#Superfan (12 page)

He’s an older version of his son. The mop of unkempt curls is cut short on his head. His shoulders are broad and his body lean. His long, dark lashes are somehow darker, and I imagine they’re wet with tears.

“Brantley,” a girl says. She’s around sixteen or so, with long hair spilling over her shoulders and Eight’s eyes. She reaches for another girl standing beside her, one almost the same age. They clutch hands, both of them gaping at their brother in disbelief.

Eight buckles beside me. Hunkered over, he plants his hands on his knees, gasping. My hands flounder above his bent back. Wanting to touch. Not sure if I should touch. He’s broken, bent in half and hanging on by a thread. If I touch him, surely he’ll snap.

Eight’s father doesn’t speak. He drops a tiny flower on the mound in front of him and lumbers past us. He never even glances my way. Not once. Two young men follow suit. They stare at us as they pass. I grapple at a memory. How many brothers did he say he had? How many sisters?
Two of each. I’m the oldest.
They’re all present and accounted for. A weird sense of disappointment floods me, and I’m ashamed of myself. As though their lives aren’t as valuable as the one person not present at the graveside.

The girl with Eight’s eyes sniffs. She releases the hand of the other girl, a taller sister with straight, dark hair and anime-like eyes. They both trudge over to where we stand.

Eight straightens. His face crumbles when his eyes connect with those of his sisters. Both girls rush forward. They embrace, the three of them, and I take a step back, distancing myself to give them the space they need. I’m the odd person out, and I haven’t felt so awkward in a long time. And I’m the mayor of Awkward Town.

“Amelia.” Eight kisses the shorter girl, the one with his eyes, on her cheek, and then the taller sister. “Cate.”

“Brantley.” Cate wipes her eyes with the back of her hands. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“You’re both grown.” The three break from their embrace, but all hold hands, forming a circle. “You were both kids when they kicked me out.”

“Kicked you out?” Amelia drops his hand. “They kicked you out?”

“You didn’t know?” A dark chuckle escapes Eight’s mouth. “Of course you didn’t know. They kept everything hush hush, as always.”

“We woke up one morning and you were gone,” Cate says, tucking a strand of her super-straight hair behind one ear. “Father told us to never speak of you again. We had no idea what happened. We still have no idea what happened.”

“I left because of Isabeth Morgan.” Eight’s gaze shifts away from his sisters. “We … were caught together.”

A vision of a younger Eight flashes in my mind. Eight and a faceless girl, kissing inside her father’s barn. He pushes her against a stack of hay bales, touching her more intimately than he’s ever touched me. Dust motes float in the sunlight drifting through the cracked barn doors. Their moans fill the space inside my head, and I literally shake the thought away.

“Isabeth Morgan?” Cate glances down at her sister. “So that’s why she became a runner.”

A runner?

I must say the words aloud, because all three siblings turn to me. My cheeks heat at the girls’ curious stares, and for the first time since we arrived I wish I were invisible.

“Cate, Amelia, I want to introduce you to someone. This is Alex, my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. The word shocks me into silence, makes my attempt to take a step forward and greet them nonexistent. Girlfriend? Is that what I am? Don’t people normally sit and discuss these things? These relationship statuses?

I have no idea.

Eight sort of cocks his head and nudges me forward with a look in his eyes. Whatever stunned state I found myself in fades, and I step forward. Hands woven together in front of me, I smile and nod at the two girls, hoping my awkwardness doesn’t shine.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” I tell them.
Lie.
But it’s a good lie, one that hurts no one because their faces light up and their eyes shine at Eight’s stupefied expression.

“It’s so good to meet you.” Cate takes my hand between both of hers. “I’m only sorry we have to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

We all cast a look at the grave behind the girls.

Eight clears his throat, but when he speaks it comes out as a croak. “That’s Mother, isn’t it?”

Both girls nod. All three of their faces pinch in sadness before the tears make their vengeful return. The two girls take Eight’s arms, attempting to tug him to the grave, but he shakes his head.

“She didn’t want me here then. I’m sure she doesn’t want me here now.”

Forgetting my awkwardness, I touch his arm. He jumps from the contact, as though he’s forgotten I’m here. Disappointment floods my senses and I take a step back, but before I can shrink away, he’s holding my hand.

“We should leave,” he says, his voice cracking again. “We don’t belong here. I don’t belong here.”

Amelia’s eyes widen. She steeples her hands in a desperate plea. “But you just got here. You haven’t spoken to Father, or Keat. Or Orson.”

