Текст книги "My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories"

Автор книги: Stephanie Perkins

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“She’s leaving?”

“Not leaving. Already gone.”

Ben follows me back into the kitchen. I dip my finger into the bowl of white chocolate and lick it. “You were wrong. You are magic. But people don’t need to remember how it felt to be happy and safe in the past. They need to have hope that they can get there again in the future. And sometimes the only thing to make that happen is, say, enough money to get away.”

His thick eyebrows lift. “You gave her your savings.”

“Turns out I didn’t need to leave so soon, after all.”

His whole face—eyes, mouth, eyebrows, even his crooked nose—is one big smile as he says, “You’re not leaving?”

“Not until this fall when I go to college. I guess I like Christmas, after all. Lately it’s been feeling extra … magical.”

He leans forward, and I tip my head up—waiting, waiting—when we’re interrupted by Santa. Ho freaking ho.

I might be okay with Christmas, but Santa is still the worst.

*   *   *

The rest of the day flies by, with a bunch of road warriors and even more locals than normal. They all want to double check Ben’s posted Christmas dinner menu, as though there’s any doubt they’ll be here. It used to be the most depressing day of the year to work, but tomorrow promises to be a party. My mom and Rick will be off in time to come to dinner. My mom is even making the tamales.

Ben and I don’t have a chance to talk again. He’s extra busy with today’s orders, plus prep for tomorrow. But his eyes follow me everywhere, and we keep sharing smiles that feel like secrets. By the time the last customer leaves, we’re both slaphappy and exhausted. “I have so much more work to do.” He rubs his face, leaving a streak of flour on his cheek. I lean into him and wipe it away with my thumb.

He tips his head down, closer.

I put my fingers on his lips, squashing the moment. And his very soft lips. “I’ve got some work to do, too.” I laugh as I dart away. I finish my cleaning in record time, and then sneak out the front door. The logistics of what I’m planning next will be tricky. The likelihood of second-degree burns is high.

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes later—and with only one minor scalding—I knock on the back door to the diner. Ben opens it, a rolling pin clutched over his head.

He lowers it sheepishly. “Thought maybe you were Candy’s boyfriend.”

“Ha! No. Follow me.”

“Where are we—”

“Just follow me!” I climb up. When I’m safely on the roof, the ladder squeaks its metal protests against Ben’s weight. Then his head—his adorable goofy smile of a face—pokes up over the edge. I hold out a hand and help him up.

I don’t let go of it as we walk to the edge of the roof and stare down at Christmas. The beauty I always had to look up to the sky to see has transported itself down to this ramshackle town. As we watch, Angel and a few other guys from the mine finish setting up a huge Christmas tree in the middle of the gas-station parking lot. It gleams and twinkles in the night. Lorna comes out of the station and screams about trespassing—before breaking into peals of shockingly sweet laughter and handing out free beers. More people join them, and from up here, it doesn’t look like a throwaway freeway exit. It looks like a warm, happy community. It looks like, well, Christmas.

I tug Ben away from the edge and over to a cardboard box that I’ve set up in front of the lawn chairs. The box is covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. On top of it are two mugs, two candy canes, a kettle, and a canister of whipped cream.

We sit. Still holding hands. “Christmas Eve is my favorite,” I say. “I think the anticipation is more fun than anything else. I kind of lost that. The idea that something—food, traditions, an arbitrary date on the calendar—can be special because we decide it should be. Because we make it special. Not just for ourselves, but for others. I’ve had people around my whole life to make things special for me, even when I didn’t notice it. And you’ve been working so hard to make life special for everyone who walks into this ridiculous diner. So … who is making it special for you?”

He looks down. The bashful sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek makes my heart burst with something that is probably not the Christmas spirit, but which feels every bit as Joy-to-the-World.

“What food would you make for yourself?” I nudge him with my elbow as an excuse to snuggle closer. All of those practice nudges are finally paying off.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of happy memories to fall back on.”

“Well. I’m creating a happy moment for you. Tonight. Right now. Keep in mind I’m not magic.” I pour water into the mugs, already filled with hot cocoa mix.

He laughs as he unwraps his candy cane to stir with. I take the whipped cream and swirl it, towering, over the tops of both mugs.

“If I’m a gingerbread cookie, you’re a mug of hot cocoa. Makes you glad for cold nights like tonight. We can call this drink a ‘Hot Cocoa Benji.’”

“Not Benji.”

“Tell me!”

