Page 14 of Little Bird
“Gabe,” I breathe. Then, because it’s the first thing that comes to my mind: “You used to be blond.”
He opens his mouth once, taking me in like he’s looking at a figment of his imagination come to life, and then closes his lips again. His eyes move quickly up and down my body, then slow and move over me again, and I can feel his gaze dragging over my skin, like he’s using his fingertips rather than his eyes. It makes me want to squirm. Arch my back and give him a show. Or hide.
I’m not sure.
The last time I saw this boy, he was staring out his window, tears in his eyes as my mother shoved me into her car, his expression crushed and betrayed.
The time before that, I was in his arms and he was kissing me like his life depended on it.
“And you’re supposed to be in New York City,” he says, his voice cracking. “Hello, Little Bird.”
Little Bird. The nickname they gave me when I first moved here and started finding broken birds outside. Bringing them in and giving them space to heal, then turning them free when they could fly again. At the time I’d thought that was all the name was. Now, hearing it cradled gently in his voice, I remember that it’s more than that.
My mother never changed my last name to Hawke. She said it was important for me to remember where I came from.
But Gunner and Gabe made me one of their own with a nickname my mom had written off. They’d taken the tiny girl who was forced into their lives and given her a name that showed the world that they owned her. Hearing it from him now has my heart pounding and my blood humming with something I don’t understand.
Suddenly a girl appears at his side, laughing and flighty, and shoots me a look of surprise. “Who the hell is that?” she asks, not bothering to keep her voice down.
Gabe stares at me for a moment longer, then shakes his head, and it’s as if a mask comes down over his expression. Gone is the dreamy, surprised look of someone seeing the girl who used to be his best friend. Now he looks scornful and aloof. Conceited.
Dismissive.
“No one,” he says quickly. “Just my stepsister. Actually, not even that. Her mom walked out on me and my dad four years ago. Never even said goodbye. Guess that makes you my ex-stepsister, right, Taryn? Nothing at all.”
He wraps one arm around the girl, looks at me with dead, uncaring eyes, and then turns and walks out.
And I’m left alone once again, with nothing but the creeping feeling that no one actually wants me here... and that they’d be happier if I just left again. I press my nails into the marks in my palm, seeking something that will ground me, and gasp when one nail finds a fresh wound. It feels good, though.
It feels real.
At least physical pain is something I can control. Not like the pain of seeing men I thought loved me turn their backs and tell me I don’t matter.
I turn off the griddle, throw the pancake mix in the trash, and head back upstairs. I’m not hungry anymore. I need something to clear my head of the residue Gabe and Gunner just left. And then I need to work on a plan to go somewhere else.
I was wrong. Hawke’s Wood isn’t home. It’s just a place that looked like safety, when all it actually offers is traps.
Gunner
The classroom is full, which is a surprise, every seat taken and a number of faces smiling back at me like they’ve been waiting all fucking morning just to be here.
I give them a slight smile back, schooling my face to be as friendly as possible, and let my eyes run across the students. Mostly girls in this class—in all the classes, if I’m being honest—and they all look far more chipper than I’m used to. I run my hand over my beard, wondering if I have something on my face, but there’s nothing.
Perhaps they’re just excited that this is the last class before Christmas break starts.
My smile grows more natural at the thought, because the students might be excited, but I bet my excitement beats theirs. After a full semester of new classes, this time with first and second years, I’m desperate for a break. I’ve been teaching at Paul Smith’s in Brighton for ten years now, specifically taking on classes on forest management and the biology that goes with it.
I was a biology major myself in college and wanted to become a doctor, but when my mother got sick, I cut med school short and moved home to take care of her. I didn’t want to leave school. I’d fought it, in fact. But I’d been the only one who could help. My younger brother was in the military and off fighting wars or doing whatever he did overseas, and though I called him and asked him to come home, he flat out refused.
Until a few years later when he arrived so suddenly that it caught us all by surprise. He stayed just long enough to get a girl pregnant and then left again.
In short, we hadn’t been able to count on him. When Mom got sick, I was the only choice. So I’d given up on my wish and gone to her, the way a good son should.
By the time she died, it was too late for me to get back into a medical program. I’d been out of school for too long and had fallen behind on all the most current research and studies. So I did the only thing available to me: stayed in Hawke’s Wood with my father and took over the family business. We were forest managers in town, and used the wood we cut to build bespoke, personalized furniture for people. It had always provided a good living for my family, and though I didn’t feel blessed to take it over—it had never felt as natural to me as medicine—I knew how lucky I was to have it.
When I heard the college at the bottom of the mountain was looking for professors, though, I jumped at the chance. I didn’t have a teaching certificate but my experience in med school and time as a real-life lumberjack made me a shoo-in for the position, and I quickly found that it fit me better than being a businessman. The college gave me specific rules to follow. Dependable hours. A schedule that never changed.
And for the past six years, with the furniture business getting more and more difficult to manage, my salary here has kept us afloat.
