The Love That Split the World (9 page)

I take off down the slope of the gravel path, and at the bottom of the hill, I make my way toward the little bridge in the woods that connects the Kincaid farm with the church.
Please let this stop right now. Please let this whole night be undone. Please get me to a place where everything’s how it’s always been and the world is stable, and I’m safe.

Bright headlights swing around the road. I hurry to the side of the path as a junker truck drives past, then reverses to stop beside me. The glare of the headlights is blinding, but I can see the door swing open and someone squinting through the darkness at me.

“Natalie?”

Beau swings his legs out of his truck and comes toward me.

9

“What happened?” he says. “Are you okay?”

I bite my bottom lip and nod. If I speak now, it’ll only lead to sobbing. He stands in front of me, his hands resting on his hips. “Natalie, what happened?”

I drop my face into my hands and try to press back the tears. “I can’t” is all I offer up. When I look back up at him, he gently grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, wrapping his arms around me and cupping the back of my head with one of his big hands.

“Are you hurt?” His low voice rumbles through me, and I shake my head. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Mm-hm,” I manage. Neither of us releases the other right away. I feel a terrible sadness sweep over me, the last cleaving of myself from the world I thought I knew.

Beau’s hands lift to gently hold the sides of my face, and he pulls back to look me in the eyes. “Let’s get you home,” he says softly.

I follow him to the truck and climb in on the passenger side. It’s not like Derek’s Ford; it’s boxy and sits low to the ground, the interior a rough fabric covered in spills and burns, and the windows the kind you have to crank by hand. “What were you doing here?” I ask him.

He starts the engine. “Friend of mine invited me to a party.”

“Oh.” I run my hands over my cheeks to wipe them dry. “I’m sorry—you should go. I can find another ride.” The thought of calling my parents to come pick me up from this disaster makes me nauseous.

“Heard it was pretty close to your track,” Beau continues. “And I figured you might still be waiting for me to find you.”

I’m not really sure how to respond, but then he smiles, and my mouth follows his lead.

I tear my gaze from his and pull my phone from my pocket. “I should let someone know where I’m going.” I was supposed to stay the night at Megan’s; her parents are way less strict about knowing where she is or enforcing a curfew. But when I press Megan’s name the call won’t go through, and I get an automated message informing me that the line isn’t in service. I press
END
and text her instead, cursing my carrier under my breath.

“Ready?” Beau says.

I nod because I’m not sure what else to do. He stretches his arm across the back of the seat as he cranes his neck to check for traffic behind us. We rumble backward over the gravel and onto the bridge, through the strip of forest to the parking lot beyond.
Then he takes the truck out of reverse and pulls up by the church.

That’s when I realize the church is wrong. “Oh my God.”

He looks over at me then ducks his head to follow my gaze. It’s not the wrong color or in the wrong place, but it is much too big. There’s a whole wing that shouldn’t be there—that
wasn’t
there when Megan and I arrived. “Do you see that?” I ask.

“See what?”

“That wing right there.” I roll down the window to get a better look and point at it. “When did that get there?’

“The Kincaid family donated that,” he says. “Or the money for it, I guess.”

“You know the Kincaids?” I say, confused.

“No,” he says after a pause. “My mom used to go out with a guy from the church. Real nice guy. They were gonna get married for sure, just as soon as he and his wife got divorced.”

“The Kincaids don’t even
go
to that church,” I say.

He just shrugs and pulls onto the road, cranking his window down to match mine. For a while we don’t talk, but it’s not awkward despite the obvious tension between us. At least I think it’s obvious. I only have experiences with Matt to compare things to, and this feels like something else entirely.

Matt. Thinking about him makes my stomach roil.

“I don’t want to go home,” I admit. If I go home, I’ll be sad and lonely, upset about Matt and endlessly fixated on Grandmother’s warning and the way the world keeps changing. Sitting with Beau, I don’t feel like those things can get at me as easily.

“Where do you wanna go, then, Natalie Cleary?” Beau says. “You want beer and cereal?”

His hazel eyes flash from the road to me, and I feel an instant
flush of heat from my chest out through my shoulders and neck. He gives me that smile that makes his eyelids look heavy, and the wind whipping through his window blows a piece of his hair against his mouth.

