Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel Page 4

  The skinned knees and bloodied elbows of my psyche are the only stains on the unbearable lushness of this immaculate afternoon. The faded red-and-black flannel of my thrift store shirt mars the fresh purity of the sweet grass that swallows me up, absorbing the ugliness of my revelation without so much as a hiccup of complaint as I sink down next to Kaillen.

  No one without a helicopter could find us here beneath this sea of ripening hay.

  Kaillen extends his hand. I give him mine. His thumb caresses my palm, and I’m mesmerized by the contrast of my small pale hand in his large Latin-bronze grasp. He gently tucks my head beneath his chin and wraps his other arm around my shoulder, bringing me gently closer, placing the softest kiss on my forehead. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The warmth of his body next to me in the thin-stalked shadows of our shallow shelter tells me all I need to know.

  He believes me. He doesn’t blame me. I am safe here.

  Minutes pass. I cling to each one, stretching them like taffy between my fingers, too lovely to taste.

  Distant, the screen door creaks open, then quickly slams shut.

  “Kaillen?” Aunt Meg’s strident voice easily reaches us beneath the bobbing pasture, but Kaillen doesn’t budge.

  “She sounds upset,” I say. “It’s okay if you go.”

  “She always sounds that way,” Kaillen says into my hair. “I’m not leaving you.”

  I squeeze him tight around his chest, cocooned in the stronger-than-chemistry connection binding us, already regretting the moment this moment ends.

  “I’m holding you,” Kaillen says softly, “trying to imagine how terrifying it must have been for you to walk into that room knowing you were going to say the things you said. I’m trying to imagine what it might feel like for you now, after you’ve said those things, but I can’t. I can’t decide… Would it be a relief to share those horrors after carrying them around inside alone for so long? Or would it make it worse, trying to explain a lifetime of torture in ten minutes to people you’re not even sure you can trust? I don’t have any right to ask you what you’re experiencing, Emily, but if you ever want to tell me, I’m here to listen.”

  The screen door creaks open and shuts again.

  “His car is still in the garage,” Uncle Jack’s voice rushes across the field. “They must be out on a walk.”

  “Kaillen,” Meg calls, louder this time. “Emily?”

  “Things have been messed up for you for a very long time, Emily. I had no idea.” Kaillen props himself up on one elbow, cushioning my head so it doesn’t fall. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to get even more messed up, at least for a little while. But I want you to know, I’ve got your back.”

  A crease of tension tightens between his eyebrows, and his jaw flexes with unspoken anger. At Dad? I want to smooth away his concern with my index finger, explore the dense shadow of stubble roughing the skin below his cheekbone and around his lips. I swear it wasn’t there the last time I looked at him.

  “I don’t want to make things harder for you, Emily, or put any pressure on you. At all. I just…Well, I haven’t always shown how much I care about you. The last thing you need is some guy coming on to you right now, and that’s not what I’m doing, but if you ever…”

  “That’s not the last thing I need,” I murmur, memorizing the oval thumbprint birthmark just below his jawline while dizzy tingles spark in my middle. Is this even real? Is Kaillen saying he likes me, likes me?

  Out on the farm road, an approaching wail of sirens signals that somewhere in this quiet community, someone’s day has taken a tragic turn. I send a silent prayer for them from the protected security of Kaillen’s arms. The dreaded anticipation of this day has eaten holes in my sanity for longer than I can remember. In all the scenarios I’ve envisioned in my head I never imagined this response from Kaillen, not in a million years. My insides are soft and pliable.

  The twirling cloud of fuchsia butterflies I conjured in the glade just ten days ago reappears, crammed in my chest, fluttering madly. I don’t know how much of that encounter with Kaillen in the glade was real, embellished, or completely invented. Aunt Nancy would say at the very least it was a glimpse inside my subconscious desires.

  Made brave by his words, I gather courage from the bold version of me from the glade—the girl who danced with butterflies—and gaze unblinking into the eyes of this very real boy who has his arms wrapped around me.

  “I’ve always had a crush on you,” I whisper.

