Page 16 of Past Tents

“Alexandra.”

“Yes?”

“That’s not good. You should have mentioned that.”

“I just did.”

He blew out a breath and rubbed his hand over his face. “I mean before, when we were assessing your injuries. Do you need a doughnut? Or a chocolate bar? Is your blood sugar low?”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes I just forget to eat.”

“You forget...” Shaking his head, Clay tipped the back of his hand against my forehead as if checking for a fever. He really didn’t know much about first aid if he thought I had a fever from falling over a hurdle. “Alexandra, I was already concerned about leaving you alone with a possible concussion and now you’re telling me you forget to eat. Are you sure you can handle this yourself?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m fine.”

He stared at me for another few seconds, blinking at me as if in disbelief. This was the longest drive from school to a person’s house in the history of time.

Well, it wouldn’t be if he turned the car back into the lane and stepped on the gas.

“Anyway, as to the other thing, people don’t will things to their loved ones unless they want to. Unless you swindled your grandmother, I don’t know why you should feel guilty about receiving a gift.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Did you?”

“Did I, what?”

“Scheme and plot to trick your grandmother into leaving you her house on the lake?”

“I did not. I didn’t do anything goodorbad. She struggled with depression for most of her life and that was her big reason for choosing me. She wanted me to be happy, and I guess she thought Bandit Lake might be good medicine. It seemed rather random.”

His eyes passed over my face and down my chest, where my breasts were split by the seat belt, then down to where my hands fidgeted in my lap. Finally, his gaze moved back up to my face where it settled on my swollen, cracked lip before meeting my eyes again. “So your blood sugar isn’t low now,” he confirmed, as though his once-over proved it.

Plowing through my overstuffed purse, I produced a tube of Mentos and popped one in my mouth. “There. Better?”

I watched Clay chew on his bottom lip, noticing how the week’s worth of scruff highlighted his sharp jawline, how his Adam’s apple rose and fell when he swallowed. In all the years we’d known each other, I’d never spent this much time in one place with him alone. He was always moving, always had one foot out the door and a plan.

Slowly, with an exaggerated effort, Clay turned back toward the steering wheel and popped on his seat belt. “You don’t make it easy, do you?” he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean for me to hear it.

But since it was a question and I had an answer, I responded, “Guess not.”

As we drove, I wondered what his house was like. Even back when he and Jefferson spent most of high school together, I’d never been to Clay’s family home. I had no occasion to be invited. I was the little sister, not a part of their social circle. But back then, he didn’t live at Bandit Lake. That I knew for sure.

A left turn just past Daisy’s Nut House brought us to my neighborhood, and a few more turns had us heading down my street.

The truck stopped in front of my house, and Clay jumped out. Before I could take my seat belt off, he’d come around to my side and flung open the passenger door of the baby-blue truck. Without asking, he slung my purse and workout bag over his shoulder, scooped me up just as he had earlier, and carried me down the walkway to my front door.

My head whipped around to make sure none of my neighbors were around to see this. There would be questions for sure.

The coast appeared clear, and Clay deposited me on my feet at my front door, where I noticed my twin pink geraniums looked wilted and in need of water. It was strange because they’d been fine this morning, and I’d only planted them in the matching terra-cotta pots because they were extremely hardy. I regularly missed a week of watering at a time and had never seen them lose their vigor.

Clay didn’t seem inclined to hand over my purse, so I cleared my throat and gestured with a nod of my head. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against my green-painted banister. He’d shoved the sleeves of his workout shirt up to his elbows, so the bulge of his forearms nearly assaulted me with the sudden need to purchase a block of marble and sculpt them.

“Don’t get that from running,” I said weakly, trying to harness some sass and failing. Maybe my blood sugar was low. Maybe I did have a concussion. Or maybe it was just that Clay had been exceedingly kind to me over the past hour, and I wasn’t used to it. But suddenly, the normal banter I counted on didn’t come.

“Sorry?” Clay towered over me normally, but the strange confusion I felt around him now made me slump, so he was even taller. Taller and wrapped in layers of muscle.

“Nothing. I meant thank you. For carrying me all over the place and getting me home.”

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