Burying Water by K. A. Tucker
Beans turns around and falters at the sight of her bruises, shooting a glare my way.
“He didn’t do this to me,” Alex says, reaching out for me.
“None of my business. I’m just here to ink you,” Beans mumbles, transfer ready.
I hold her hand and her gaze the entire time—through every wince and every teeth clench, every smile—as Beans carves a small round symbol into her body. And when he’s done, I refuse to let go.
“I’m not taking you back to your house tonight, Alex,” I announce, blocking her entry into my Barracuda.
She frowns. “But we have to go back. You have work, and I—”
“I’m not taking you back there until I have to.”
She stares at me for a long time, and then she nods. “Okay, Jesse.”
TWENTY-SIX
Water
now
“You should go visit Amber,” Ginny suggests from her perch, a purple-and-blue quilt stretched out on her lap.
“I tried. She’s sleeping.” I’m pretty sure she has a hangover from last night at Roadside, since I saw Meredith driving in with her car, followed closely by Sheriff Gabe. “Why?”
“Because your fidgeting is giving me a headache.”
I slide my hands under my butt. “Sorry.” I’ve been torn between preparing Ginny and surprising her, knowing that neither will go over well. When Teresa phoned this morning to ask if she and Zoe could come out at two this afternoon, I decided on something in between. That’s why, when I hear the crackle of tires on loose gravel, I blurt out, “So I have something to tell you.” I’m not even looking at her as I continue. “I met a nice lady at the store. She told me that she was selling her twelve-year-old daughter’s horse because . . .” I relay the situation in a quick, planned speech that I practiced several times in the mirror. “It’s just the two of them and you don’t have to say yes, but I figured you could use the money and you could make this little girl very happy. She’s been crying over her horse for days.” When the red Honda Civic rounds the corner, I add, “This lady bought your quilt. The latest one, with the horses on it.”
I dare to glance at Ginny once before I get up to meet Teresa and her daughter, Zoe, a pretty, wide-eyed girl with wavy brown hair. The expression on her face is completely unreadable.
But she hasn’t reached for her broom yet, so I guess there’s that.
“Two hundred a month for her own stall, plus any veterinarian bills. And she has to use my veterinarian.” She lops on a spoonful of mashed potatoes—I made the real kind; not that awful boxed stuff—and then takes a helping of a pot roast that I thought I’d try out. “And it’s just her and her mother on this property. No one else. Not this useless hunk of an ex-husband, not any coaches or trainers. Just those two.”
I nod. I had already figured as much and warned Teresa. She seemed fine with it, and was impressed with the barn and the land. And Ginny, as cranky as she can be, seemed to take to Zoe right away, asking her questions about Lulu’s habits and which stable she might prefer.
I thought that I might get whacked over the head with that broom, but when I left her on the porch to make dinner and read a bit, she was unusually quiet and content. “So, can I call her after dinner and tell her? I know Zoe’s probably waiting anxiously.”
Ginny studies the meat on her fork intently as she chews a mouthful and swallows. “It was a stable hand.”
I frown.
“He was in his late twenties. A big, burly man. But soft, like a teddy bear. Earl was his name. He worked for my dad for three years, one month, one week.” She twists the fork around. A bead of gravy drips down and hits her plate. “Four days. I was about that girl’s age when I first met Earl. I was in those stables every single day, rain or snow, it didn’t matter, helping to muck out the stalls and care for the horses. We had so many back then, it was hard to keep up.” She frowns at the meat. “At first, he just said hi to me. Asked how school was. I was an odd child—wary of people, even then—so I kept my distance. Eventually, though, he became a friend. He taught me how to climb trees. That’s what won me over. He was an excellent tree climber.” She finally eats the piece of meat, her jaw moving slowly, precisely. “After . . . my daddy did most of the work around here, with my help. It was a lot for just the two of us. I’m no idiot. I know that what happened to me isn’t common and that I could have a thousand stable hands through here with no issues. It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t ever be around another one.”
“Yes.” I bob my head rigorously to emphasize my agreement.
“That Zoe girl, she really loves horses. She lit up around our Felixes.” Ginny’s narrowed gaze follows the horizon out over the mountains. “My daddy always said that I lit up around the horses, too.”
What is it about this blanket?
I wouldn’t describe it as soft. In fact, it’s almost abrasive. Yet, leaning against a pile of cushions in front of the burning woodstove with a book from Amber, and wrapped within my checkered wool blanket from The Salvage Yard, I feel more contented than my limited memory can recall.
Perhaps I feel particularly cozy given the thunderous storm outside. Apparently we’re sheltered from the kind of rain that the east coast of Oregon gets, thanks to the mountains, but we don’t get away completely. The radio station playing at work today called for everything from catastrophic winds to clear skies in the span of an afternoon. Dakota and I made a bet—loser buys coffee. I, of course, chose clear night skies, both because I like to take in the stars from my balcony before I go to bed and because Dakota always buys coffee for both of us.
I’ll definitely be buying the coffee tomorrow.
A bolt of lightning zags through the sky outside and my attic apartment fills with light. The booming crack of thunder comes almost immediately after. And then the old brass lamp that shines over my book pages cuts out, along with the one other light I have on in my apartment.