  Kaillen squints at me, cocking his head to one side. “Will you repeat that, please?”

  Oh no. Was this all a trick? “Nothing,” I say, wishing desperately I were an earthworm so I could burrow into the dirt and never come out again. “Never mind.”

  “No, Silly, you were whispering,” Kaillen laughs. “I didn’t hear you. Please tell me what you said?”

  “It’s nothing,” I squirm. I’d rather die than repeat myself.

  “Please?”

  “Ugh. I just said that I might have always had a crush on you…or something, that’s all. No big deal.”

  “Yes!” Kaillen throws his head back and crows quietly. “I knew it!” He grabs my wrist before my close-quarters punch can land on his chest, kissing my balled up fist. “That’s not nothing. Who would have thought? Prim Princess Emily has a crush on her great uncle’s south-of-the-border hired hand!”

  “Hmph! I’m not prim. Or perfect. And I’m certainly not a princess.”

  “Well, that’s what we all called you growing up,” he grins.

  “And you’re hardly the hired hand. You’re a fancy viticulturist, remember?” I say, brutally mispronouncing viticulturist in an outrageous French accent. “We all called you the ‘Prize Winning Pig on Uncle Ian’s Farm.’” With my index finger I push up the end of his nose. “Oink.”

  He snorts, and my giggles ripple through the meadow around us.

  “Shhhh,” Kaillen fake scolds. “They’ll find us.”

  “Can you imagine?” My eyes go wide at a vision of Meg looming over us, hands on hips…

  “What about Gabe?” Kaillen’s serious question yanks me abruptly back to reality.

  “What about him?”

  “Aren’t you his girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “He certainly seems to think you are.”

  I shrug, uncomfortable. I used to feel a connection to Gabe, too, and now I’m confused as hell about him. “We’ve never talked about it,” I confess. “We’ve never even been on a date or anything. Honestly, everything happened so fast. One day I met him at the Rec Center pool, and before I knew it he was driving to the Vineyard with Nancy, telling me I belong to him.”

  “He said that to you?”

  I nod. “We barely know each other.” It’s true. We met a month ago. But I’ve literally known Kaillen my whole life.

  “That’s kind of messed up,” Kaillen says. “I mean, I guess he’s handsome. In a surfer/cowboy kind of way.”

  “Oh. Would you like to date him?” I ask. “I can give you his number.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that.” He smiles, leaning in close and resting his forehead against mine. “I would, however, like to date you.”

  Slow fire fans delicious warmth through my whole body.

  “You would?”

  “Definitely yes.”

  “Aunt Meg will flip.”

  As if summoned by an incantation, Meg’s stern face appears, blocking the setting sun and casting a chill over our hiding spot.

  “Get up, both of you,” she commands, frantic and holding back tears. “Your Uncle Ian’s had some kind of attack. He’s unconscious. Hurry, the ambulance is already here.”

  Chapter Six

  Elbow-deep in suds, I scrub up after breakfast because on top of all the other catastrophes, the dishwasher exploded yesterday. No one asked me to cook or do the washing up but if I don’t do it, it probably won’t get done. Everyone’s preoccupied and honestly, right now I’m grateful for anythin
g that will keep my hands busy and my brain distracted.

  The problem is, this isn’t a job that requires much focus, especially now that my uncles and aunts have finished their scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, and taken their low-murmured conversation elsewhere.

  I wasn’t eavesdropping, necessarily. Okay, fine. I was. But in my defense, they’re tiptoeing around like I’m a fragile china doll…one that might be haunted by the ghost of a dead little girl. Sometimes I glance up to catch one of them just before they blink and turn away. There’s pity in their eyes, but also apprehension. And am I imagining a little distaste? I unnerve them, and they’ve got too much on their minds to worry about what to say to me about my revelation.

  I don’t know what to say about it, either. We’re doing this thing where we all politely ignore each other. Fine by me.

  But I know we can’t evade the subject forever. Approach-avoidance conflict swats my nerves around like an especially long tennis volley: one minute I’m dying to know how they’re going to deal with the whole Dad-moving-us-back-to-Dallas situation, and the next minute I have this mad hope they’ll spare me the details and he’ll just permanently disappear.