As if to prove our thoughts are in sync, he moves his hand from the headrest and tucks a stray wisp of my own hair behind my ear, then sets his hand down behind my head and turns back to the road.

The thought of going to Beau’s house makes me feel like my veins are full of butterflies. But I turn cold as everything that happened tonight pushes to the forefront of my mind. I don’t think I could handle it if something real happened between me and Beau tonight. “I think I want to be outside for a little bit, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” He draws up to a stoplight, scans the abandoned intersection, and turns us back the way we came. When we pull onto the driveway to the high school, we pass the side of Matt’s property, and I can vaguely make out the sounds of the party in the distance. My stomach turns sour, and I close my eyes, focusing on the warm breeze rippling over me to stave off tears.

Beau pulls around the street behind the field house on the far side of the football stadium and turns the truck off.

“I knew it,” I say.

“Knew what?”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Fullback.”

“What makes you so sure I play?” He climbs out of the truck, and I follow him around to the back.

“Don’t you?” I ask.

He pulls aside a tarp in the truck bed, lifts up a six-pack of
Miller High Life, and rests the cans on the tailgate.

“Come on. You’re
such
a football player.” I glance down, and sure enough there’s a battered, battle-weary football lying there in the bed. I hold it up.

He stares at me for a long moment, then finally says through a smile, “No idea how that got there.”

He reaches for the ball, and I pull it back, out of his reach. “I knew it!”

He turns and leads the way to the fence around the field, calling back to me, “Bring that with you, Cleary.” He climbs the chain link first, still holding the beer with his left hand, and I toss the ball over then follow. When I’m on the other side but still holding on to the fence, still a few feet off the ground, I jump, and he catches my waist as I land. He doesn’t let go even as I turn to face him.

“Halfback,” he says.

His fingers graze over me as I walk out of his grip, laughing as I reach to grab the football. “Okay, let’s see it,” I say. “Show me the money. Or whatever.”

He pulls a beer from the plastic rings and hands it to me, and I probably take it only so my hand can brush his. He cracks a can open for himself as he walks backward across the dark field. “Whenever you’re ready,” he calls.

I tuck the ball under my arm, open my beer, and take one bitter gulp before setting it down in the grass. I throw the football, which spirals up beautifully, then hits the ground ridiculously close to me. Beau tips his head in an almost reproachful gesture.

“Hey, that looked great,” I protest.

“I’ll give you that,” he says, going to retrieve the ball. “It
looked real pretty for those two seconds it was in the air.”

He backs up again and throws the ball my way. It arcs high between us, and I turn and run as I watch the little blur of darkness streak over the starlight before plummeting down to the field. It falls into my open arms as I reach the end zone, and I slam it against the ground. Beau claps. “You’re fast, Cleary,” he calls, his voice reaching me only dimly.

“And you can throw.” I snatch the ball and cross back toward him as he bends to pick up his can. “Ready?”

He nods, takes another swig, and I toss the ball back his way. He runs forward, catching it neatly with his free hand. “That was better,” he says.

“You’re a liar,” I say.

“Yeah, it sucked.”

“But I’m
fast
,” I say. “In case you forgot.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “I didn’t.” He walks backward and throws the ball again, but this time as it soars overhead, he takes off running toward me, and I break into a full-out sprint toward the falling ball and end zone, feeling him gaining on me.

I start to laugh and I can’t keep my pace. It’s like being tickled, when you suddenly lose control of your hands and feet. As I see Beau come into my peripheral vision, I veer right, biting back laughter as I fight to keep my lead on him. He catches me around the waist, and I let out a half-screamed laugh as he spins me in place, the ball falling between my arms to the ground. He sets me back down, his arms still locked loosely around me, his chin over my shoulder. We just stand there like that, swaying back and forth, my back warm with his heat, the side of my face barely touching the side of his. I’ve never liked
the smell of sweat so much. His is nice, warm and earthy, soft.

I turn in his arms to face him. “Thanks for finding me tonight,” I say quietly.

“It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head.

“Fahn.”

A smile crooks up the side of his mouth, his forehead lowering against mine. “Do I sound like that?”

