Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3) Page 5

  I’m not sure I’m deserving of love, at least not right now.

  “I got some of those books you like to read, up at the house. Drop by and pick them up when you’re ready for them.”

  I’d found out early on that Mr. Jacobson and I share a similar taste in literature. “I don’t want to be a bother,” I say. “Katie has enough to take care of with all those kids.”

  “I’d wager that Katie is dying to get some time with you.” He laughs. “She has a thing for lost souls.”

  “I’m not a lost soul.”

  “You’re as lost as anybody I ever met,” he says quietly. “But you’ll get found. She’ll make sure of it.”

  “Who, Katie?”

  He smiles. “Her too,” he says with a chuckle.

  That’s when I realize he was referring to Abigail. “I knew Abigail when we were younger,” I say. “We were best friends.”

  He nods. “I remember. Used to drive Maimi crazy, sending that girl out with you.”

  “What? What was wrong with me?”

  “Not because you were you. Just because you were a boy and she was a girl, and that summer was when you two first started acting like boys and girls, instead of kids.”

  I’m glad he clarified that, because I was beginning to get offended.

  He points toward the big house. “Walk on up to the big house and you can get those books. Katie’s in the kitchen.” He nods toward the house like the inclination of his head can get my feet moving.

  “It’s awfully early,” I remind him.

  “I just said she’s in the kitchen, didn’t I?”

  I immediately remember the time I smarted off at him when I was ten and he popped the back of my head. Not hard enough to injure, but definitely hard enough to get my attention. Reflexively, I reach up and rub that spot.

  He chuckles. “Go on, now. Get the books. It’ll give you something to do late at night.” He nods at me and then he walks off toward the dock. He’s carrying a fishing pole in one hand and a bucket in the other. “I’m going to pretend to be fishing so I can get some peace and quiet.”

  I bite back a laugh. “Sounds like a plan.” I start toward the big house, but he calls me back.

  “Hey, Ethan.”

  I turn back to face him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t let the judge-y world get you down, son. The people in this town have some growing to do, and I reckon it’s about time we helped them do it.”

  I say nothing, but I nod at him.

  I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as he expects it to be. These people have had years to get used to hating me. And it’s all well-deserved, so I can’t even complain about it.

  7

  Abigail

  It’s almost time for the sun to set when I see Ethan again. He’s walking down the lane toward the cabins that are in the rows behind mine, and he’s thumbing through a book, not looking where he’s going. I get almost on top of him before he notices I’m there.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t see you.” He mutters it more than speaks it, and I can barely hear him.

  “What’s got you so absorbed?” I ask. I lean over so I can look at what he’s reading. When we were younger, we used to trade books. He liked comic books and mysteries, and I liked adventure and camp books, and we’d trade when we finished ours and then argue about why one was better than the other.

  He closes the book, but he keeps his thumb in the spot where he was reading. “Detective novel,” he says. He holds it up so I can see the cover.

  “Did you give up comic books?”

  “Back when I got old enough to notice girls,” he says with a smirk, and he looks so much like the old Ethan that my heart does a little flip. “You still reading those camp books?”

  I wrap my hands around my mouth and lower my voice like I’m going to tell him a secret. “I’ve graduated to big girl books now,” I say with a wink.

  He grins. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I buy books with smooching in them,” I say, and I feel the heat as it creeps up my cheeks.

  He barks out a laugh. Then he points down the lane to the end of the road. “There’s a little free library down there,” he says, referring to one of the small book boxes that have popped up around the country. They operate on the “leave a book, take a book” theory. “You might find something nice to read.” He shrugs like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “I know there were a couple of mysteries in there the last time I checked, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll go check it out.” I tilt my head at him and look closely. I rub my chin. “So, what’s up with the beard?” I ask. “Have you gone mountain man lately?”

  He shakes his head and looks away. “I need a haircut and a shave.”

  “Why don’t you go get one?”

  He shakes his head again and stares far off into the distance. “I tried. The men at the barber shop turned me away.” He fidgets and kicks at a rock with the toe of his shoe. “The people in this town don’t like me too much.”

  That stuns me. Especially since he sounds so sincere it has the ring of truth to it. “Why’s that?” I can’t help but ask.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time.” When he hesitates, I raise my brows at him and glare playfully. “It’s not like I have anything else to do. Gran doesn’t even have a TV in the cabin.”

  “It’s not really a story I want to tell,” he says slowly and quietly. “I kind of like that you still like me right now, and I’d prefer it to stay that way. For a little while, at least.” He heaves in a heavy breath and blows it out, and then he runs a hand through his shaggy hair which is several inches too long.

  “I could cut it for you.” It’s a dumb offer, and if he has a lick of sense, he’ll turn me down. “I used to cut Granddaddy’s hair.”

  He smiles and mocks the way I said the word. “Gran-diddy?” Then he grins, and my God, he’s beautiful, even all scraggly and unkempt. There’s just something in his eyes that makes him shine when he grins. He reaches out and tugs a lock of my hair, which makes me laugh as warmth creeps up my face again.

  “Granddaddy never complained,” I tell him.

  “You got scissors?” He closes one eye and appraises me with the other.