He smiles, licking cream from the corner of his mouth. “It’s a family name. There’s this famous story? About someone who was mean in his past, but then woke up to the horrors he was creating for himself. And he vows to go forward, being kind and doing good, and keeping Christmas in his heart year round…”

“Díos mío. Ben is short for the Grinch?”

“No! It’s Ebenezer. From the Dickens story? And … you knew what I was talking about all along, didn’t you?”

I laugh, and he joins me. “Sometimes you’re more spice than sugar,” he says.

“You’re a chef. You like spices. But I’ll stick with calling you Ben, if that’s okay. Otherwise you sound like an old man.”

“By all means. Also, this cocoa is the best I’ve ever had.”

“Liar.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to culinary school with me?”

I snort, raising my mug to toast him. “Totally sure. But maybe we can find a college and a culinary school close by each other.” I smile into my mug and take a deep drink to quell my nerves. “Because, you know, once a girl has had your gingerbread, how can she ever accept anything else?”

“Is that some sort of waitress pickup line?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

And then, as Christmas Eve turns into Christmas, anticipation becomes reality. We share a cocoa-and-whipped-cream kiss. It’s hopeful and happy and exciting. Exactly how kissing Ben should be, our mouths smiling together.

*   *   *

If you do a search for “US cities named Christmas” (which, fine, everyone needs hobbies), you won’t find my home. It’s not a city. It’s barely a freeway exit.

You won’t find Angel, grinning and bursting with pride, showing off his new paintings—the only non-Christmas-themed decorations hanging on the diner walls. You won’t find Lorna, organizing the Christmas book club and asking Ben’s opinion on what to serve for snacks. You won’t find Rick and my mom and me, sitting on the couch, watching the Bonanza DVDs dubbed in Spanish we got him for his birthday.

You won’t find Candy. Neither will Jerry, for that matter.

And you won’t find Ben and me, sitting on the roof, talking and laughing and planning in our warm, friendly, hopeful census-designated place.

But it doesn’t matter anymore if you can’t find my home.

I found it for myself.

As Christmas stories go, this one isn’t as sad as it could be.

I’m not Tiny Tim. There were no Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future. All told, it is a tale completely free of angels and elves, wise men and shepherds. Even Santa didn’t make an appearance.

Nope. As it turns out, I was visited by Hulda.

“Yes. Yes.” I heard her voice, high and clear, through the crowd of people who stood too close, wearing coats that were too heavy. Our collective breath clung to the windows, almost hiding the sight of the 747 that was waiting right outside. I shifted on my feet, wondering if there is any place on earth more chaotic than Chicago O’Hare Airport five days before Christmas.

Families ran for connections. Carols played over a scratchy PA system while people stood crowded together. Waiting. But for some reason I couldn’t stop staring at the blond girl leaning against the counter at gate H18.

“New York,” the girl said. “I will go there please. Now.”

Her voice carried an accent that I couldn’t quite place—the consonants too precise, like someone who is very worried she might not be understood.

She slid her ticket toward the gate agent then forced a smile, an afterthought. “Please.”

The agent took one glance at the piece of paper and forced a smile of her own. “Oh, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a ticket to New York.”

The blond girl rolled her eyes. “Yes. That is why I stand in this line and talk to you. You can change it to New York, no? It is okay. I will wait.”

The gate agent shook her head and punched a few keys on her computer. True to her word, the girl waited.

“No. I’m sorry,” the agent said a moment later. “Your ticket is nonexchangeable and nonrefundable. Do you understand?”

“I am Icelandic. I am not moronic.”

“Of course. Yes. It’s just that…” The agent trailed off, looking for words. “I’m afraid that this ticket cannot be used on this flight. And even if it could, this flight is full.”

“But I must go to New York! I thought I could fly to where this ticket takes me and then take a bus or a train to New York, but it is very far. In Iceland, the distances … they are not so far. And now I am going to a place I do not want to go, to see someone I do not wish to see, and—”

“I’m sorry.” The gate agent shook her head. “You can purchase a ticket for New York. We have another flight leaving at six a.m. tomorrow. If you wish to go to New York you must buy a ticket for that flight.”

“But I have a ticket!” the girl snapped and pushed her old ticket forward again.

Meanwhile, another gate agent was approaching the door, propping it open as she announced, “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to flight 479 with nonstop service to New York’s LaGuardia Airport.”

The lady behind the counter gave a desperate look to the even more desperate girl. “You will either need to buy a ticket for a later flight or go to your original destination.”

“But my boyfriend is in New York! And if you would only change my ticket—”

“This flight is full.”