Unease begins to slide down my back. The fire glow provides enough light to guide me to the kitchen drawer, where I know that there is a flashlight. It’s not big, but I can find my way around the apartment with it.
Another loud crack of thunder has me diving to the window to check the Welles property. There’s always a spotlight shining on one corner of their house—bright enough to cast a light to the fence line, emphasizing Meredith’s promise that I can come to their door at any time, day or night. Now, though, it’s as if that guarantee has been snuffed out. I don’t know that I could even make it to their house without tripping and injuring myself, the darkness is so consuming.
I look out the other windows. I even unlatch all the deadbolts and chains that I use every night and open the door. I meet only black nothingness.
That, and a cold, mean rain that pelts my face and dampens my shirt. Pushing my door shut, I relock the door and wrap my chest with my arms. I guess I’ll just have to wait it out. Taking my seat by the fire again, my blanket pulled to my chin and my knees pulled to my chest, I watch the flames lick the glass panel of the woodstove.
When footsteps pound up the stairs outside and someone knocks, I’m on my feet instantly, moving for the door. There are only a few people it could be—Ginny or one of the Welleses—and they’ll be getting soaked out there, so I begin unlatching the deadbolts again.
But then my hand falters. That voice in the back of my head adds another person to the list of possible visitors: the faceless man who showed himself to me once in a dream. Who hurt me terribly. I know it’s not realistic and yet, as I see the doorknob wiggle, a part of me panics.
A fist pounds against the other side. “Water! It’s me!”
My heart skips a beat.
I’m safe.
I fumble with the remaining locks and throw open the door, ushering in Jesse.
“Hey,” he says through a shudder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, just because . . .” He lifts a hand to rub the back of his head. His hair’s so short that it
“I’m not sure I do either,” I admit. “How long do you think before it’s back on?”
“Honestly? Depends on where the break is, but it could be all night.” Flashes of lightning fill the room, and I can see that his flannel jacket and the T-shirt underneath are drenched.
I have the urge to find him something to change into, but nothing I have would fit him. My closet is full of hand-me-downs from Amber and Meredith, along with a few basic things from the secondhand shop in Bend. I forced Amber to go in. She wasn’t crazy about the idea but I enjoyed paying for some clothes with my own money, even if they weren’t new.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait it out, then.” I wander back over to my spot by the woodstove and wrap myself up in my blanket, hoping he’ll stay. I like not being alone right now, but more than that, I like the idea of being with Jesse.
Without a word, he grabs another log, the handle squeaking as he opens the woodstove and feeds the fire. Hungry, the flames flare, casting a brighter glow and illuminating Jesse’s profile, his eyelashes long and thick.
I instinctively reach up to my scar, my index finger running along the thin ridge. I’ll never have an appealing profile, not from my right side, anyway.
When the tiny door screeches shut, he pulls his jacket off, exposing his T-shirt beneath, the front of it wet. I’m suddenly thankful for the relative darkness, as it affords me the chance to gawk at the ridges on his stomach without being too obvious.
“Don’t like the furniture in here?” he murmurs, stretching his jacket out on one of the wicker chairs—a skeleton now that I’ve confiscated the cushions for my nest.
“I do, I just . . .” I frown. “I felt the urge to lie on the floor, I guess. It makes me feel cozy.”
“Does it?” His eyes drift over the pile of cushions that I lean against. “Well, in that case . . .” He kicks off his running shoes and then dives down next to me. Tucking his shoes under the woodstove, he adjusts the few stray pillows and lies back, stretching out his long body.
From my angle, higher and slightly behind him, I can watch him shamelessly.
And I do.
“Was this ours?” He nestles his head against the cable-knit pillow.
“Yeah. Your mom’s very generous.” Meredith’s spring cleaning involved bringing perfectly good bedding and blankets and books over to my door—things to dress up the space, give it life, she said. Some of these things still had price tags on them. “Do you want tea?” I reach for the mug I was drinking. “I can’t make you one right now, but you can have mine if you’d like.”
I feel his eyes on my face and I wish we were facing the other way, so the shadows could hide what I don’t want him to see. Finally, he drops his gaze. “I’m not a tea drinker.”
“Coffee?” His single nod answers me. “Let me guess . . . black?”
The muscle in his jaw pulses. “What made you think that?”
I shrug. “Just a guess. You look like a black-coffee drinker.”
“And what does a black-coffee drinker look like?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that. I guess you remind me of someone who drinks black coffee.” Now I sound even more stupid. “I watch people a lot, wondering what makes them who they are.” I watch what kind of food they load onto the conveyor belt at the grocery store, and what they order at Poppa’s, the local greasy diner that serves the best coffee in town. I watch the way some people dart across a busy main street while others wait for the light so they can use the crosswalk; the way some parents offer annoyed shushes to their children’s incessant chatter while others provide calm answers; the way a group of women will sit at a coffee shop table, their eyes circulating, their words laced with critical comments, while at the next table another group sits, oblivious to anyone else and just enjoying one another’s company. I watch and I wonder what makes people who they are. Is it the sum of learned behaviors and experiences? And if they, like me, can’t recall those experiences, would they still do those things in the exact same way? Or would they deviate?
