I stand there a little longer, until I feel like he’s done, and then I get ready to go talk to my dad. He’s with the parole officer so I wait. I turn and lift my foot to take a step, but the tip of my flip-flop gets caught on a tree root and I trip, my hands flailing as I careen toward the ground. But before it happens, strong arms catch me, and I tumble into something solid.
I roll over and look down. I brush my hair back from my face. I’m lying halfway across Pete, and he’s holding his hands out to the side to keep from touching me. I scamper to roll off him.
“Shit,” he grunts as he lumbers to his feet. “Ten bucks says you’re the daughter.”
I close my eyes for a second and try to control my breaths. I have wanted to talk to this man for almost two and a half years. But he looks at me like he doesn’t know me.
“And there go my nuts.”
My gaze slices to meet his. His eyes twinkle.
He jerks his thumb toward my father. “He was serious about the hatchet, wasn’t he?”
He looks so worried that I feel a bubble of laughter building within me, replacing hurt that came with him not recognizing me. “’Fraid so,” I say, biting back a grin.
“Figures,” he mumbles, and he walks toward his cabin, shaking his head. I watch him walk away. He doesn’t remember me.
Pete
Reagan. Damn, she’s pretty. Then again, she’s the first girl I’ve had my hands on in almost two years. She lay there on top of me for a second, looking down at me, and I immediately knew who she was. I’ll never forget her. But the last time we met…it wasn’t a good night for her. And she would probably be uncomfortable if I brought it up. I don’t want to get sent back to the city. I want to be here. I want to work with these kids. I want to have this damn tracking bracelet off my leg so I can go back to some semblance of a normal life. I just want to be Pete.
I wish the f**k I knew who Pete is. I had a pretty good idea of what my life would be like until my brother Matt got sick. Then things got all f**ked up.
Then I did what I did and ended up in jail. It was all my fault, and I take full responsibility for it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck ass.
She has green eyes and the same freckles I remember across the bridge of her nose. Shit. I can’t even think about things like that. If I were at home, I would ask her out to dinner. I would tell her about how I know her. I would find out if she’s all right. Then I would ask her out on a date. But here, I’m nothing. Nothing but a man who would get his nuts chopped off for talking to her. I have no doubts that her father was serious. Dead serious. I adjust my junk and keep moving.
But then she looks over at me, glancing over her shoulder. Her face colors, and my heart starts to do a little pitter-patter in my chest. I’m an ex-con who’s still on house arrest, and she’s looking at me like I’m a real live man? She licks her lips and turns away to talk to someone else. I want her to look at me again.
Her blond hair is damp, and it’s tangled up into a messy knot on top of her head. She’s not wearing any makeup. The women I know paint their faces until they’re almost unrecognizable when they get out of the shower. This one is all natural. And I like it. I shouldn’t. But I do. I could look at her all day.
There was a second when she fell on top of me that she looked fearful. Was that because of what happened to her? Does she even remember me?
But then a motorized wheelchair zips toward me. “Hold on there, Speedy Gonzales,” I say, stepping in front of him. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
The young man is blond and fair, and he has a piece of plastic sticking out of his neck. He signs to me, but his movements are jerky and off balance. They’re not fluid like sign language usually is. Marshmallows, he spells with his fingers. He jerks his crooked finger toward where someone is lighting a campfire.
I wonder if this is the boy I’m supposed to work with. An older woman runs up behind him, her breaths heaving from her. “Sorry,” she pants, clutching her side. “He’s hard to keep up with in that chair.” She extends a hand. “I’m Andrea. And this is my son, Karl. Karl’s excited to be a camper this year.” I shake hands with her and drop down in front of Karl.
“You can hear, right, Karl?” I ask, signing to him. He nods and smiles, but it’s jerky and crooked. He’s so damn excited he can barely sit still in his chair.
I can hear, he signs. I just can’t talk.
I nod. I get it. “How old are you?” I ask.
Fifteen. He looks around me toward the campfire. I think he really wants to get to where the other kids are congregating.
“Such a lovely age,” his mother says, rolling her eyes.
He’s fifteen? He can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. I step out of his way. “Go get ’em, Gonzales,” I say, nodding my head toward the fire. He grins and rolls away from me, stopping beside where Reagan is now setting up chairs by the fire.
“I think he already has a crush on Reagan,” she admits.
“Reagan?” I ask. My Reagan?
Reagan stirs up more emotion in me than I know what to do with. I shake it away, and I look at Gonzo’s mom. “Can you tell me a little about his challenges so I know what I’m working with?” I ask.
“Not what you’re working with,” she corrects. “Who you’re working with.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” I start.
She lays a hand on my arm. “Where did you learn to sign?”