  I shrug. “I’m sure Gran has some in her sewing box.”

  “You feel like cutting my hair, Abigail?” he asks, and that grin appears again. I can’t see the dimples I know he has because of all the facial hair, but the glint in his eyes is infectious.

  “You want to do it right now?” I point to the ground, as though that will affect the time.

  He lifts his shoulders. “I don’t have any other plans. Do you?” He stares at me.

  “Let’s do it.” I motion for him to follow me. His little duck follows too, even up the steps and into the house.

  “Is it okay?” he asks, indicating the duck.

  “Fine.” I’ve never had a duck in my house, but there’s a first time for everything. “Grab that chair and we’ll do it in the kitchen so we won’t make a mess.” I look at him as he stands there fidgeting in the doorway. “You sure you want to do this?”

  He nods.

  I motion for him to walk over to the sink. “Let’s wash it first.”

  He runs his hand through his hair. “I just washed it last night.” He looks mildly offended.

  I walk to the bathroom and come back with a bottle of shampoo. “It’s easier to handle when it’s wet.”

  My face gets hot when he looks at me and grins, but he doesn’t say “That’s what she said” or anything foolish like that. I can tell he’s thinking it, though.

  “Bend over,” I instruct. I get the water warm, and dip his head under the spray, then lather it really quickly.

  “Is this just an excuse for you to put your boobs all over me?” he suddenly asks. Then he holds his breath as I shove his face under the stream of water. He laughs lightly when I set him free. “You could have just said no,” he
replies as he blows water from his lips and squeezes his eyes closed.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” I shake my head, but I probably have a perma-grin on my face.

  He doesn’t respond, but the smile falls off his face, and I wonder what I said wrong.

  I dry his hair a little with a towel. “How much do you want to keep?” I ask as I take in his face. It’s so familiar but at the same time it’s not.

  “You can do whatever you want.” He scratches the thick hair on his chin. “I doubt you could make me look much scragglier than I already do.”

  He gets quiet as I start to work on his hair, lifting it in sections between my fingers and snipping it. All the tension falls out of his shoulders, and his head relaxes under my fingertips. “You doing okay?” I ask quietly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he’s all but asleep.

  “Mm-hmm,” he hums.

  “I’m going to do your face, but you have to hold still,” I warn. I have a brand new razor and I know how to use it, but I’d still hate to cut him.

  “Mm-hmm,” he hums again. I lay his head back gently against the chair back so he’s looking up. His eyes suddenly meet mine and he says very quietly, “Thank you for doing this.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I warn. “You haven’t seen the results.” But deep inside, I’m touched by the sincere way he just thanked me.

  I use the scissors to take off the longest portions of the beard, then shave him slowly and methodically, soaping his facial hair to ease the glide of the razor as I take off the rest, stopping often to clean the razor. I tilt his face and pinch his nose closed, and he never once complains. He just holds his breath and then lets it out when I release. When I get near his ear, he laughs out loud.

  “I forgot that you’re ticklish right there,” I say. He flicks his ear like he’s flicking my touch away, which makes me laugh.

  When I’m done, I stare at him. He sits there, still staring up at the ceiling, his face quiet and serene. He’s so handsome. Gone is the boyish charm, and it has been replaced by a manly grin. He still has those deep dimples, his right one a little deeper than his left. He has always been quick-witted, but he’s also a good-looking man, one that makes my heart do that quick th-thunk that makes me suddenly feel uncomfortable.

  His eyes narrow as he watches me. “What just happened?” he asks softly.

  “It was nothing,” I say quietly. I should try to play it off, but I can’t. “I was just thinking you clean up real good.” Then I tweak his nose and he laughs. He sits up and slaps his knees.

  “How’d I turn out?”

  “Very handsome,” I say quietly. I take in a breath and hold it.

  He gets up and goes to the bathroom to look in the mirror. He whistles dramatically. “Damn! You made me pretty,” he says as he strokes the pale skin of his face, which probably hasn’t seen the sun in years.

  “You’ve always been pretty,” I say as I stand in the doorway and watch him admire himself, my shoulder hitched against the doorjamb.

  He reaches for his back pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  I push his hand away. “Don’t be silly. You don’t owe me anything. I had fun doing it.” He stares at me through the mirror until I get uncomfortable again. “What?” My eyes meet his in the glass.

  “Where’s your husband, Abigail?” he asks, his voice soft like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. I once saw him talk to an injured dog in a similar tone.

  I suck in a breath. “He is in my house with the woman he cheated on me with who is also having his baby.” I let the rest of the breath go. “I figured I’d come here for a couple of weeks to lick my wounds.” I gesture around me. “So here I am.”

  “Your husband’s an idiot,” he says quietly, still looking at me through the mirror’s reflection.

  I give him a quick nod. Just one. “We agree on that.”

  He turns from the mirror to face me. “I have a son,” he suddenly blurts out. Then he winces when he realizes what he just said.

  “You have a son?” I can’t imagine Ethan with a son, because then I’d have to imagine Ethan with another woman and that is unimaginable. In fact, that thought hurts. “You’re married?”

  “Not anymore. She died.” His voice is quiet and reverent.