How similar am I to who I once was? Would I have gotten excited stepping out of a thrift shop, my arms loaded with someone else’s castaways? Would I have willingly cooked meals for a crotchety old lady who doesn’t have the words “thank you” in her vocabulary?
Would I have turned my judgmental nose up at a “free spirit” like Dakota?
I think about these things. I think about the fancy dress and the diamond jewelry I was found with, my platinum-blond dyed hair, and how that girl ended up shoveling horse shit out of stalls. And loving it.
“That makes sense,” Jesse finally offers.
I giggle. “No it doesn’t. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
The tiniest dimple pokes his cheek. “You look like a two-and-a-half-milks, one-sweetener kind of coffee drinker.”
“That sounds ridiculous.” He must be mocking me now. “I’m one cream, one sugar.” That was how the first cup Amber ever delivered to me in the hospital was made. I realize now that I’ve never tried anything else.
He shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”
A comfortable silence hangs over us. “Are you happy to be back home?”
A slow nod answers. “It’s where I belong. Nothing I want in Portland anymore.”
Not even that girl you wanted to marry?
He reaches forward to pick up my journal, lying on the floor between us. “What’s this?”
“Just . . . uh . . .” I fight the urge to grab it out of his hand as he flips it open to the latest page, where my pen is tucked in. “It’s nothing, just a journal I need to keep for my psychologist. She’s hoping there will be a pattern or maybe it’ll trigger something.”
I see “blueberries” in my circular handwriting and know that he’s on the latest page. I haven’t been keeping up with the process as well as I should.
“Why’d you cross my name out?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Because that response was tainted.”
“Tainted?” Amusement dances along his profile. “I tainted blueberries?”
“You gave me the blueberries. Of course the first word that enters my head is going to be your name.”
“Right.” He flips through the other pages. “My sister’s helping you with these?”
“Yeah, sometimes. Your mom, too. Sometimes I quiz myself. Though it’s not quite as effective.”
When he reaches the page where I’ve written “Baby = Impossible,” he stops. “Is it? I mean, is that what my mom told you?”
I’m surprised he’s asking me this so bluntly—but then again, he doesn’t seem like a small-talk kind of guy. And for some reason, I don’t mind talking about it with him. “No. She said the exact opposite, actually.” My hand shifts to rest on my abdomen of its own accord. “I would have been about seven months pregnant by now.” I’ve caught myself doing the math often. Usually when I’m walking along the stream, or watching the horses trot by. Imagining what it would be like to raise a child out here. “I think I really wanted this baby.”
“I guess that one wasn’t meant to be,” Jesse offers softly. He lifts the pen, making a spectacle of clicking the top several times.
I playfully pull my blanket to my face to cover my nervous smile, equal parts curious about and wary of what he’s going to prompt me with. I’ve found that Amber relies on cues from our surroundings as a resource. Meredith’s a little more creative, throwing out things like “Barbie doll” and “gymnastics,” things that may relate to my childhood. Both treat the exercise as a light, unchallenging way to help me.
A prick in my gut tells me that Jesse may not take that approach.
“Tire.”
What? Wait. Meredith told me he’s a mechanic. I guess that makes sense. “Flat.” I watch him scribble the words down, his pen strokes long but neat. The knuckles on his right hand are red and bruised. I assume from punchi
“Hotel.”
Hotel . . . Hotel . . . Hotel . . . “Bed?”
My cheeks heat as I watch his hand scribble the words down. Not because there’s anything unusual. Because the second word that popped into my head after “bed” was “Jesse.”
“Water.”
“Yes?”
“No . . . I mean, ‘Water.’ I hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh! Tattoo. Your sister’s already done that one.”
“Why tattoo?” he asks softly, his eyes on the page, his hand ready to write.
“I have one, right here.” I tap my pelvis, drawing his attention to it. Heat spreads through my legs and thighs instantly.
“Okay. The second word that comes to mind. Water.”
I close my eyes and let my mind go blank. Water . . . Water . . . Water . . . “Stream.” Like that stream that runs behind the barn. I sigh. “I think my new life is bleeding into my thoughts. That’s not going to help this exercise much.”
He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Tattoo.”
“Water . . . No! Wait.” I reach out to touch his arm, to stop him from writing that down. “That’s too obvious.”
The bicep muscle beneath my fingertips tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Okay. What, then?”
Tattoo . . . Tattoo . . . Tattoo.
Jesse.
I can’t even think straight anymore, with him here. “I don’t . . . next word,” I demand, flustered.
“Scar.”
“Ugly.” I didn’t really mean to blurt that out. There are plenty of other words that I could use—ones that don’t make me sound weak and whiny and quite so vulnerable—but I can’t deny that it’s the first thing that popped into my mind.
The pen sits poised over the paper in his frozen grip for long seconds, as both shame and anger swirl like an angry cloud within me. It’s one thing to fear that you’re ugly; it’s an entirely different thing to acknowledge it out loud to another person. Especially when that other person is a guy who you seem to be developing a crush on.