Page 13 of Pushed to the Peak

This is exactly the kind of dive that I used to crash in as a young man, traveling through the country’s small towns, never staying in one place for more than a month or two. Guess Marigold and I have more in common than I realized. The smell of dust and musty carpets flings me back twenty years into my memories, back to worn hiking boots and dunking away layers of summer sweat in crystal clear rivers.

I shake the memories off and squint at a list of current occupants.

Seven. My girl’s in lucky number seven.

If I haven’t scared her clean away.

* * *

“Just a second,” Marigold calls, her soft voice floating through the door. I quit knocking, stuffing both hands in my pockets right before she tugs the door open. Her face falls when she sees me. “Oh.”

Her blonde hair is loose and rumpled, and she’s dressed in a white t-shirt and plaid shorts. Even with those tired shadows beneath her eyes, she’s even prettier than I remembered. She’s always prettier than my brain can handle.

“Marigold,” I grit out. My throat’s too tight to say much more, even though I planned out this whole speech on the walk over here—a real nice speech promising to keep my distance from now on if she’ll please, please just tell me what happened. “I… uh.”

Yeah, I’m no orator. Never have been. Tess and Jana are always teasing me for that in the bar, doing impressions of me where I just point and grunt like a caveman. And even though we chatted a bunch last night, even though things were easier with her than they’ve ever been with anyone else, now I’m back to square one with Marigold, staring helplessly at the angel I scared away without realizing.

Did I hurt her? Christ, I’ll never forgive myself if I did. But why else would she run away from me like that? Why else would she be frozen in her own doorway right now, eyes wide and cheeks pale?

“I’m not here to cause trouble.” I raise my palms. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I just came to make sure you’re okay.”

Marigold’s throat shifts as she swallows. She’s still clutching to the door like she might slam it in my face—and I’m sure I’d deserve that, but why? God help me, why?

A quick glance over her shoulder finds a half-packed backpack slung across a twin bed. There are piles of clothes on the mattress, and the drawers to her nightstand hang open.

She’s leaving. Because of me.

The ground cracks open beneath my boots.

“I’m okay,” Marigold murmurs, but I can’t hear her properly. Too busy staring at that half-packed bag and plummeting toward the earth’s core, down, down, down, my gut left behind like I’m on a roller coaster. “I’m sorry about last night,” she says, her voice far away to my ears. “It wasn’t anything you did, I swear.”

“You’re leaving.” My voice is choked, unrecognizable. This can’t be happening.

Marigold winces but nods. “Yeah.”

She’s not clutching the door anymore—more fiddling with the handle. The tension seeps out of her shoulders too, until she looks as tired and sad as I feel.

Something thumps behind her neighbor’s door, while the faint sound of a shower floats down the hallway. It’s dim in this corridor, but sunlight spears through the window above Marigold’s bed and makes the strands of her hair glint gold.

“Did I…” Can barely force the words out, my gut lurching and roiling. “Did I hurt you? Scare you?”

Marigold sucks in a sharp breath and shakes her head. “What? No. No, of course not.”

“But why else—?”

She turns and crosses to the bed behind her, then plucks her sketchbook from the messy piles of clothes. Eyes cast down, Marigold comes back to the doorway and holds it out to me.

“The answers are in there.”

After a moment, I take the sketchbook. It’s surprisingly heavy, pages crinkling between the covers, and Christ, I have not had enough coffee to deal with riddles. What exactly is she trying to say?

“You mean the sketches of me?”

Marigold looks miserable as she hugs herself. “Sort of. It’ll make sense when you see—but please go somewhere else first. I can’t bear to watch you look at them.”

My heart thuds, sluggish and steady. I squint at my girl, haloed with bright sunshine, as my aching brain tries to put two and two together.

“You’re talking about the secret sketches,” I say slowly. “The ones you did of me before.”

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