I laid the last of the stones in its spot and stepped back to survey my work. I was satisfied with what I saw. The circular pattern had proven to be a bit challenging, but in the end, it all came down to math. I had worked out the configuration on paper first, mapping out the diagram and spacing before I had even laid the first stone. Then I had used string and stakes to make sure the sloping was just right so that the rain flowed away from my house. It looked good. Tomorrow, Iâd collect some sand from the shore and sweep it between the cracks and spray it down.
But right now, I needed to take a shower and get ready for Bree. Bree. Warmth filled my chest. I still wasnât a hundred percent sure about her motives, but I had let myself begin to hope that it really was just friendship she sought. Why with me, I didnât know. It had started with the sign language, and maybe for her, that fulfilled something. I wanted to ask her why she wanted to spend time with me, but I wasnât sure about the social rules there. I could figure out advanced masonry diagrams, but when it came to other people, I was lost. It was just easier to pretend they didnât exist at all.
Of course, it had been so long, I wasnât sure what came first, the town acting as if I was invisible, or me sending the message that I wanted to be invisible. Either way, I embraced it now. And Uncle Nate had definitely embraced it.
âItâs good, Archer,â he had said, running his hand over my scar. âThereâs no-one on Godâs green earth who can torture you for intel. You show âem your scar and pretend you donât understand, theyâll leave you alone.â And so I hadâbut it hadnât been hard. No one wanted to believe any different. No one cared.
And now, so much time had passed I felt like there was no going back. I had been okay with itâuntil she came waltzing onto my property. And now, I was getting all kinds of crazy, unwelcome ideas in my head. What if I went to see her at the diner she worked at? Just sat right at the counter and had a cup of coffee like I was a regular person?
How would I order a cup of coffee anyway? Just point at everything like a three year old while people laughed and shook their heads about the poor mute? No way. Just the thought alone filled me with anxiety.
As I was stepping out of the shower, thatâs when I heard the distant screaming. I jolted and pulled my jeans on quickly, putting my t-shirt on as I ran for the door. Shoes⦠shoes⦠I looked around and the screaming continued. That sounded like Bree. Forget the shoes. I ran out of my house and toward the woods.
I followed the sound of her anguished cries through the brush, down toward the lake to the beach at the very edge of my property. When I saw her, tangled in the net, thrashing and flailing, eyes closed tight, crying and screaming out, my heart felt like it burst wide open in my chest. Uncle Nate and his damn traps. If he wasnât already dead, Iâd have killed him.
I ran toward Bree and put my hands on her within the tangled rope. She jolted and began whimpering, bringing her hands up over her head and curling into a ball as much as she could within the trap. She was like a wounded animal. I wanted to roar with the anger coursing through me at my inability to reassure her. I couldnât tell her it was me. I released the top of the trap. I knew how these things worked. I had constructed enough of them as Nate and I sat on rocks down by the lake, and he plotted out the security of his compound.
She was shuddering violently now, little whimpers coming from her, tensing whenever my hands brushed her. I lowered her to the ground and I removed the ropes from around her body. Then I picked her up in my arms and started back through the woods to my house.
Halfway there, her eyes opened and she stared up at me, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart beat loudly in my chest, not from the strain of carrying her up the hillâshe felt like a feather in my arms, I was so filled with adrenalinâbut from the fear and devastation I could see etched into her beautiful features. There was a big, red welt on her forehead where she must have hit her head before the trap lifted her. No wonder she was all discombobulated. I clenched my jaw, swearing again to knock Nate out when I got to the afterlife.
As Bree stared up, she seemed to recognize me, her wide eyes moving over my face. But then her expression crumpled and she burst into sobs, bringing her arms up around my neck and pressing her face into my chest. Her cries racked her body. I held her more tightly as I stepped onto the grass in front of my house.
I kicked open the door and walked through, sitting down on my couch when I got inside, Bree still in my arms, crying harshly, her tears soaking my t-shirt.
I wasnât sure what to do, and so I just sat there, holding her as she cried. After a little while, I realized that I was rocking her and my lips were on the top of her head. Thatâs what my mom used to do when I got hurt or was sad about something.
Bree cried for a long, long time, but finally her cries grew quieter and her warm breath on my chest came out in gentler exhales.
âI didnât fight,â she said softly after a few minutes.
I held her away from me just a bit so that she could see my questioning eyes.
âI didnât fight,â she repeated, shaking her head slightly. âI wouldnât have fought either, even if he hadnât run.â She closed her eyes, but then opened them a few seconds later, looking at me with heartbreak.
I lifted her slightly and laid her back on my couch, her head propped on the pillow at the end. My arms were sore and cramping from holding her in the same position for so long, but I didnât care. I would have held her for the rest of the night if I thought she needed me to.
I drank her in, still so beautiful even in her pain, her long, golden brown hair lying in loose waves and her green eyes shimmering with tears. Didnât fight who, Bree?
The man who tried to rape me, she signed and my heart crashed to a stop before resuming a fast, erratic beat in my chest. The man who murdered my father.
I didnât know what to think, what to feel. I certainly didnât know what to say.
I didnât fight him, she repeated. Not when I saw him holding the gun on my dad and not when he came for me. My dad told me to hide and thatâs what I did. I didnât fight, she said, her face filling with shame. Maybe I could have saved him, she said. He killed my dad, and then when he came for me, I still didnât fight.
I studied her, trying to understand. Finally, I said, You did fight, Bree. You survived. You fought to live. And you did. Thatâs what your dad was telling you to do. Wouldnât you have done the same for someone you loved?
She blinked at me and then something in her expression seemed to relax as her eyes roamed over my face. And something inside of me felt like it released tooâalthough I wasnât sure exactly what.
Breeâs tears started to fall again, but the distant look of agony in her eyes seemed to dim just a little bit. I scooped her back up and held her against me once more as she cried quietly, and more gently this time. After a little bit, I felt her breathing deeply. She was asleep. I lay her back on the couch again and went and got a blanket and covered her up. I sat there with her for a long time, just staring out the window, watching the sun lower in the sky. I thought about how Bree and I were so different⦠and yet so similar. She carried the guilt of not fighting when she thought she should have, and I carried the scar of what happened when you did. We had each reacted differently in a moment of terror, and yet we both still hurt. Maybe there was no right or wrong, no black or white, only a thousand shades of grey when it came to pain and what we each held ourselves responsible for.