Catch Twenty-Two Page 7

I should go home, but I can’t seem to stop. The house isn’t dirty, but I’ve noticed while staying with Nan the last couple of weeks that there is one thing that can’t be avoided. Living on a dirt road means everything is constantly covered in dust. Even though I know dusting right now is futile, I can’t help but grab the rags and cleaner out from under the kitchen sink.

  The dining room area doesn’t take long, only having to wipe down the table and chairs, but I take a little longer in the living room. A few family photos, ones of a smiling Zeke with his dad fishing and in a barn that isn’t my nan’s, sit in old frames on a small bookcase in the corner. I spend my time looking at the joyful boy in the pictures, wondering when everything changed for him, trying to figure out by looking into the images what could’ve happened to him to make him a spiteful menace.

  The pictures yield no answers, but when I’m done dusting, refusing to go to any other area of the house because it feels like more of a violation than what I’ve already done, I plop down on the couch. I don’t know why I wait. I should get up and leave. Zeke didn’t need me as the ambulance drove away with his parents. He wanted me gone. He’s not going to have a personality transplant and come back needing me or appreciating what I did.

  But yet, I sit on his worn sofa and wait.

  Hours pass by slowly and before long, I feel my eyes fluttering with exhaustion. I should go home and go to bed, but my body is heavy, and before long, sleep pulls me under.

  Chapter 11

  Zeke

  Vulnerable.

  That’s exactly how Dad looks right now in the hospital bed with more wires attached to his body than I can count. My larger-than-life father looks like a withered old man with the scratchy hospital blanket pulled up to the middle of his chest.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I almost choke on the words, but my mother is struggling more than I am, and even though staying strong feels impossible, I do my best for her.

  “They don’t know yet,” she whispers.

  “I did this,” I mutter. “If I hadn’t gotten mad—”

  Her soft, trembling hand on my forearm shuts me up.

  “He’s been sick for a while. This didn’t happen because you raised your voice.”

  I want to apologize for throwing her past in her face, but my mouth doesn’t open. Everything else is so insignificant right now. The ranch, my future… none of it even matters. My frail-looking dad lying in the hospital bed holds all of my focus.

  “I tried to convince him to go to the doctor months ago, but you know how he is.”

  I nod in understanding. He’s like every other man around here. Not only are doctors expensive, we never have the time to take off work to see one, and we’re men. Men don’t worry about a few aches and pains. It comes with the territory of ranch work. A couple of Tylenol and a good night’s sleep are all we ever really need.

  Tylenol and rest aren’t going to work for him now, however. He’s barely fluttered his eyes since we arrived. The doctors have taken blood, run tests, scanned a million things in his body, but we’re told it’ll be hours before they get results. Hours of us waiting, thinking of worst-case scenarios. Hours of worrying what’s wrong and what it’s going to take to fix it.

  “I want you to go home,” Mom says after a long sigh.

  “I’m staying here.” My voice is firm, but when I look over at my mother and see the bone-weary look in her eyes, I know I’m not winning this battle. I don’t want to add more stress on her, and arguing with her right now would do just that.

  “Go home and get some rest. You have to be at work in the morning.”

  “I’ll be right back up here when I wake up,” I tell her. “Work can wait.”

  “It can’t,” she counters, “and you know it. He would want you to be on the ranch tomorrow.”

  “Mrs. Jacobson will understand.” The mention of Nannette Jacobson makes my mind rush right to thoughts of Frankie, and a heavier layer of guilt for the way I treated that brown-haired goddess tonight sits like a brick in my stomach.

  “But the cows won’t,” she argues. “Get some rest, get your work done, and then if he’s still here tomorrow evening, stop by to visit.”

  There isn’t an ounce of hope in her voice when she speaks of him being well enough to go home tomorrow. He’s unconscious and has been for hours. There won’t be a miraculous recovery for my dad, and it’s that fear settling inside of me that gets me to stand. I don’t want to picture him as anything other than the strong man that raised me. The man that would lift me over his head without much effort until I was twelve. Seeing him like this, it kills something inside of me.

