work. What I minded was how utterly disgusting the rooms at the motel were—how they were generally rented by the hour to prostitutes and drunks who left behind used condoms and bedbugs.

She made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat and got up and went over to her mattress and sat down on it. I wished I had the means to buy her something better to sleep on. Surely an air mattress was making her back even worse. It might be better just to sleep on the floor.

I took my sweater and made a flimsy excuse about taking a walk, abandoning my homework where it lay on the floor. The truth was, I didn’t want to be in our house when the sun hadn’t even set yet and my mama was sleeping. It felt stuffy and far too small.

It was spring in California’s Central Valley, and the air smelled fresh, the blue sky and green farmland stretched far and wide. I roamed, collecting wildflowers in a bouquet as I went: poppies, lupines, evening primrose, the sweet alyssum that smelled as if it was made of honey. I’d take it back to our house and at least there’d be a tiny corner in that ugly space that provided some beauty.

When I made it to the Sawyers’ fence, I leaned against it, holding the wildflowers in one hand and propping my face on the other hand that rested on the old wood.

I gazed across the farmland, melancholy gripping me at the fierce longing in my heart. Longing for all the things those damned parameters kept me from: a beautiful place to live, a loving family, good food that didn’t only come in cans and microwaveable boxes and sometimes—shamefully—from the free food store in town. And Preston Sawyer. Mostly, Preston Sawyer. My heart pinched at the thought of him, and I closed my eyes, picturing the strong lines of his face, his serious eyes, the way his body had grown tall and broad in the last couple of years. And I ached for him.

I’d always loved him, I supposed. But in the last year, my love had turned . . . different. In the last year I’d begun noticing him in ways I hadn’t before. And I’d begun wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me, if he touched me, if he wanted me, too.

I knew he cared for me in his own way. I knew both the Sawyer boys did. But I also knew that they were vaguely ashamed of me. I knew they didn’t invite me places where other people would be, knew they preferred to do things with me in places where no one else was likely to see us together. And I was so desperate for friends—so desperate for them—that I’d take anything they were willing to give. Even if it hurt me to know that even with Preston and Cole, there were parameters. Boundaries.

But I also knew I was partly responsible for the distance between us—I didn’t want them to know more about my situation and pity me because of it. I didn’t want them to see where I lived, to know the squalor of my life compared to theirs. I didn’t want others to see them with me and think less of them for it.

I was certain they already realized I was poor, and I could live with that. But I refused to allow them to know the details. The true ugliness was in the details, the tiny papercuts that sliced at your soul, and no one who hadn’t been dirt poor could ever really understand that.

When I opened my eyes and looked up, I saw both brothers in the distance and sucked in a breath, standing straight. I watched as they stopped and appeared to be talking and then one of them turned and walked back toward the house. The other one moved toward me and I squinted my eyes to see who it was, after a moment realizing it was . . . Cole. I could tell by his loose walk, by the easy grin on his face. I was happy to see him, but disappointed that Preston had turned away.

I smiled back as he approached. “Fancy meeting you here,” I teased.

Cole laughed, hopping easily over the fence with the natural grace of an athlete. He leaned a narrow hip against the fence and crossed his arms. I watched the way his biceps bulged. “You didn’t have to walk all the way here to see me. I would have come to you.” He winked, shooting me a boyish half-smile, the one he was very aware was completely adorable.

I couldn’t help laughing, not just at his joke, but at the picture of him standing in my small, awful house, gazing around in horror at the proof of our poverty. It was the very thing I worked so hard to avoid. And God, it was such a terrible picture, even in my imagination, that I had to laugh or I’d start crying and never stop. “I like the tradition of meeting here like this,” I said, tilting my head. “Where did Preston go?”

Cole shrugged, moving slightly closer. “Back to the house. He had something else to do.”