  I wish I could make him disappear.

  It was a stroke, the doctors think. Uncle Ian is now in a medically-induced coma, a machine breathing for him. It’s only been two days but I already miss his loud laugh and ‘Come ‘ere, Doll’ bear hugs, and worry whether he’ll ever return. The grown-ups have been coming and going from the hospital in shifts, the creased bags under their eyes growing deeper and more purple by the hour.

  Kaillen spent both nights at the hospital, taking over so Meg can sleep. Today he’s been working non-stop with the foreman and his crew to bring in the harvest. I don’t think he’s had any sleep at all. He was out in the vineyard well before I took it upon myself to cook breakfast. I’ve barely seen him since he took off in the ambulance.

  I miss him, too.

  Aidan and Claire have been doing an exceptional job at maintaining a low profile. They’re both still in bed. My guess is they’re avoiding obligatory trips to the hospital, as well as chores. I don’t blame them.

  In the last month they’ve made more trips to hospitals than anyone should have to make their whole lives.

  Of course, at the top of the list of people I miss is Jacob.

  Stupid list.

  Thick tension that’s been accumulating for days billows down around me from the exposed ceiling rafters, creeping into my lungs. I swallow clouds of gloom, afraid I’ve completely failed at protecting my brothers and sister. I need fresh air.

  The latch on the small window above the sink is stuck. Oh please, open! I’m a fish floundering out of water, I swear I’ll suffocate if I have to breathe the contagious despair congesting this house one second longer.

  With a stubborn squeal the latch finally turns. Thank all the little gods. I slide the glass open as wide as it will go.

  Fresh air whisks in, displacing stale brume with the zesty lemon-pine of rosemary from Aunt Meg’s planter-box herb garden on the front porch.

  And holy wow. The glass in this window must have triple reinforced soundproofing because in flow the songs of a fleet of birds participating in what I can only assume is the annual Sing Your Heart Out warbling contest.

  Good grief. How big are bird lungs, anyway?

  In less than thirty seconds I’ve chosen the contest winner—not that anybody asked my opinion—but in terms of volume, originality, and sheer enthusiasm, there’s clearly one bird who surpasses the rest, and he’s perched somewhere in the oak tree tweeting that I’m ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty!’

  It’s weird that I’m suddenly into this absurdly happy birdsong now. Truth be told, there have been several nights I’ve fallen asleep with the window open in the guestroom I share with Claire so I can drift off to the distant breeze rustling through the redwoods, only to be woken at some ungodly pre-dawn hour by the bird brigade. Those mornings I’ve conceptualized building a precision flip-flop launcher that will strike fear into their beady bird hearts. But right now their exuberant rhapsody has me grinning ear to ear. It’s exactly the distraction I need.

  ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty!’

  “Oh, STAHP,” I wave a soapy hand at the window screen. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  The oak leaves rustle as my avian admirer flits from branch to branch, but no matter how hard I squint, I can’t see so much as a tail feather, only the leaves quivering in his wake.

  Rinsing the last skillet and setting it to dry in the rack, I empty the sink, wipe my hands on the dishtowel, and step outside into the morning, escaping the oppressive air in the house. When I go back in—if I go back in—I’m opening all the windows and turning on the fans. Breathing everybody’s recycled stress and anxiety can’t be healthy…especially when I already have so much of my own.

  As soon as I step onto the front porch, the volume drops considerably. Tiptoeing until I’m directly beneath the oak tree I freeze, gazing up into the branches. The bird has gone silent, but if I hold perfectly still, maybe my covert suitor will reveal himself.

  A twig snaps behind me. I startle, but keep my eyes fixed on the tree. Above me, a small branch sways, rebounding as my new friend takes flight.

  Darn. I imagine texting Sophie: Well, I was tweeting this pretty fly guy, but something spooked him… Lol. I crack myself up.

  I turn around, still amused at my own hilarity.

  “I need to speak with you, Dear. Privately.”