“But I do not love him!”

The woman looked confused. “Your boyfriend in New York?”

“No.” The girl shook her head and shrugged. “My other boyfriend.”

“Oh,” the woman said, her mouth forming a perfect circle. Then she leaned closer. A kindness filled her eyes. “Are your parents here?”

The girl shook her head. “I am alone.”

And right then I totally knew the feeling.

I watched the girl push away from the desk and start through the crowd of people that swarmed, jockeying for position as the gate agent announced, “We would like to welcome our first-class passengers at this time.”

En masse, the crowd took another step forward, jostling the girl, who dropped her bag and wiped her eyes. Her footsteps faltered.

And that was when I did it.

I don’t know why I did it. It wasn’t even a conscious thought, a decision. Instinct alone was driving me as I stepped forward and blurted, “You want to go to New York?”

The girl looked at me, confused, but before she could even answer, I thrust my own ticket toward her and said, “Here. Take it. You can have it if you give me yours.”

“But that is your ticket.”

“You can have it. We can trade. Here.” I waved my ticket, but the girl glanced nervously at the gate agent standing by the door.

“It’s okay. They don’t check IDs during the boarding process,” I told her. “If you want to go to New York, this is your chance. Just give me your ticket. Give me your ticket and go.”

I could practically see what she was thinking. I was a teenage girl, too. We were about the same height, the same weight. To anyone in that heavily secured airport we might have even looked like sisters. It’s not like I was a creepy dude asking her to get into my van, but the offer probably sounded too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.

She hesitated, then snatched the ticket from my hand, held hers out to me.

“Go ahead.” I motioned toward the open door. “You’re boarding.”

She pointed to another open door a few gates away, another mass of crowding people. “So are you.”

It really was that easy, believe it or not. I started toward the open doors. For the first time in my life I did not look back, not until I heard the girl call, “You don’t even know where I was going.”

I shrugged and shook my head and said the only thing that mattered: “If you just want to go away then any ticket will get you there.”

*   *   *

“Miss?” the voice came through the blackness, and yet I did not move. “Miss!” The flight attendant seemed almost sorry. “It’s time. We’re here.”

That’s when I realized the plane was on the ground; all the other passengers were gone. The lights were down and the tarmac was dark. Wherever the girl was going, I was there.

Walking through the nearly deserted terminal, I made a list of what I had to do. I had enough cash for a hotel and a car, but they’d never rent one to a minor. Especially a minor traveling alone. I took the battery out of my phone, knowing I’d need to buy a burner. I would have to—

“Hulda!” someone yelled.

I looked at the crowd of people waiting just outside of security.

“Hulda!” the woman at the front of the crowd yelled again, a massive Welcome (to your new) Home, Hulda! banner unfurled in front of her. “We’re so glad you’re here!”

As she rushed forward, she must have crossed into a secure area because an alarm started sounding—both in my head and out of it.

This was dangerous.

This was wrong.

This woman was invading territory that was better left roped off. Secured. Barricaded and impenetrable to intruders. But the breach had already happened, and I let myself give in to the hug.

It was, after all, a really nice hug.

“Well, look at you!” The woman held me at arm’s length. “You changed your hair.”

I thought back to the short blond locks on the girl in the airport. The girl with the accent. The girl from Iceland. The girl these people were evidently waiting for.

I felt myself starting to panic, needing to run …

“You look so different from your picture,” the woman said, and I managed to breathe.

The girl these people had evidently only seen in pictures.

Maybe they wouldn’t get suspicious, call security. The police. Maybe I could just bide my time and slip away quietly and …

“Well, what am I doing hogging all the hugging? Ethan!” the woman yelled. She looked around, and I followed her gaze to the boy who was walking around the corner.

He wore Wranglers and boots and a plaid shirt heavy with starch. Until then, I’d thought boys like him only existed on the covers of romance novels. He must have been shocked by the looks of me, too, because he stopped short, frozen in the process of sliding a phone back into his pocket. Hulda’s words came back to me:

I don’t love him.

My other boyfriend.

“Ethan!” the woman yelled. “She’s here!”

I started to spin, but I was too late. He was already there. Looking at me. I could see the truth playing across his face, the realization that I was not an Icelandic girl name Hulda. I was not his girlfriend.

“It’s…” The boy started, and, mentally, I filled in the blanks.

An imposter!

A liar!

A fraud.

He moved closer.

“So good to see you!” the boy said.

And then he kissed me.

