Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(22)

I know that’s dumb. I’ve been through enough therapy to know I have some issues, subscriptions, volumes, libraries—whatever you want to call them. I’m always scared that I’m going to get hurt, even when nobody wants to hurt me. Which is why I reject people hard, first. I’m trying not to do that anymore. I fell in love with Dahlia; she makes my heart race and makes me want to cry inside when we’re separated, and that’s what love is, right? I want to be with her all the time. I’m practical enough to know that’s not going to happen.

I end the Skype call and check her on social media. Her Instagram shows she’s at someone’s birthday party, looking bored under the poses. But at least I know she’s not ducking me. At least, not today. Don’t be clingy, I tell myself. Be cool.

I don’t know how to do that. I’ve tried not to care for so long that slowing down seems impossible. At least I’m not jealous. I’m not, right?

I hear the front door open, the alarm warning sound, and the rapid keypad code beeps. Door shuts and locks.

Mom’s home. But I don’t hear Sam with her. They’re usually talking when they walk in.

“Teriyaki chicken prep! Anybody want to help?” she calls.

I sit where I am, staring at the screen. Does Dahlia look happy, posing with that group of girls? She’s got her arm around a boy in the next photo. Dahlia’s mom said—when we weren’t supposed to hear it—that the two of us were just going through a phase. Maybe she’s right, as far as Dahlia’s concerned. But I don’t think that’s me. Loving someone isn’t a phase.

“Hey,” Mom says. She’s in the doorway now. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say. I shut the laptop. “I was going for a run.”

“Not by yourself,” she says.

“Mom. It’s not even close to dark. I’m just doing the lake.”

“Not alone, you’re not. I’ll go with you. I could use the stretch.”

“You’ll slow me down,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes. “No, seriously, you do.”

“Well, I’m old,” she says. “And I’m still coming.”

“What about the dinner stuff?”

“I’ll do it,” my brother says. He’s coming out of his room across the hall, headphones around his neck. Mom puts her arm around him, and he doesn’t even stiffen up. He did for a while, but he’s better now. At least, I think he is. We don’t talk as much since I found out he was sneaking out to call our dad. I don’t know what to do with that, or how to talk to him about it. It pisses me off that he did it at all. I can’t even begin to guess why. And I don’t want to ask.

“Garlic and ginger, green onions,” she tells him, and smooths a part of his hair that’s sticking up in the back. “Small dice on the garlic and ginger, okay? And remember to wash everything before you cut.”

“I will,” he says. It’s probably wrong that I worry that he likes using kitchen knives. I mean, he’s thinking of being a chef, right? Chefs use knives.

So did our dad.

Mom goes to her room to change, and I open the laptop again and look at myself. I’m thinking of posting a mood selfie. I like my hair today; it’s at a funky angle, and the blue-and-green streaks I’ve put in through the black are still bright. I muss it up a little and try a pose for Operation Make Dahlia Remember I’m Alive, but my heart’s not in it. I slam the lid again and put on a sports bra and oversize ancient tee over leggings with blood drops running down the sides. I’m tying my running shoes when Mom comes back. She takes one look at my leggings, and I know she’s about to tell me to change, but then she checks herself.

One thing about my mom: she tries. She knows that I have to deal with the shitty past in my own way. I can’t do it the way she does, at least not all the time. And I love these leggings.

I raise my eyebrows. She sighs and shakes her head. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

Connor’s in the kitchen when we leave, with a knife and cutting board and all the ingredients he’s going to need prepped. Mom reminds him not to answer the door. He waves. We all know the drill.

“See ya, runt,” I say.

“Hey, weirdo? I have a knife.”

I flip him off on the way out. It’s a typical joke between us. Some tiny little part of me still doesn’t find it funny.

I’m the one who sets the pace around the lake, but I try to dial it down. I’ve been working at it hard. Mom used to be the fast one, and I wasn’t in shape for it; but now I am. My legs are longer, and when I open up for speed, she has to work to keep up. I’m merciful. I don’t totally humiliate her.

It should take about half an hour for us to run the full circuit, which is perfect, and we’ve picked the right time of day. The sun’s behind the trees, breaking into pretty rays that hit the water and bounce. As we pass Sam’s old cabin, Mom slows down. I fall back to match her speed. “Something wrong?” Sam doesn’t live there now. It’s fixed up, and now it’s a constant stream of day-trippers who stay there. I’m naturally suspicious about people who don’t stay put when they could. I think about all the nights I cried myself to sleep before moving again to find some temporary safety.

I don’t cry anymore. Not about that.