  “I’ll bring you some things from home tomorrow.” I press my lips to her temple as she clutches my arm. I wait for her to be ready to release me before taking a step back.

  My head fills with thoughts of Frankie as I drive home, and I even contemplate stopping by her house if only to watch her bedroom window for signs of life, but I drive past the ranch instead. Clinging to her when I’m worried would be worse than what I’ve already done, and I can’t help but wonder if karma is the reason my dad is in the hospital. Has the vitriol I’ve aimed at Frankie somehow transformed into a virus hurting my dad?

  I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all and put my truck in park in the driveway. Exhausted, I climb out and make my way to the porch. The three steps leading to the front door seem a mile high each, and by the time I turn the doorknob to enter, I’m tired to my bones, but I don’t find the mess I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up. The plate my dad knocked over is no longer littering the floor. The packages from the tubes and needles the EMTs used on Dad are no longer anywhere to be seen, and the house smells like lemons, fresh and clean.

  It isn’t until I spin around in the dining area, wondering if I’ve stepped inside some alternate dimension, do I notice Frankie’s tiny frame curled up on the couch. With her hands clasped together and situated under her chin, she looks like she fell asleep praying.

  The very same eyelashes that grew damp with unshed tears earlier in my truck rest softly against her cheeks. Her lips are puckered and parted slightly as she breathes, and it’s easy for me to admit that she’s the picture of utter perfection. That is until she snores loud enough to startle a deaf person.

  I chuckle at the sound, the imperfection not really registering as a flaw. If anything, it’s endearing, keeping it clear that no matter how pretty she is, no matter how perfect her body is to me, she’s still human.

  Without a second thought, I close the distance between us, take a seat on the coffee table and watch her sleep. I fight the urge to lift her up and carry her to my bed. No doubt she’d be unimpressed with my closet of a bedroom. Instead of picking her up, I let myself enjoy the sight of her for just a few moments longer.

  Needing to feel the warmth of her again, I push a strand of hair from her face and trace her jawline with the tip of one finger.

  I wonder what I could feel for this girl if she wasn’t being thrust at me like she’s my only option. She’s beautiful. There’s no doubt about that. She’s kind, cleaning the mess in the kitchen without expectation, and even after I treated her like crap earlier, after the way I’ve been treating her for weeks. She loves animals, and going by the fun she had on the four-wheeler before I ruined it, she has a sense of adventure. She’s quick to smile. With as many chances she’s given me, she’s either forgiving or desperate, and I don’t think for a minute, despite what I said to her earlier in my truck that she’s desperate for me to like her.

  Mom was right earlier this evening.

  Frances Young is perfect for me.

  If only I could accept it.

  Her eyelashes flutter, and once again I’m trapped in her steel-gray gaze.

  “Hey.” She licks her lips as she sits up. “Is everything okay?”

  Things haven’t been okay for a long time.

  “Zeke?” She reaches her hand out to touch my leg, but at the last minute she pulls it back, resting
it on her own lap.

  Please touch me.

  “I shouldn’t have invaded your space.” She looks around the room, nervous tension filling her muscles.

  I love you in my home.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Just being here helps.

  “I should go.”

  Please don’t leave me.

  When she leans forward to stand, I grip her neck the same way I did in the truck, only this time she doesn’t freeze like she did then. She pulls back, breaking our connection before I can even get my lips on hers.

  “I’m here if you need help or if you need someone to talk to, but don’t ever try to kiss me again. I’m not falling for that shit again. If you need a friend, I can be that for you, but quit manipulating me.”

  I lean in closer, clamping her neck in my palm and drawing her near. Her breath hitches, and even after her words and bravado, her eyes still dart to my mouth.

  “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back.”

  She’s pulling away from me with such strength that she falls against the back of the couch when I release her.

