Page 15 of Promise Me Never

“Yeah. I’m just being a baby.” She looks out the window. “Have you ever had stitches?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Along the outside of my hand.” I hold my right hand out in front of her, so she can look at the scar if she wants. She traces her finger along the faded red line. “Got caught in some wire the first year I was working here.”

“It suits you. All jagged and rough around the edges.”

I can’t argue with that, so I don’t say anything. She rolls down the window and tilts her head up to the sunshine, closing her eyes. It might be my favorite thing she does on every ride into town. It’s like she wants to experience the ride in every way possible. The smell of the trees and the juxtaposition of the heat from the sun mixed with the cool mountain breeze.

It makes me want to slow down for her.

And that scares me. I haven’t slowed down for eight years. I go through life moving quickly to keep my mind busy and my heart from crumbling. Which is why I should stay far away from Eli Hart. Yet I just keep circling closer and closer.

Maybe it’s just the novelty of having a new face so close all the time? God knows this town doesn’t see fresh faces all that often; even the tourist season doesn’t really touch the ranch. Obviously, I’m going to see her every time I look up.

“How old were you when you had sex for the first time?”

“What?” I damn near drive off the shoulder at her abrupt question.

“How old were you–”

“I heard you the first time,” I interrupt harshly. “I just wasn’t expecting it. Why are you asking me that?”

“Just thinking.”

“About me having sex?”

“Sex in general.” She looks back out the window as we pull up to the clinic. “Never mind.”

She’s out of the truck before I can turn it off. I’m left reeling in both confusion and curiosity. Why would she ask me that? Does it have anything to do with her dream?

My jaw feels like it’s going to break under the pressure of how hard it’s clenched as I follow her inside. How is she just going to drop that subject on me out of nowhere and then turn around and act like she didn’t drop a bomb in my lap? As if it’s any of her business in the first place.

“Janey just took her back,” Linda, the receptionist, tells me. “Honey, are you okay?” She lowers her eyeglasses down her nose to look over the rim at me. Her deep brown eyes look me over with concern.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Go on and have a seat.”

“What room are they in?” I begin to walk around the front desk.

She looks down at her computer. “Looks like the room number is,” she pauses to push her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose, “none of your business.” She points at the thinly padded chairs. “Sit down.”

“Eli was nervous about getting the stitches out.” I walk over and sit even as I argue.

“You walking in there like some ragin’ bull isn’t going to help calm her down, and if she wanted you in there, she would have said so.”

Linda was best friends with my mom, right up until the day she passed away. They met in college during a pottery class. When Mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Linda dropped everything and came running to help her. Sold her house in Houston and permanently moved here. It’s out of respect for their friendship and a little bit of fear that I stop arguing with her.

“Are we still on for dinner next week?” I ask after a few minutes.

“Yes, you better bring an appetite.” She stands, barely clearing the counter, and points one of her tiny fingers at me. “Your sister is coming, too, so you better not be starting any fights.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She snorts and sits back down.

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