  I haven’t seen him with anyone. “Where is your son?”

  He gives me a smile that’s not really a smile. “He’s with my mom. He lives with her.”

  I feel my brow furrow and I try to wipe it away. “Why’s he with your mom?”

  He heaves in a breath and lets it out long and slow. He does that thing again where he closes one eye and looks at me with the other. “Would it be okay if I don’t tell you just yet?” He waits a beat. “I’d kind of like for you to go on liking me a little while longer.” He brushes his hand through his now-short hair. “It’s been a long time since anyone has liked me.”

  “What happened to you, Ethan?” I ask more to myself than to him. I lay my hand on my chest because my heart hurts for him. The pain on his face is nearly unbearable, and it’s not even mine.

  He bends and kisses me on the cheek, lingering just a beat too long. “Thank you for the haircut,” he says near my ear.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  He passes by me and walks to the front door. His little duck follows him outside, close at his heels.

  I follow but only to the end of the porch.

  At the edge of my postage stamp-sized yard, he turns back and calls out, “I didn’t really want a duck, mainly because I was afraid I’d fuck it up.” He stares down at the little duck, which has gone completely still, just waiting to see what Ethan will do next, where he’s going to go. “Then I found his little egg, and it hatched, and I’m still scared I’m going to mess him up. That’s what I do. I break the things I touch,” he says simply. “That’s who I am.”

  “Ethan—” I start toward him, but he holds up a hand to ward me off.

  “I don’t want to break you. I don’t want to break us.” His voice gets rough all of a sudden, and he coughs to clear his throat. “I have some pretty good childhood memories of times I spent with you, and I don’t want to do anything that will make you think less of me.” His voice gets quiet. “Because I’m good at that.”

  “I’m not worried,” I rush to assure him.

  Then he turns and leaves me standing there on the porch, and I watch him as he slowly walks back toward the campground, his little duck at his heels, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell just happened.

  8

  Ethan

  I haven’t seen Abigail since the night she gave me the haircut, which was just over a week ago. I take that back. I’ve seen her. I’ve just avoided her. If I see her heading in my direction, I go the other way. She doesn’t need my brand of trouble. That’s one thing I’m sure about. She’s much better off staying far away from me.

  I’m startled as Katie, Jake’s wife, walks up behind me. I was on the roof of one of the cabins, adding some shingles that were blown off during the last storm, and I just came down. In part, I came down because my duck was raising such a fuss while I was up on the roof. He’s been running circles for the past half hour around and around the house, looking for me. He knows I went up, he just doesn’t know how to join me and it’s driving him crazy, if the squawking is any indication.

  “That’s adorable,” Katie says as she walks up and holds out a fresh bottle of water for me.

  “He’s pretty damn cute,” I admit. I thought he was going to go nuts down on the ground all by himself. Now he’s nestled against my shin, resting on my ankle.

  Katie’s daughter Trixie has a great big dog, and since Trixie is at school right now, the dog is hanging out with Katie. The thing is massive, with a wide head and a big ass, and a tongue that looks like it’s as wide as a skateboard. “Trixie let you keep her dog for the day?” I ask. I’ve met the kids around the campground, and Jake talks about them every time he comes to give me a new task.

 
; “Oh, she’d take him to school, if she was able.” She laughs, and she reaches over to lay her hand on the dog’s head. “They’re inseparable,” she goes on to say. “This dog got Trixie through some really tough times, back when we first came back here.”

  I remember Katie from when we were all kids, but she and Jake are a few years older than me and Abigail, so we didn’t exactly run in the same circles.

  Suddenly, Katie sucks in a breath like she’s fortifying herself. “I wanted to talk to you about your housing situation.” She stops and stares at me.

  “So talk,” I say. My duck nuzzles my leg, and the dog notices that he’s moving down there. He walks over, sniffs the duck, and stares at him. “Um…” I stand as still as I possibly can. I’m not afraid of big dogs, but I’m also not stupid enough to trust every dog I meet. “Is he friendly?”

  “Oh, he’s just curious about your duck,” she says.

  “He’s not going to eat him, is he?”

  She laughs, and it’s a deep, throaty sound. “No, he’s about as gentle as they come. He wouldn’t hurt anything, unless of course you have a gun or you’re trying to hurt one of my children.”

  But the duck is already toddling around to go see the dog, who is so close I can feel his hot breath on my leg. He smells a little like Cheetos. He sniffs so hard that the short hair on my bare legs lifts up, but he doesn’t make any moves like he wants to have my duck for breakfast.

  “So your living situation,” Katie says again. She glares at me. “It’s getting cold out.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You need a home. Four walls and a floor. Running water. Heat.” She’s serious about this.

  “I’m fine,” I say again.

  “I talked to your mom,” she suddenly says. She looks guilty as she says it, and she holds up a hand to slow me down when my mouth opens to protest. “We were talking at baseball practice, that’s all,” she rushes to explain.

  “Your boy is on Mitchell’s team?” I take a sip of water, and then I pour some into a shallow bowl to offer to the duck. He eagerly begins to drink, and the dog finally gives up and drops down to the ground. I think he has decided my duck is not a threat.