Everything We Didn't Say(63)

What else did Ashley suspect?

The memory of Sullivan’s simple, damning kiss made Juniper gasp. Thankfully, at the sound, a satisfied smile crossed Ashley’s lips and Juniper knew that she believed she had won whatever battle they were fighting. Best to let her think so.

“Goodbye, Ashley.” Juniper held her gaze for a long moment, hoping that the Ashley she once knew was somewhere inside. I’m not going to steal your husband, she wanted to say. I don’t want to ruin your life. But things might get messy. And if you come after my daughter… Well, it was obvious that Ashley knew all about being a mama bear.

Juniper didn’t look back when she pulled away, but she could picture Ashley framed in the front door, Hadley in her arms. What a mess. Juniper couldn’t be certain if Ashley had slashed her tires or not, but she was definitely capable of it. And if her former best friend was as angry and afraid as Juniper believed her to be, what else might she do? What might she have already done?





CHAPTER 16


SUMMER 14 AND A HALF YEARS AGO



Mom always makes crepes with Nutella and fresh strawberries on our birthdays, and when I wake on the morning of the twenty-first, I can already smell the fruity tang of the berries macerating. It’s a Sunday, the perfect day for a birthday because Jonathan doesn’t have to go to work and we can be lazy and together all day. But before I’ve even thrown back the sheets, I remember that Jonathan and I have barely spoken since the campout. In my mind’s eye I can see him walking away from the fire the last night we were there, flanked by the Tate brothers. Dalton, Wyatt, and Sterling, I know now. Cowboys all. Or maybe vigilantes.

“They’re just some guys I know,” Jonathan tried to tell me when I cornered him later.

“You’re kidding, right?” I was disgusted because everyone knows not to tangle with the Tates.

“Look, June, drop it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So tell me!”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I don’t want to, okay? You’re leaving in a couple of weeks anyway. Let it go,” he insisted. And then added, “And stay away from Sullivan, like I told you.”

“Make me.” I was getting all up in his face, and for the first time since we were kids, Jonathan put his hands on me in anger. He didn’t hit me or push me or anything, but he grabbed my upper arms and held me away. We stood there, arm’s-length apart, and glared at each other. Then Jonathan let go, spun on his heel, and walked away. I could see red marks on my skin where he had pinched me, and though they faded quickly, I felt bruised by him for much longer.

I don’t want to fight with Jonathan. Not on my nineteenth birthday, and certainly not in the last couple of months that I have with him. I’m headed to Iowa City in mid-July for a two-day freshman orientation program, and then it’s only four short weeks until I move into my dorm room on campus. A part of me wishes that I could just stay when I visit in July—especially now that my brother and I are barely on speaking terms. But a bigger part of me wants to mend what has been broken. And that’s why when I crawl out of bed and throw on my favorite sundress, I’m mentally rehearsing all the ways I can let him know I’m sorry without actually saying the words. He’s the one who owes me an apology, but I want to make amends, even if he’s not ready yet. The clock is ticking.

“Happy birthday!” Mom says when I walk into the kitchen. She doesn’t even turn around—she can tell by the way I walk that it’s me.

“Thanks,” I say, and go to stand beside her at the stove. I lay my head on her shoulder for just a moment and get a whiff of mint and vanilla from the homemade crepes.

“I can’t believe you’re nineteen.”

“Right?” I palm a peach from the basket on the counter and grab a paring knife to slice it up.

“Rinse that,” Mom says, tilting the pan so that the batter from the first crepe covers the entire bottom of the large, round pan. She always throws the first one away. When Law isn’t around, she calls it a sacrifice to the kitchen gods. When he is, she just smiles a secret smile at me and turns it into the garbage can.

I run the tap ice cold and give the peach a gentle wash beneath the spray. I halve it and cut off a sliver, then pop it in my mouth and let the sweetness burst on my tongue. It tastes like a birthday present.

“Where’s Law?” I ask, glancing at the hallway that leads to their room.

“Chores.”

It’s almost eight o’clock. Usually he’s done by now. “And Jonathan?”

“Still sleeping.”

That explains it. Jonathan helps with chores on Sunday mornings so that we can get to church on time. The fact that he’s still sleeping, and that Law let him do it, is shocking to me. There isn’t much to do on our little farm—not when the crops are safely planted and growing, and especially not since Law culled the herd—but the few cattle we do have need to be fed and watered. The chickens, too. And the eggs need to be collected, leftovers set out for the barn cats, and traps checked. Jonathan and I used to do an every-other-day rotation, but since Law works less these days, he likes to putter around the farm and he usually doesn’t care how long it takes him. But church starts at nine thirty, and he should be in the shower by now.