  I don’t watch her as she leaves. I don’t offer her a ride even though it’s the middle of the night and pitch-black outside. I can’t look at her. I can’t look at myself.

  As I climb into my bed, too tired to even bother kicking my boots off, I vow that I’m keeping my distance from that girl.

  I made my issues her issues, and there’s nothing fair about it. I hate her, but I hate myself even more for despising a girl that has done nothing to deserve my wrath. I can’t seem to stop myself, so there’s only one way to solve the problem, and that’s keeping my distance. I won’t talk to her. I won’t accept another offer for supper no matter how hard Mrs. Jacobson insists. I won’t look in her direction.

  I know I don’t have to worry about her approaching me. She only does it when we’re forced into each other’s presence. She’s never sought me out on her own. What a joke, me wondering if she’s felt need for me. Frankie doesn’t need anyone.

  Liar.

  She was here tonight, and I know that was all her doing.

  I shake my head, rubbing my face on my too thin pillow. I can keep my distance. I’m certain of it.

  Chapter 12

  Frankie

  It’s day number two since Zeke kissed me. Since his dad was rushed to the hospital. Since he told me to leave and never come back.

  Yesterday Zeke showed up to work, but after a couple of hours he was gone again.

  I tried to avoid him. Tried to keep my distance, and I managed as far as he knew, but that still didn’t keep me from watching him from my bedroom window. Unlike all the other times I stared down at him, yesterday he didn’t once bother to look up at me. I never caught his eyes drifting in my direction. He had a singular focus, get the work done and get out of here. I can’t fault him for it. His dad is sick. He shouldn’t be thinking or worrying about me. His focus is right where it needs to be, on his family.

  The other night at his house, I thought things were going to change between us. While sitting on that coffee table across from me, his eyes held an emotion I had obviously mistaken for need. It didn’t seem to be a sexual need, or a need to draw me in only to cut me down once again. He seemed like he needed a friend, someone to rely on or confide in, but I was wrong.

  It was another way for him to manipulate me into feeling something for him, so it made the reward of hurting me that much sweeter. I offered him friendship, knowing he’d never take it, but that was the high road for me.

  “Such a fool,” I mutter as I scrub the dishes from breakfast.

  “What was that, dear?” Nan asks from her pile of cookbooks on the dining room table.

  She was asleep when I got home from his house the other night, and even after the pep talk I gave myself on the porch about telling her the truth about Zeke, it didn’t feel right after the emergency with his dad.

  “Nothing, Nan.”

  I double my focus on the dishes, counting swipes of the sponge in order to avoid thinking about Zeke. After a phone conversation with Piper yesterday, I realized I wasn’t the only girl who recently got kissed, but unlike my situation, it doesn’t seem like Dalton has split personalities. Yeah, he was a jerk to both of us for years, more so to my best friend than anyone else, but he isn’t kissing her one minute and then insulting her the next. I’m the lucky one that’s stuck with the jerk that looks at me like I’m beautiful one minute and then sneers at me the next.

  The phone on the wall rings, but since I’m elbow deep in suds, I know Nan will get it. It’s not for me, anyway. My parents, even though they haven’t bothered since I left Colorado, would call my cell if they wanted to speak with me.

  “Oh, hi, Eden. How’s Daniel?”

  My ears perk up at the mention of Zeke’s dad. As much as I’ve told myself I’m not going to worry with anything to do with that boy, I can’t help my curiosity.

  “Oh my,” Nan whispers, and the distress in her voice forces cold chills to run down my arms.

  “Of course. I completely understand.” She pauses, and I hold my breath. “How long?”

  Nan takes a deep breath, and even without looking over my shoulder at her, I know she’s trying to keep her emotions in check for the woman on the other end of the line. This is bad, so very bad.

  “We’re praying for you,” Nan whispers. “If there’s anything you need—”

  Another long pause.

  “Of course, Eden. We’ll keep an eye on him. Okay, dear. Goodbye.”