I nod against him. I could kiss him right now, but I barely know him, and then there’s Matt . . .

I move out of Beau’s arms, my cheeks still burning. I pick up the football again, jogging the few remaining yards to drop it in the end zone. Beau throws his arms out to his sides in mock disgust. “You little snake. I should’ve known you were just distracting me.”

“The oldest trick in the book,” I say.

“The one where the other team makes you think you’re about to make out,” he agrees. “Usually doesn’t work quite that well.”

“Well, I’m
really
good.”

We sit down on the grass together beside our beer cans, and a few minutes pass silently, but I still don’t feel uncomfortable. In the least creepy way possible, this reminds me of when I used to go to the stables with my dad. We could easily spend the whole day in silence and not even notice until we were greeted at home by Mom, the extreme extrovert, who’d fire off a million questions and demand stories from our time away. I like being around people, most of the time, and I certainly wouldn’t call myself shy, but there are certain people you can just be silent with—like Dad, and Megan—and it’s every bit as good as a long heart-to-heart. That’s how sitting with Beau feels.

He lies back on the field. “Natalie Cleary, you are pretty,” he says quietly.

I laugh and lie down beside him, letting my head rest in the dip between his shoulder and collarbone. I feel his lips and nose against the top of my head, and I know if I looked up at him right now we would kiss. I can imagine exactly how it would feel. “Where are you from?” I ask instead.

“Here,” he says, and I don’t think he’s going to say any more. His eyes are closed, his forehead serious. “But when we were kids, I went to live with my dad for a while in Alabama and then Texas.”

“Why’d you come back?”

His shoulder shrugs under me. “My dad got sober and then he remarried, and then his wife got pregnant. They decided it didn’t make sense for me to stay. He still cares about the important stuff, though. Course, he
misses
all that stuff, but he makes sure to mail me a fifth of whiskey every few months in his place.”

I sit up on my elbow and look at him until his hazel eyes open. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s
fahn,
” he says. “This is home anyway.”

I wonder what that must feel like, to know that for sure.
This is home.
I look around the field, up at the stars, back down to Beau’s hazel eyes. I listen to the crickets sing and watch the sparkle of lightning bugs around us. When the world is quiet and no one else is around, Union still feels like home. I don’t think that feeling ever left me, really. It’s the noise and eyes of other people here that make me feel stilted and caged, like I’m onstage and everyone is watching for
signs
that I don’t belong
in everything I do. I’d like to think I’m self-aware enough to know that thought is both narcissistic and ridiculous, but at the same time, I can’t make myself stop acting like it’s true. Being around people is exhausting. Being around Beau is like a really good version of being alone, as easy but more fun.

I lie back down, and Beau’s arm wraps around me, his fingers soft on my shoulder. “I don’t know my birth parents,” I tell him. “I was adopted when I was eleven days old, and I’ve always lived here, but I don’t really know where home-
home
is.”

“I bet your mom was a doctor,” he says.

“Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

“Same reason you knew I played football, probably.”

“My muscular body and worn-out T-shirt,” I say.

“Tell me you’re not going away to some fancy college to become a doctor or a lawyer or something like that,” he says.

“Actually, no,” I say.

He looks down the plane of his face at me. “So you’re staying here.”

“Well, no.” I’m unable to meet his eyes. “I
am
going away to some fancy college, but I think I’m going to study history.”

“History.” His thick eyebrows rise. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

“Are you surprised by how boring my future sounds?”

“It was never my favorite subject,” he says.

“What was?”

“Probably gym,” he teases.

“Well, that was my second choice,” I say. “I’m just not sure Brown offers degrees in classes that are named for the room they take place in.”

“Their loss.” He sits up enough to take another sip of beer.

“Really, though, Beau. Gym?”

His eyes scan the starry sky. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe woodshop.”

I consider pointing out that’s another class named after its location. Instead I watch his breath raise and lower his chest slowly and imagine his hands working over wood with the same tenderness and exhilaration with which they traveled across the piano that night in the band room. Of course it makes perfect sense that the same hands that pulled those notes from those keys could make beautiful objects too. Physical incarnations of his music. His serious eyes slide down to mine. “Really, though, Natalie,” he imitates me.
“History?”