Page 284 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“In L.A.,everyonecares who my father is. About what he might do for them. About how the connection mightservethem. And I get it. Everyone wants a leg up, and it’s hard to make it in this business if you don’t know someone who knows someone. But that rat race—it’s exhausting. When I left, I think I just wanted to be around people who would shoot straight with me. It was the only way I could think of to clear my head.”
We stop at a gate that leads into the orchard, and I unlatch it, holding it open while she passes through, then shut it behind us. “I think I know a little of what fame can do,” I say. “Not firsthand, of course. But when Flint’s career first took off, he really let it go to his head. We didn’t really like him for a couple of years. He’s grown up a lot, but he’s had to figure out ways to stay grounded, to keep his head clear. I think it’s great that you’ve done the same thing.”
“It’s hard to imagine any Hawthorne not being grounded, with how close your family is,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s a big part of it. And Flint stays really involved, even if he’s not here in person. He invested in the restaurant, backed Brody’s kayaking program at his school. And he covered Dad’s medical expenses after his stroke a few years back.”
“Has he ever thought about moving home?” Tatum asks.
“Actually, I was just talking to him about that the other night. I never thought it would happen, but he’s looking for property, talking about building something out here, so maybe so.”
Tatum’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the ground as we move through the apple trees.
“Lennox, you have a really amazing family,” she finally says. “I love the way you show up for each other.”
The wistfulness in her voice makes me think she must be thinking about her father, and a pang of sadness pushes through me, followed by an intense longing to give Tatum the kind of family she deserves. Not everything she’s told me about her father is negative, so I recognize the man must have some admirable qualities. But I don’t like the way he’s pressured her since she moved to Silver Creek. And I don’t like the idea of her feeling like she’s second to his career.
Tatum shouldn’t be second toanything.
We finally reach the trailhead, and I pause at the bottom. “It’s only about a quarter mile up,” I say. “But it’s pretty steep.”
She nods, her eyes dropping to Toby. “Will there be bears?”
“I know better than to promise anything,” I say, “but there shouldn’t be.”
Once we’re on the trail, our conversation dwindles, as it takes pretty much all our concentration to watch our feet and not trip on the rocks and roots that litter the trail. Toby does great, leaping over obstacles like he really was born to live in these mountains.
After about ten minutes of hiking, we step into a small clearing.
Tall trees rise up on either side, but in front of us, there’s only open air, the ground giving way to an impressive view of the rolling mountains, their hazy blues and greens blending into the morning sky.
Toby tugs toward the dropoff, and Tatum calls him back. “Hey, you stay close to me, boy,” she says.
“It looks steeper than it is,” I say. “We called this place the ledge growing up, but on the other side of the dropoff, there’s plenty of scrubby rhododendrons and an easy enough slope that even if he got away from you, there isn’t anywhere for him to fall.”
She nods, relaxing her hold on the leash as her eyes scan the expansive view in front of us.
“Look,” I say, stepping up behind her. I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her gently, loving the feel of her back against my chest. “If you look down this way, you can see the farmhouse. And the orchards out next to Mom and Dad’s house.”
“Oh, I see it,” she says. “It looks so small from all the way up here.”
“Are you hungry?” I move to a smooth stretch of rock in the middle of the clearing and pull a blanket out of my pack. “Want to sit?”
“I could definitely eat,” she says as she lowers herself onto the blanket. “What did you bring us?”
I pull out a couple of breakfast burritos and some bottled orange juice. “It isn’t much,” I say, handing her one of each. I pull a third burrito out of the bag and toss it over to Tatum. “This one is for Toby. It’s just eggs and sausage. I left out the cheese sauce because the internet told me it might make him sick.”
Tatum pauses, looking down at the extra burrito, her jaw slack. When she looks up, her eyes are shining. “You made a burrito for my dog.”
I shrug. “I thought he might get hungry.”
She puts both burritos on the blanket and crawls toward me, shifting onto her knees when she reaches where I’m still leaning over the pack. She cradles my face with her hands and kisses me softly.
She shudders, her breath catching, then a drop of moisture trickles into my beard.She’s crying.
“Hey,” I say gently. I tug her away so I can look into her eyes. I don’t care what she says. There’s no way she’s only crying over an extra burrito. “What’s going on? Tell me what’s wrong.”
She shakes her head, and I shift so I’m sitting on the blanket, pulling her down beside me, my arms wrapped around her shoulders.
