When I move my mouth nearer to him, he backs up. Stands and straightens his shirt.
"Why do you smell like bourbon?" he asks.
I smile and stand next to him, trying to pull him against me. "You shouldn't concern yourself with that."
The world wobbles, and Beau is there to steady me.
"Damn it, Willow. I'm not gonna do a thing now, you know that, don't you? Not if you've been drinking."
He mumbles something about giving him more credit than that.
My eyes droop, and I reach for the door to steady myself. He holds me against his chest and exhales deeply.
"I'll walk you to your room, mostly to make sure you get there all right, but that's it. Try to be quiet. The last thing I need is for Old Lady Bell to spot me in her house."
I laugh as he follows me inside, up the stairs, and to my bedroom door.
He pulls me in once more for a hug. I memorize the beat of his heart. It pounds me a lullaby even after he turns to leave, and I lie down and fall asleep.
20
Beau
After school, we decide to walk the swamp trails. Willow is two paces in front of me. Her button-up shirt is loose, and her jeans are tight. Boots reach her knees, protecting her from snakes. Somehow she makes clunky knee-high boots look sexy.
"You're really planning on capturing frogs to eat?" I ask.
That's what we're doing out here. Frog hunting.
She throws me a backward glance, grinning to the sky and back. "Sure am."
"You've eaten frog legs before?"
Don't ask me why I'm grilling her on it. Guess I don't exactly see her as a frog leg type of girl.
"Sure have. Plenty of times. Boy, don't you know my gran?"
"'Course I do," I say. The trail here is narrow, and so I keep pace a step behind Willow. "Her I could see eating them, sure. But not you."
"Well, I do, and they're delicious," she says proudly.
When the path widens and mud slurps at our boots, I move beside her. A sack drapes over one of her shoulders, held there by a strap.
"How many frogs can you fit in there?" I ask.
"As many as I can find, I suppose," she says.
"I've never had frog legs," I tell her.
Her arm brushes mine, and I wonder if she wishes she could keep touching me like I wish I could keep touching her.
"You're welcome to come over and have dinner with us." She tries hard not to laugh, but it's no use because one pours out anyway. I imagine the horror that must be painted on my face.
"And put myself within five feet of Old Lady Bell? Never."
"How about I bring you some frog legs afterward, and you show me that cabin of yours?"
The fact that Willow just invited herself over doesn't escape me. She must know what she's boldly asking to walk into. She's already had a small dose of Charlotte, and she didn't like it then. She won't like it now, either, especially in Charlotte's domain.
"That sounds like a perfect plan."
We walk a faint path through bushes, across a spot where the ground begins to dry, and down a trail that has worn itself into the earth. Pebbles stick into the soles of our boots. The water sits so still that you'd think it was green ground. Willow and I know the difference, though. Throw a rock at it and the flat surface shatters, only to re-stitch itself again in seconds.
"There!" Willow dives at a frog, catching it with her bare hands.
She startles the frog next to it into hopping at me. I pin it down with my boot, and Willow throws it in the sack, too.
"More come out at night," she says.
But there's no way I'm walking through the swamp at night. Even Willow won't risk it.
An eerie wind creeps around the trees, howling. The branches groan and bend like creaking bones. The sky overhead darkens, and Willow smiles. Sometimes I wonder if the girl has any fear at all, but then I remember the night we saw the man in the woods, and I know for sure that she does, rare as it may be.
"We've got another hour, at most, before the swamp floods," I warn her.
I kind of like that she's smiling, as though I'm issuing her a challenge, when most people would have called it quits right then and there.
She moves through the forest ahead of the storm, catching frogs and demanding that I do the same. The waters sweep out into what looks like a lake. Over it, where the trees are sparse, I can see the gale clearly. We're running out of time. Blackness bites at the sky.
We push it until the last minute. Until we get twenty-three frogs. Until the wind whips Willow's hair around her head in a crazed frenzy and we're running for the property dividing line. Rain pelts us, warning us to get inside.