*   *   *

So it turns out that if you swap tickets with a girl who doesn’t want to go see her boyfriend, then there’s a good chance said boyfriend will meet you at the airport.

Along with his entire family.

“This is Aunt Mary,” the boy—Ethan—said, pointing to the woman with the really good hugs. “You’ll be staying with her,” he added before pointing to the others. “My mom, Susan. Dad, Clint.”

Clint took my hand in his big, beefy, calloused one, but he gave me a warm smile.

“Welcome.” His voice had a soft, southern twang. They all did.

“Oh, and that’s Emily. She’s my sister,” Ethan said as Emily looked up at me with the biggest bluest eyes that I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure she could see right through me.

“I’m twelve,” she said before I could ask. “I’m older than I look.”

We were walking toward the baggage claim, past a nativity scene where all of the wise men were dressed like cowboys, when the boy’s mom looked at me and asked, “So, is this your first trip to Oklahoma?”

Oklahoma.

Middle of the country. Middle of nowhere. Approximately a thousand miles from New York, another thousand from LA. It was … perfect.

“First time,” I said.

There was a long pause while everyone waited for me to do something. I felt like an animal at the zoo, an exhibit called Icelandic Girl in the Wild. But I wasn’t an Icelandic girl. And I couldn’t let them know that.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” I tried.

“My goodness,” Aunt Mary started, “Ethan said your English was good, but it’s perfect. Just perfect.”

“I watch a lot of American TV,” I said, and they all nodded as if that made sense.

“Okay, let’s get your bags.” Clint clapped his hands together.

“Oh, I don’t—” But before I could finish, a huge suitcase came around the conveyor belt, a giant sticker of the Icelandic flag plastered to the side. “I guess that’s mine.”

Clint went to grab the old-fashioned suitcase, lifting the giant thing as if it weighed nothing at all. I had to wonder how long Hulda was expected to stay.

But that didn’t matter. I wasn’t Hulda.

*   *   *

“So … Hulda?” Ethan asked, and it took an embarrassingly long time to realize he was talking to me.

“Yes, Evan?” I asked.

“Ethan,” he whispered. “My name is Ethan. You might want to remember that since you just flew halfway around the world because you are so in love with me.” I studied his profile in the dim light of the backseat of his parents’ SUV as it pulled away from the airport. His jaw was strong, and he kept his gaze straight ahead, as if trying to stare down the horizon. “You’re never going to get away with this, you know? Pretending to be Hulda.”

“Hulda is fine,” I told him. “I didn’t gag her and shove her in a closet if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, I know. She called to tell me that she didn’t get on the plane. She asked me to look out for you, and that is the only reason I’m going along with this crazy stunt. Hulda is a good person. You did her a favor, so I’m doing you a favor because…” He trailed off, then looked at me anew. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No.”

“Because if you are … if there’s something about you that brings trouble to my family—”

“I’m not in any trouble.”

“Because girls always trade plane tickets with strangers in airports. They’re always flying off to meet some stranger’s boyfriend.”

“That’s funny. According to the people in this car, you’re Hulda’s boyfriend. But Hulda didn’t think so.”

“What’s your point?”

“We all have secrets.”

He turned and stared straight ahead again. “I went on a foreign-exchange trip to Iceland last summer.”

“And…”

The corners of Ethan’s mouth turned up in something not quite resembling a smile. “What happens in Iceland stays in Iceland.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He glanced back at me. “So, what’s in it for you?”

“I didn’t want to go to New York.”

“What’s in New York?”

Aunt Mary was leaning between the front seats, talking to Ethan’s mother and father. Emily was wearing headphones—I could hear faint traces of music as she closed her eyes, fading in and out of sleep. Ethan and I were alone in the last row, but the SUV was too quiet. Someone might overhear. Get suspicious. Find out.

I swore right then that no one would ever find out.

“I needed to get away, okay? I saw my chance, and I took it. I’ll be out of your hair, and you can start mending your broken heart or whatever just as soon as we stop. I will disappear, and you will never have to see me again.”

I expected him to protest, to complain that I was putting him in an impossible position. I didn’t expect him to actually say, “You can’t just run away.”

But I was not in the mood to hear what I couldn’t do. The list had been too extensive for too long.

You can’t eat that.

You can’t go there.

You can’t be this.

Ethan didn’t know that I was in that SUV-bound-to-nowhere because I had solemnly sworn to never let anyone tell me what I could or could not do ever again, so I leaned closer. “Watch me.”

But he only laughed. “No. You don’t understand. I know my father, and there is no way this vehicle stops until we get home.”

