Page 18 of Wild Eyes
My palm lands on one of the roots. It’s smooth, weathered—no bark remains. But there’s beauty in it—the streaks of distinct colors, the distress marks that tell a story.
Fine lines.The term pops up in my head and makes me smile as I admire the wood. I feel connected to this tree in a way. The tides have tried to wash it away, but it’s here. Still standing.
As I take another step to see the tree from the front, I freeze in my tracks. Wedged between two of the huge roots, seated on a log, is a boy with a book on his lap. I’ve always liked children, been drawn to their honesty and simplicity, but I’m not familiar enough with them to know how old he might be.
Old enough to be reading. Young enough to be all knobby knees and missing teeth.
He stares at me with wide, alarmed eyes. Blue eyes. I’m not making the same mistake twice. This kid has West stamped all over him.
“Hi. I’m Skylar. Sorry to interrupt you. I just wanted to see the lake.”
The boy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes go from startled to studious. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I keep talking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place like this. I’m sure it’s not that impressive to you, being that you live here—or so I assume. But it’s…” I pause and hold a hand over my brow as I turn in place to take it all in. “It’s so peaceful. I can see why you’d read down here.”
I peek at the boy, and he gives me a soft smile just as “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under” by Shania Twain blasts from farther up the hill. A classic, really.
The boy rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Is that your dad?”
He shakes his head, still with an amused twist to his mouth.
“Sister?”
Now a nod.
I smile to myself as I turn and stare back out over the water and imagine what it must be like to grow up in a home on a huge chunk of land. Where your aunt picks you up from summer camp and your dad lets you blast music for fun.
Only now, face-to-face with his child, does it really hit me that West—the West I’ve been eye-fucking all day like a hungry little ho—is adad. And he didn’t make them on his own, which means I’ve been salivating all over a married man.
Under the self-loathingheading in my brain, I addanothertally mark and vow to knock that shit off.
It keeps things far simpler. I’m in no position to be lusting after some manly man. Not when I’m not staying here long-term. And not when I don’t trust a single person.
I’d be a goddamn nightmare in a relationship right now.
Yes, this is much,muchbetter. It’ll keep me focused on my career. It’ll keep me focused on figuring out my shit, rather than looking for validation anywhere I can find it.
I, Skylar Stone, need to learn to love myself.
And right now, I don’t.
But I do love the view.
The water twinkles and the bugs dip down on top of it, dotting the surface with tiny ripples. The sun is lower in the sky, more golden orange than the blinding lemon color it was earlier.
I feel warm to my bones.
“I’m actually staying in your bunkhouse for a while. I hope that’s okay with you. Your dad seemed to think it would be fine. So no stranger danger here—Oh!” I exclaim as a large bird torpedoes toward the lake headfirst. It hits with a loud slap, submerging itself for only a moment before surfacing with a shiny, wriggling fish. Then it ascends, back into the sky, heading toward the nearest treetop. “Fuck, that was incredible.”
The kid laughs in that manic way children do when an adult swears in front of them. I should feel bad, but there’s something mature about this boy that makes me feel like he can handle it.
“I have no idea what kind of bird that was, but it was cool. I love birds. Imagine being able to fly and just see it all?” I sigh. “That’s how I usually trick my brain into falling back asleepwhen I wake up at night. I take a bird’s-eye view cruise over all the places I’ve been in the world. And I’ve been a lot of places.”
But none of them have grabbed me by the throat quite like this one.
“Sorry, what’s your name?” I ask without glancing back at the boy.
