Girls of Brackenhill(66)
Julia broke out of Wyatt’s embrace—Wyatt’s embrace! Oh my GOD!—and turned to her sister, bewildered. Only Wyatt knew, and his face was unreadable. He did look sorry. He looked a little confused. And something else unknown to Hannah.
“Hannah, wait!” he said but then stopped, not knowing what to say next. Not knowing where to go, how to make things better.
Julia ran across the green between them, closing the short distance in a few seconds, and stood before Hannah, who was shaking with rage. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; she knew she was careening, likely making a fool of herself, and couldn’t stop. She felt like everything was so wrong that it would never be right again.
“Why! Why do you have to ruin everything! Why!” Hannah shoved Julia’s shoulders, and Julia stumbled, her mouth open in shock. They’d never touched each other like that before—not in anger. Never, not even as children. They protected each other—from Wes when he was drunk and raging, from Trina’s neglect—but they did not hit each other.
“Hannah! What’s wrong with you?” Julia gripped Hannah’s wrists and held them out so their faces were inches apart and Hannah couldn’t hit or push her again.
“I hate you! Wyatt was the only good thing I had.” Hannah felt the tears in her eyes, dramatic and childish, and knew she was ruining it for herself at this point but was unable to stop. “He was the only thing in my life that I liked. You’ve ruined everything.”
“Hannah.” Julia’s voice was gentle, placating, and Hannah fought against her sister’s strength, tried to hit her again, but Julia stopped her. “Hannah. Please, honey, stop.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Hannah sagged back, losing the strength, and stole a glance at Wyatt, who stood, paralyzed, ten feet away, watching the scuffle with his hands fisted in his pockets and his face blank with shock.
“Hannah,” Julia said gently, “why do you think you had Wyatt?” She lowered her voice, the way you talked to someone unhinged, and Hannah realized that was what she was: unhinged.
“Because we’ve been . . . together all summer.” Hannah faltered and in the background heard Dana and Yolanda laughing.
“Hannah.” Julia looked around helplessly. “You can’t think that, can you?”
Hannah looked over at Dana and Yolanda, back to Wyatt, even to Reggie, whose mouth curled in a curious smirk, and realized they all thought she was making it up. A delusional child. A foolish idiot.
Her face burned, and she stepped back, away from Julia, who truly had no idea what she’d been doing all summer. Only Wyatt could set the record straight now.
Hannah looked at Wyatt, her hands splayed outward for help.
Wyatt turned his head, exposing the white of his neck, the neck Hannah had kissed so many times. He extended his hand, the hand that had caressed her hair, her back, all summer.
“Hannah,” he said. She wished everyone would stop saying her name like that. His face was pained, his eyes clouded.
He wasn’t going to save her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Now
She’d escaped Wyatt’s on Sunday morning in a flurry of guilt and sickness—some from the wine but mostly with herself. She’d left him sleeping and sneaked out the front door. He’d called three times and texted even more; she’d lost count. Nothing harassing, just wondering if she was okay, and could they talk? She hadn’t answered yet. Her mind swung wildly between guilt—Huck—and snatches of the night: Wyatt’s hands on her hips, his breath on her stomach, a light, feathery tickle. The feeling of him curled against her as they slept, the way she fit in the hook of his body, perfectly. And disloyally, how she and Huck had never done this. She’d thought she liked to sleep alone, the feel of sheets beneath her palms, the cool distance of his biological furnace. She could breathe freely. She’d thought she wanted that. But with Wyatt, she hadn’t felt suffocated.
She was unable to reach Huck. They were missing each other—talking to each other’s voice mails, texts going unanswered for hours. Almost as if he knew what she’d done. She sent him periodic missives: How are you? Hope you’re not too crazy there. But she acknowledged that if she hadn’t stayed at Wyatt’s, she would have been out of her mind trying to reach Huck. What must he think of her? It didn’t matter; she deserved all of it.
She spent the day sick with herself. Packing up a suitcase, preparing to leave. She had to get home to Huck. Had to figure her life out. She literally felt like she was losing control of everything. She took Rink for a long hike, down to the Beaverkill, and followed the river trail halfway into town and back. He’d been stuck inside during the night while she was at Wyatt’s, adding to her guilt.
That night she slept deeply and startled awake in the morning, crying out when she realized she was in Ruby’s room. The locked room. She sat on the floor, legs folded, surrounded by pictures. A photo box next to her was tilted on its side, glossy images strewed out and around her.
The smell of death permeated the air, stuck inside her mouth and nose. The gentle image of dirt sifting over a shovel. The remnants of the dream.
She shoved the pictures back into the box and put the lid on. Then stood helplessly in Ruby’s room holding the box. Her sleeping self had found it. Her conscious self had no idea where it had come from.