“I was like five, maybe seven?” I laugh. “Hell, until she died, I wasn’t even sure when my actual birthday was. I mean, I knew, but I never knew when we were going to celebrate.
“Anyway, we were living mostly at state parks with cabins we could rent. We loved to hike and go on adventures. We were on one to find ourselves. We weren’t ever going to be victims again.
“Denny—that was his name—showed up, a bag full of gifts, and a mouth full of promises that he would take care of his girls. He did this every few months. Most of the time, she’d call the police.
“The last time, we happened to be camping next to a woman named Liberty Smith, and when he got loud and his promises of happiness turned into threats of violence, she came out and used a cast iron frying pan to knock him out.
“From then on, it was us three girls, in a van, touring the country. It started with festival hopping, progressed to spending sometimes months at a time camping at compounds with other women who worked the land together and homeschooled their kids. And it was fun. I learned a lot. I constantly read.
“Mom didn’t cry anymore, and when she finally told me that she and Liberty were going to get married under a full moon, I was so ecstatic for them. Soon after that, we moved to Pennsylvania, to a trailer park. We were going to settle there. We even built a raised bed community garden.
“I heard them at night, whispering, dreaming out loud about starting a community of women there, a place where men couldn’t try to control her ever again. She died before that happened.
“Liberty and I did a three-month tour around the country, spreading her ashes in her favorite places, and that tour ended here.” I look up at him.
He’s leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, in quiet observation.
“I haven’t talked to Liberty since. She left while I was taking my placement tests, at a place I know they stood firmly against.”
“What can I do to help, Savvy?” He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on the counter. “I have resources. My uncles in Boston own a private security—”
“No.” I shake my head. “That was a different life. I don’t want to reopen it. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see her, because she …” I stop and shake my head. “Patrick, promise me you won’t.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes, minutes that feel more like hours, and then he nods. “You have to promise me something first.”
I don’t react. I don’t agree. I just look at him.
I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I’m attracted to him, and he’s thinking my past is what makes me choose to like girls. It may have started that way, but the more I experience being around men, the more I know that I can never get from them what I need, and I could never give them what they need, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
He smiles. It’s sweet, so sweet. “Promise me that, today, we find your favorite Christmas cookie.”
I nod. “I’m pretty sure I’m free, and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t, I’d cancel whatever I had planned to do just that.”
He pushes the recipe book back over. “Pick as many as you want. There’s only a couple more things we have to do today.”
“Yeah?” I laugh.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Lay it on me. Tell me what you have planned.”
His phone buzzes on the counter, and he holds it up, showing me a picture of Brandon Falcon. “You wanna meet him?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“I’ll take your word for it, or better yet, I’ll remember you gave him a black eye and avoid him like the plague.”
His phone buzzes again. “Good guy but impatient as fuck.”
“You sure you wouldn’t rather join the Peace Corps than deal with—”
From the entryway comes a loud whistle and a male voice. “Hey, Tricks, I have shit to do and your cousin is on the top of my list. Let’s do this.”
“You want a busted lip and another black eye,” Patrick says, walking toward the door, “keep talking shit and you’ll get both, asshole.”
Chapter 15
“Compassion is the wish to see others
free from suffering.”
~Dalai Lama
Patrick
“I have got to be out of my fucking mind to be going along with this shit, Savannah.” I laugh from behind her.
“It has to be the perfect one.”
“We’ve passed hundreds of perfect ones, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
She looks back at me, carrying two canvas bags filled with shit we grabbed at the dollar store, and laughs. “You need a break from the cardio, gym rat?”
“Hell no,” I lie.
I mean, I don’t, but this hiking shit is not my thing. Yet, here I am, following her, with her hair tied up in a top knot, wearing my old green flannel over her Bean tee because “it’s so comfy” as she ducks and weaves between trees in the forest around Crystal Lake.
“I think I found it,” she calls back to me.
I let out a loud, “Woo-hoo,” that echoes through the forest and hurry to where she’s standing.
“This one?”
“You may not see it, but I swear it’s perfect.”
“I see it.” I drop the bags. “Now let’s make it happen.”
She narrows her eyes at me as I push up my sleeves and squat. “You think this is stupid?”
“Not at all. It’s a tradition. I like traditions.”
She sets down her bag and sits on the ground and, in a monotone voice, she repeats my words, “Traditions give us a sense of belonging. Brings back memories of family together time, the good shit, so we can celebrate the bond with those we’ve loved. It’s spiritual and helps us connect now and for generations.” Then she looks at me and makes a hardened face. “It’s not a fucking corporate ploy