  My belly squeezes tight with anticipation. “Okay,” I nod.

  It makes sense my relatives would send Nancy to tell me how they’re going to deal with Dad. She’s a professional, for one thing, but beyond that they know we have a special bond. I take a deep breath, but it’s hard to let it go: because she’s about to reveal our fate.

  Chapter Seven

  “Why don’t we talk in the den where we have some privacy,” Nancy says. I’m searching her voice for clues, but her tone is neutral.

  I nod again, following her while my brain sorts and collates thoughts faster than a high-speed printer: Should I go wake up Aidan and Claire? Nancy might want to tell us all at once what’s been decided. I haven’t said anything to them about any of it, and I hope to God I don’t have to. Maybe they won’t ever have to know the backstory, or that this has anything to do with me. Maybe Nancy will just tell them we won’t be seeing Dad anymore. Or she can just say he violated his probation and is back in the slammer.

  She shuts the door to the den behind us, gesturing to one of the wingback chairs while she sits in the other. My brain spins wildly as she silently studies her hands anchored in her lap.

  Maybe she just wants to talk to me first to let me know what’s going on before she tells Aidan and Claire. Maybe she’ll ask me what I prefer—if I want to be in the room or not. I’m fine with that so long as I don’t have to be the one to tell them. I realize I’ve been projecting my own feelings onto the situation, assuming that Aidan and Claire will be happy at the announcement that Dad isn’t going to be part of our lives, but what if I’m wrong? They don’t know the things I know. And Dad’s been parading around like Family Man of the Year. What if they’ve been bewitched by him, too, like Mom? What if they think I’m trying to sabotage our chances at being a happy family, like Jacob? I wonder if Dad will have the guts to tell Jacob himself or if he’ll make Nancy do it when they get back…

  “Emily.” Nancy interrupts my thoughts, and I finally sit and meet her gaze. Sorrow deepens the lines on her narrow face. The crows’ feet around her eyes that are usually crinkled in good-natured amusement are now dragged down with exhaustion. Creases pinch her mouth small with worry. Whatever Nancy is about to say, she doesn’t want to say it.

  I press back into the deepest corner of the chair.

  If Nancy doesn’t want to say it, I definitely don’t want to hear it.

  “Your aunts and uncles have asked me to speak with you,” she begins. �
��Your father and Gabe and Jacob will be back within the week, and then you’ll be driving back to Dallas. I don’t think the exact details of when you’ll leave have been established yet, but because of your Uncle Ian’s condition, I’m afraid that most of the responsibility of preparing Aidan and Claire will fall to you. Of course, I’ll be here to help with the packing…”

  “Nancy?” Her name tastes like bitter betrayal in my mouth.

  She deflates like what she’s said was all she had in her.

  “That’s it?” I demand. “They’re just going to do nothing and let him take us? Didn’t they hear a word I said?”

  “They heard you, Emily. But they also heard your father. Your Uncle Marcus and your Uncle Jack called him. He denied everything. He told your uncles—“

  But I’m not listening anymore. My head is blank, my heart empty. My hands tingle with the dark promise of pain they can carve into me. I scrape my nails across the shiny ridges of the puckered brands on my arm, wanting to hurt. But even this is futile. There’s no sensation in my body whatsoever.

  It was always going to be my word against his. It was always a gamble, a choice between his word and mine. And they chose his.

  Maybe I’m not really here right now. Maybe this is a nightmare.

  Or maybe it’s one of those crazy Greek-god type situations where all the immortally bored higher-ups on Mt. Olympus are hovering around a tiny replica of the Vineyard, peering down to watch me fight my way past another monster.

  ‘Ha ha ha!’ The gods’ bellicose laughter ricochets back and forth like a pinball off rubber bumpers in my out-of-order brain. ‘How amusing. She mustered her strength, conquering the crippling trauma of her childhood. She even found the courage to face her greatest fears and reveal her deepest shame. Hurrah!’ They rub their eternal hands together with glee. ‘Any bets on how she’ll respond when she discovers her trials are just beginning?’