"Meet me here tonight," she says.
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. "See you then."
Excitement punctures my every thought, and my heartbeat matches the patter of the now falling rain.
…
The rain never lets up. Willow meets me as promised with a bowl in one hand and an umbrella in the other. For a moment we stand under an anemic silver moon, watching lightning tear open the sky.
"Come on, then," I tell her, leading the way.
Tonight is quiet and cool in the swamp, save the rain that drains all noise. No stars can be seen. It's as though they've fallen from the sky.
Our raincoats and exposed skin are completely soaked by the time we make it to my front porch, but neither of us mind. Willow's hair is plastered to her face, and her eyes are wide as I open the cabin door.
"Wow," she whispers.
I stand stock-still as she takes in everything. The living room and kitchen, the den and fireplace. A hallway splits off to the side, where three rooms and a bathroom can be found.
She walks into the entryway and takes off her boots and socks. Her bare feet leave wet footprints on the wooden floor.
"Willow," I say in her ear. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Do you have tea?" she asks.
"I do." I take her raincoat from her and hang it on the rack.
Her purple dress, only slightly wet, hugs her in all the right places. I cannot tear my attention away. I feel my body's reaction to her bubbling to the surface, and I have to forcibly shove it down, to look somewhere else, anywhere else, besides her hypnotic eyes, her unbelievably intoxicating dress.
She goes straight to the den as I remove my coat and shoes.
"Make yourself comfortable," I say.
I go to the kitchen to make hot tea, and I watch Willow through the open doorway the entire time. Which is maybe why, with my eyes on her, I don't see Charlotte in the shadows.
"Well, well, well," she whispers.
I turn to find my sister leaning against the counter, watching me. I set down the bowl I took from Willow. I suspect it's frog legs.
Charlotte grins slyly. "You finally invited her over."
I grab tea from the shelf and heat a pot of water on the stove.
"She even has you doing her bidding in here," she says.
I sigh. "It's tea, Charlotte. Give it a rest. Besides, what happened to helping me? Willow's finally here. Don't be mean about it."
"I meant I'd help you get over her."
"I don't want to get over her. And I think Willow might be around more in the future, so don't mess this up for me."
My sister steps out of the shadows, and I catch sight of her vindictive smile.
"Well, by all means, I should say hello, then, shouldn't I?" she asks.
I step toward her as the water begins to boil and pop on the stovetop.
"If you go anywhere near her tonight, I will kill you," I warn.
It's an empty threat, and she knows it.
She laughs and walks to the stove to drop the tea bags in herself. "That's not very nice of you."
"What's your problem with her anyway?" I ask.
"Maybe," she says, losing the grin, "my problem is with you, not her."
I brush her aside to steep the bags several times, and then take them out and add sugar. Charlotte sets two mugs in front of me.
"You're fixated on her. You're reminding me too much of Mom." And with an air of finality, she stalks out of the room.
I remind myself to think of Willow. Only Willow. Not my parents and the agony of their memory.
I wait for the click of Charlotte's bedroom door before joining Willow.
Instinct tells me that my sister will leave us be for the night. But just in case, I shut the door to the den, blocking out Charlotte and Grandpa.
A barricade for Willow and me.
21
Willow
To call the room a den is an understatement. Or maybe it's the large fireplace against the wall, making it look bigger. Two chairs sit by the empty hearth, waiting for Beau and me to fill them. I go to the next wall and examine the books, running my fingers along each built-in shelf.
"What a beautiful room," I say.
One wall is occupied by a large bay window with a seat. Rain coats the pane like a wash of tears.
"It's my favorite," he replies.
He hands me a cup of tea.
"I put sugar in it."
Like he knows I'd want sugar. Well, he's right. I take a warming sip.
"It needs more next time," I say, stubborn, even though it has enough sugar. I don't want him thinking he knows me inside and out.