“So I’ll split as soon as we get there.”

But that must have been hilarious, because Ethan just laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, but he sank lower in his seat, closed his eyes and whispered, “You’ll see, Not Hulda. You will soon see.”

*   *   *

In case you were wondering, by “soon” Ethan meant four hours later.

That’s how long I sat squeezed into the backseat, listening to Hulda’s fake boyfriend snore. He kept his cap pulled low over his eyes, so I sat alone in the dark vehicle, staring out over the lights of the towns in the distance and the red glow of the taillights of the trucks that passed us by.

When Clint finally pulled off the interstate and onto a small highway I thought we must be almost there, but it was another hour before we turned onto a narrow gravel road that wound and curved through the darkness. The lights of the city were long gone. There were only stars. Millions of stars. Honestly, it was like we were the only people on earth when Clint stopped beside a small white house with a wraparound porch and said, “We’re here.”

“This is your house?” I asked Ethan as we crawled out of the backseat.

“No.” Ethan yawned, and I realized it must be after midnight. “Aunt Mary lives here. We’re next door.”

I turned to look, but saw only dark hills beneath that blanket of stars—a moon so large that it felt like I could touch it.

“With next door being…”

“About a half mile on the other side of that ridge.” Ethan pointed to the darkness.

A cold wind blew my hair into my face, jolting me awake. I watched as Clint carried Hulda’s huge suitcase up the stairs and through a door that opened without a key. That’s when I realized I was literally in a place where people didn’t lock their doors at night and the distance to the nearest neighbor was measured in miles.

If all I wanted was to go away then I’d done it. But Aunt Mary was beaming at me. Ethan’s parents were giving me hugs and wishing me good night. And Ethan kept looking at me as if he expected me to bolt off into the darkness at any moment.

I had to congratulate myself on finding the perfect place to hide.

It was a shame I couldn’t stay.

*   *   *

“You got everything you need, sweetie?”

Aunt Mary knocked on the bedroom door and it swung open. If she thought it was weird that I was still sitting on the bed with my backpack on my lap, she didn’t say so.

“Do you need some help unpacking?” She pointed to Hulda’s huge suitcase, but I shook my head.

“No, thank you.”

“That’s okay.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve got five months to settle in.”

Five months. A whole semester. I tried to imagine living in a tiny white farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for almost half a year. I had one bar on my cell phone (I’d checked before removing the battery again), and there was no cable TV. Could a person even live like this? Then I thought about the unlocked door, the big Christmas tree, and the handmade stocking already hanging on the mantel, the name Hulda sewn on in green sequins. And I knew that, for some people, the answer was absolutely yes.

“Your house is nice,” I told her.

“It’s old. Like me.” Aunt Mary laughed. “And it’s empty now that my husband and little girl aren’t here. But it’s mine. I was born here, you know.” She glanced at the old building as if expecting it to finish her story. “This was my room when I was your age. And then it was my daughter’s room. And now it’s yours.” She gave me a wide smile. “We’re glad you’re here, Hulda.”

“I’m very glad to be here,” I said because it was the first lie that came to mind.

For a second, though, I thought it must not have been the right lie, because Aunt Mary looked as if she knew there was something wrong with Hulda. Wrong with me.

Then she shook her head. “I just can’t get over how good your English is.”

“Thank you,” I said, and remembered what Ethan had told me on the drive. “Ethan helped me with it when he was in Iceland last summer.”

“Of course. He’s a good boy,” Aunt Mary said, but then something in the woman’s countenance grew serious. She studied me anew. “I would hate for him to get hurt.”

I looked into her big brown eyes. “I would hate that, too.”

And at that moment I meant it.

I swear, I really did.

*   *   *

“She’s so quiet.” I could make out the words, but I couldn’t place the voice. Or the room. Or the house. Or the overwhelming stillness that seemed to permeate everything around me. There were no honking horns, no dinging elevators or room-service carts being pushed down anonymous, never-ending hallways. That was when I told myself that I was still sleeping, that it had to be a dream.

“It’s a long flight. She must have been exhausted,” someone else said, and I remembered: Aunt Mary. The little white farmhouse with the big Christmas tree.

Ethan. Iceland. Hulda.

I threw off the covers and bolted upright in bed. The sun was too bright, burning through the white lace curtains that covered the windows. It felt like a spotlight, and I knew I had to get away—to get out of there before someone looked too closely, asked too many questions. By now, it would be obvious that I hadn’t shown up in New York, and people would be looking for me. If they found Hulda, they could find Ethan. And if they found Ethan, they’d find me.

