How to Save a Life(24)

I scowled, and slashed at the water.

“I know that probably sounds totally insane,” I continued, “but I hated that apartment. If I think about what my ideal life might be, it’s not having a big house all gated up or anything. I don’t want that. I don’t need a lot of money or stuff. I just want a little place, somewhere near a beautiful mountain or forest or lake that I can wake up to every morning and look at it while I write. My place. My home, and I wouldn’t have to leave it six months after I settled in. I don’t need much. A little life, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I looked up sharply to see Evan watching me with his eyes that could be described as the color of ice, but that always looked to me like the sky on a cloudless, hot summer day. That gaze…it just wrapped around me, like my reverie, meshing and blending with it, until I was almost there, in my own place with a view of something beautiful in the window, and strong arms holding me…

I blinked and surged back in the water. I’d just unloaded some deep, secret of my heart to an almost total stranger. I remembered how I’d first thought Evan would be the one willing to spill his guts to anyone who would listen. Turned out that was me.

But I was right about him being a good listener. He didn’t judge or question, or even add his own commentary. He just let me put it out there, and it was okay, and he was already moving on to something else. My embarrassment floated away like so many dead leaves.

“So, Jo,” he said. “Is that short for Joanna?”

“Josephine. After Jo March from Little Women. It was my mother’s favorite book. If you haven’t read it, Jo was the writer in the family.”

“So your mom knew you were going to become a poet early on,” Evan said, grinning. “Before you were born, even.”

I smiled. “Doubtful. I think she liked that Jo was the strongest sister. Mentally strong. Jo didn’t fall into the arms of the first guy who liked her, like my mother did. Mama was young and she fell hard, but she didn’t get the happy ending she envisioned. I think she admired Jo March, who knew her own mind and found true love in the guy who least looked the part.”

Evan stretched his arms out, skimmed his hands over the water. “Your mom sounds like a wise lady.”

“Not really. She moved me and her around a lot when I was a kid, on a whim almost, chasing some dead-end job or another. She was sweet and fun, but I don’t think anyone would call her wise. We lived with my dad’s family when I was older and she needed help, and none of them took her seriously.” I cut the water with my hand. “She wasn’t mentally strong herself.”

Evan shrugged. “Who is?”

I smiled in gratitude. “No one I know,” I said and splashed water at him.

He laughed. “Do you want to talk about her?” he asked after a moment.

“I’ve done a shit-ton of talking already, don’t you think?”

“No, I like listening to you. If you want to talk about your mom, you can. I know I would if I could remember mine.”

“You don’t remember her at all?”

Evan smiled but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Nope. I’ve tried. But it seems like my life began at the firehouse.”

“I can’t quite remember my mom, either. Not really. Or, I can remember her, but all those years feel grayed out to me. Like I can’t quite reach them.”

“What do you mean?”

I moved to the edge of the pool and folded my arms on the cement. Evan did the same, a few feet away, and we rested our heads on our arms, looking at each other.

“This one time, when I was a kid, my mother took me to Tybee Island. We had the best time. I know we did. But I can’t recall how it felt. I know it was sunny but I don’t remember feeling warm. I know I laughed but I don’t remember feeling happy.” I glanced sideways at him. “Weird, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Evan said. “Coping mechanism, maybe, for her death.”

“Coping,” I said, looking away.

I hadn’t told him the truth about my mother, or my scar. I felt like I should—or could—but the words stuck in my throat. It was all so ugly and terrible, and I wanted Evan to keep thinking of me as a girl who’d been in a tragic car accident. Not one who’d cut up her own face to stop her uncle from touching her in the middle of the night. I swallowed the words down.

“Yeah, coping. We all have our tricks for it.”

“And here I am,” Evan said, indicating the pool with his head.

A silence descended. I pulled myself from my own memories to look at Evan. This close to him, I could see so much. His white T-shirt was threadbare. Through the thin, wet fabric I could see the planes of his chest and the cut of his abs. I could even see the greenish tinge of an old bruise on his right pec.

I moved closer along the edge, until I was right beside him. He didn’t move but let me look at him. Watched me take in the dark purples and blues of fresher bruises on his back and arms.

My heart thudded in an unfamiliar cadence. It had been a long time since I’d been afraid for someone beside myself.

“Who does this to you, Evan? Your brothers? Or your dad?”

God, tell me it’s not his dad…

“Brothers,” Evan replied. “Merle, specifically. We fight a lot.”