  I watch as Nan makes her way back to the dining room table on shaky legs.

  “Nan?” I forget the dishes left in the sink, picking up a hand towel as I make my way across the room to my grandmother.

  Her face is ashen and tears threaten to fall from her tired eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  A sense of knowing settles inside of me, and as much as I want to find out everything from Nan, my muscles burn to head outside right to Zeke.

  “It’s cancer,” she murmurs as if lost in her own thoughts. “Daniel has cancer.”

  “What kind?” I ask because some cancers are worse than others, right? All cancer is bad, but some types can be cured.

  “The doctors think it started in his stomach.”

  “Started?” This is just getting worse.

  “It’s everywhere.” A tear rolls down her cheek as she looks up at me. “His insides are eaten up with it.”

  “But it’s treatable, rig—?”

  Her head shakes before I finish my sentence. “They’re sending him home on hospice.”

  “Oh, Nan. No.” My own tears only threaten for a second before they’re rolling down my face.

  I haven’t spent much time with Daniel, but he seems like a nice man. Nan trusts him with her entire ranch and that means something, considering she’s quite the control freak at times.

  Unable to watch the torrent of emotions on her face, I look toward the back door, knowing that a boy who’s soon to lose his father is only forty yards away. I saw him walk into the barn while I was doing dishes, hence my hyper-focus on the cleaning rather than letting my gaze wander outside.

  “He needs you now more than ever,” Nan whispers.

  God, how I wish that were true. Even if there were no romantic expectations, even if we hadn’t ever kissed, I wish we were friends because I know he doesn’t want me to console him. He doesn’t want a shoulder to cry on. Being close to losing his dad will only make him meaner. It will make him lash out more, blame me for everything wrong in his world, and the worst part is, I understand. I’m not close to my parents, but I would be miserable knowing one of them wasn’t long for this world.

  I don’t know about his relationship with his dad, but I pray he doesn’t have years of regret that have piled up like I have with my own.

  “Take him something to drink, dear.” Nan pats my hand before standing and disappearing into her bedroom.

&n
bsp; I feel guilty for my hesitation. I want to obey her. Hell, I want to be what he needs, but I know I’m not. As much as I’d like to imagine things would be different in the face of what he’s going through, I know better, and it’s that knowledge that slows me down when I get a glass from the cupboard.

  It’s never taken me ten minutes to pour a glass of lemonade, but that’s how long it takes today. I don’t even feel the cool of the glass in my hands as I walk toward the barn, and the mumbled curses and slamming sounds make me want to turn back around and leave him to it. Invading his space right now seems like the least favorable thing.

  This boy is going to lose his father soon, and no matter what he’s done to me in the past, I can’t let that cloud this moment. I can be the outlet for his anger if that’s what he needs. I just hope I’m strong enough to survive whatever he plans to dish out.

  I jump when something crashes against the wall in the back room of the barn, sloshing some of the lemonade on to my hand. I don’t think he’d physically hurt me, but his hateful words have the power to do just as much damage. I steel my spine, mustering all of my courage as I wait for him to leave the back room. I’m only allowed a few moments to calm my frazzled nerves before he shows his handsome face.

  “Now isn’t the time,” he mutters when he notices me standing at the rear entrance to the barn. He carries a broken wooden chair, tossing it toward the bed of his truck before turning back around.

  “I thought you might be thirsty.” I hold out the glass of cold lemonade to him, expecting him to either rebuff me entirely or knock the glass from my hand.

  After staring at me for a long moment, he walks toward me. I tense, anticipating some scathing remark or another outburst of irritation, but surprisingly, he takes the glass from my hand.

  I don’t know if he’s working through a new insult for me or what, but his fingers linger on mine before he pulls the glass from my hand. I swallow down the lump in my throat, not knowing what to say to him.

  I know he wouldn’t appreciate my telling him how sorry I am for what he’s going through, so I keep my lips clamped shut, watching his face while waiting for him to turn on me.