“Hulda!” Aunt Mary called from the door. “Good. You’re awake. Come on downstairs, hon. Everyone’s waiting.”

“Okay … I … Everyone?”

Turns out I just thought I’d met all of Ethan’s family.

Clint and Mary had a younger sister who had a set of identical twin girls a year behind Emily in school. They stared at me in stereo. It felt like something from a horror movie as they tilted their heads in unison and asked, “Do we know you?”

“Nope. Sorry. One of those faces,” I said, and moved on through the crowd.

Clint’s older brother had three daughters, two of whom were already married, one of whom had a baby boy of her own. The names and faces all ran together. The kitchen was a blur of smiles and hugs and plates full of eggs and biscuits and gravy. So much gravy. I started to shake.

“Hulda, why don’t you tell us about your family?”

I heard the question, but I didn’t know who’d asked it.

“How was your flight, Hulda?” someone else asked.

“What do you like to do?”

“How do you like Oklahoma?”

“Have you ever been on a ranch?”

The questions swirled around me so fast that I was almost dizzy.

Aunt Mary’s hand was on my arm. “Honey, have you called home? Does your momma know you made it?”

“My mom is…” I started but couldn’t finish. “I … I need to go to the bathroom,” I blurted and ran for the tiny room and locked the door.

There was a narrow window, and before I even had time to think, I pushed open the glass and threw a leg over the edge. I was halfway down when I heard a deep voice say, “Good morning.”

The voice made me freeze. I dangled from the window. My feet didn’t touch the ground, but I didn’t have the upper body strength to pull myself back up again, so I just hung there, listening to Ethan laugh until I finally gave up and asked, “How far is it?”

Two hands gripped my waist.

“Drop,” Ethan said, and I did.

“Well, thank you.” I tried to sound as cool as possible as I pushed my hair out of my eyes. It had snowed overnight, and I shivered without a coat, but Ethan was in his boots and jeans, a heavy jacket, and very worn gloves.

He looked at me, eyes mocking. “Does your room not have a door? It wasn’t nice of Aunt Mary to put you in a room without a door.…”

“I…”

“You thought you’d run away this morning,” he said. “Better than running away last night at least, I’ll give you that. But if I know Aunt Mary, there’s gravy inside. A person should never run away from Aunt Mary’s gravy.”

I’m not allowed to eat gravy, I wanted to say, but instead I asked, “How far is it to the nearest town?”

“Define town?”

I glared at him. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to have English as a second language.”

“Bethlehem is three miles that way.” He pointed to the east.

“Bethlehem?” I practically rolled my eyes. “At Christmas. Perfect.”

“It’s not much of a town, though. Just a post office and a Baptist church. If you mean town with a grocery store and a school, you’ll have to go forty miles that way.” This time he pointed due north. “If you need a movie theater, Walmart, or hospital, well, then that is sixty miles that way.” This time he pointed to the south. “And, as you saw last night, the nearest airport is in Oklahoma City, which is literally hours away, so tell me, Not Hulda, what kind of town exactly are you needing?”

I walked away from him, toward the fence. Sunlight bounced off the smooth white hills, and I squinted against the glare. I needed a cab. A hotel. A different life.

I would have given anything for a different life.

“Real Hulda texted me, by the way,” Ethan yelled after me. “She made it to New York.”

I spun on him. “Did she…” I trailed off as I realized I couldn’t exactly ask Did she see anyone waiting for me? Did they find her? Do they know where I am? So I didn’t say anything at all.

But something shifted in Ethan’s eyes. Like the wind, he was growing colder. His heart was freezing over, and this wasn’t the adventure it had been the night before. Now, in the light of morning, Ethan was worried, and I couldn’t blame him.

“Who are you?” He covered the distance between us in three long strides. “What are you doing here? Who are you running from?”

“No one. Nothing.” The cold metal of the fence pressed through my shirt as I stepped back.

“Then tell me why I shouldn’t march in there right now and have my parents call the police or the FBI or whoever you’re supposed to call when there’s a stray teenage girl who needs to be taken back to her parents.”

“Is that what you think?” I didn’t mean to shout, but I couldn’t help it. My nerves had been fraying for days. Weeks. Years. And right then I felt them starting to snap. “Well, you’re wrong, Mr. I’ve-Got-a-Whole-House-Full-of-People-Who-Love-Me. My parents are not looking for me. There is absolutely no one who loves me who is worried about me at this moment. On that you have my word.”