Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, conjuring the one place on earth that had always brought peace to my soul. I was a child again, the air tinged with the scent of orange blossoms. I lifted my face to feel the kiss of dry heat upon my skin and listened for the ringing echo of my mother’s laugh.
“Tuck.” Her voice. Emily. Not who she’d later come to be, the woman she was now, but the girl she once was. The one I’d loved. “Tuck.” That whisper again, my name floating over her shoulder as she ran through the groves of my memory, dirty knees and tangled hair, her quickened breath interrupted by bursts of giggles, spirit as radiant as the California sunshine. Another dip, another swerve, my memories dissolving in the surge of adrenaline shooting through my veins. My eyes shot open, and I leaned forward, watching helplessly out the window as we descended straight into hell.
one
Tuck
Eleven Years Ago
I hopped the split rail fence, jogging along the creek bed, bending quickly to cup my hands and bring a drink of fresh, clear water to my mouth. A lizard scooted from under a rock, both of us startling each other before he darted away. Upright again, I ran the path I’d used a thousand times, toward the old stable on the east end of our property. The sun was just beginning its descent, purple streaks bleeding slowly across the horizon. Behind me I heard the shouts and laughter of my friends—the children of the farmhands and a couple neighbor kids—goofing off among the citrus groves. Normally I’d be hanging out with them, especially on a summer night like tonight, but more and more recently, I’d craved the quiet of my own thoughts, the time to focus on my dreams.
I was only fourteen, but my grandfather had come from Mexico and settled in California when he was just about my age, and even then, began to map out and work toward his future, the results of which spread out all around me, from the logo emblazoned on the front gate, to the far pasture where our horses roamed. Honey Hill Farm.
The old stable, no longer in use anymore, except for storage—and a secret space I’d claimed as my own—came into view and I raced toward it. A slight breeze rustled the leaves surrounding the structure, and I pulled the side door open just enough to squeeze through into the dim interior. It smelled like motor oil, dirt, and old wood, and though the mingling scents couldn’t necessarily be described as pleasant, they comforted me in some odd way. They spoke of peace, of found solitude, of safety even. This was my hideaway, a place of secret thoughts and dreams that felt as never-ending as the sky, and as bright and sweet as those oranges dripping like jewels from the trees.
There was something different—though temporary—occupying the space, however, and I thinned my lips as my gaze caught on the shiny convertible decked out in American flags and “Phil Swanson for City Council” campaign signs. The restored 1957 Ford Thunderbird was undeniably cool, the pride and joy of the owner of the orange grove neighboring ours, but I’d be glad when Mr. Swanson had backed it out of here, and this all-but-forgotten space once again belonged to me and me alone. That would be this weekend, right before the annual Labor Day parade, where Mr. Swanson planned to drive the car for his campaign. It was only being stored here because he’d washed and waxed it and didn’t have a space to house it as his own garage was undergoing some sort of expansion.
I looked away from the shiny red interloper and headed for the ladder that took me to the loft area. As my head cleared the high-up floor, my eyes widened, shock halting my movement, one leg raised to step to the next rung.
Emily Swanson.
Kneeling in front of the small, round window, next to my pile of books and among the other things I’d brought here, a hardcover open in her hands as she read.
No. Way.
Of all the people that I never wanted to find this spot or rifle through my things.
The burst of anger fueled my movement and I practically catapulted over the top of the ladder, coming to my feet, my head just grazing the ceiling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
Emily whirled around, fell to her butt, and dropped the book. “You scared me!”
“I scared you? You’re not supposed to be here. You’re…trespassing!”
She scrambled to her feet and then immediately put her hands on her slender hips, one golden brow arching. Despite my indignation, I couldn’t help noting how pretty she was. In fact, just the day before, I’d lain beneath that very window, my head propped on my backpack as I wondered what it’d be like to brush my lips against hers. The memory made heat flood my face like she might be able to read my mind, and my anger flamed hotter. It felt like she’d not only invaded my personal space, but somehow crept into my private thoughts as well. Thoughts about her that sort of embarrassed me, but mostly intrigued and excited me. When I was alone with them. For all my life, our parents had called us the worst of enemies and the best of friends, which I supposed was true. But now…something else was floating around the perimeter of our friendship, something I’d only begun to explore haltingly, secretly. Alone.