“They knew it was me,” he says, his voice gruff. “And they kept walking. Father didn’t want me here. Mother didn’t fight for me. There’s no sense in me staying.”

“What about us?” Cate asks. “We want you here. Don’t we count?”

Eight looks down into the eyes of his younger sister and purses his lips. “Of course you count.”

His gaze travels from their faces to his mother’s grave. His grip on my hand tightens, tugging me closer to his side. He drops my hand, his fingers crawling along my lower back until they settle above my right hip.

“What happened to her?” Eight whispers.

“Cancer,” Amelia responds. “She fought it for three years, but the sickness was stronger than her.”

“She called for you in the days prior to her death,” Cate says. Amelia nudges her, shaking her head. Cate shrugs. “What? He should know.”

“Why? So he can feel guilty for not coming around?” Amelia rolls her eyes.

“You heard him. It’s not his fault he wasn’t around,” Cate retorts.

Blanching, Eight drops his head as they continue to argue. I plant myself in front of him and gaze at him until he raises his head.

“We can leave, if this is too painful.”

Eight nods, but I sense the hesitation in the action.

“Or we can stay,” I continue, giving him a grim smile as his eyes widen. “We can stay and you can speak to your father. Find some closure so you can both move on with your lives.”

“I like option two,” Amelia says, a soft smile touching her lips. “And I like your girlfriend. She’s smart.”

“You all saw him walk past without a single word. What makes you think he wants to talk to me?”

“Because he’s your father.” I shrug. “What he did to you was wrong, and I’m not trying to rationalize it or give him an easy out, but even the most stubborn, irrational fathers deserve a second chance.”

“Is that so?” Eight gives me a knowing smile. “Maybe you should take a bite from the dish you’re trying to serve.”

Hypocrite. That’s what I am. My mother’s pleading texts remain unanswered inside my phone.

“At least try,” Cate says. “Go back to the house. Tell him you want to speak to him alone. Try to work things out where you can at least visit us from time to time.”

“But you’ll never be able to visit me,” Eight replies. “We can hash things out, come to some sort of understanding, but will it really change anything? You’re still stuck here on this farm.”

Cate crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes. “Stuck? Is that how you felt? Is that how Isabeth felt before she ran?”

“You and Isabeth.” Amelia touches her cheek, her pinky finger dwelling by her full, bottom lip. “It all makes sense now. She ran away about a year after you did. Have you seen her?”

“I didn’t run,” Eight reminds her. “I was made to leave. And I haven't seen Isabeth since the night I was forced off the farm.”

“People say she lives in New York City.” Cate scrunches her nose in disgust. “Who’d want to live there?”

“Around eight million people,” I reply, and immediately wish I hadn’t. They both stare at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. “I’ve always wanted to go there on vacation. I guess … y’all don’t take vacations?”

“Vacations mean leaving, and why would we ever leave?” Amelia asks. “We have everything we need right here.”

“You’ve never dreamed of leaving?” Eight drags his fingers through his hair, a shocked expression on his face. It’s as if he can’t comprehend anyone ever wanting to willingly stay in the community in which he was raised. “Not once?”

“I dream of marrying Dylon Pryor,” Cate says, smiling at her sister. “Amelia dreams of having her own place on the farm. We both dream of weddings and having babies and sewing their baptismal gowns. Heck, Amelia’s already made hers.”

Amelia elbows her sister, and the two girls giggle. Then, as if they both remember the somber reason they stand in this cemetery, their lips flatten into two serious lines.

“I dreamed of leaving,” Eight says. “But I always stayed for you. For Keat and Orson. For our parents. I never stayed for me.”

“I heard you came back,” Cate whispers, and my ears perk up. “About six months after you left. Dylon told me. He told me he saw you out by the vegetable stands.”

“I came back to check on … to make sure …”

Eight doesn’t finish his sentence. The two girls stare at him with expectation, but only I know what he doesn’t say.

To make sure Isabeth wasn’t pregnant.

“To make sure we were all okay?” Amelia asks. “Dylon told us you asked. We thought you’d returned. We told Mother, but she said you wouldn't be back. Not for good. Not ever.”

Amelia begins crying again. Something wet touches my face. I bring my finger to my cheeks and then withdraw my hand. I stare at my own tears on my fingertips, and I try to imagine a life without my family in it. Without my parents wanting me in it. And as nosey and selfish and positively crazy as they all are, I can’t imagine them ever turning me away for good.

Eight doesn’t have that privilege. His father continues to shun him, and now his mother is dead, relinquishing any hopes of mending their broken bond. It’s not fair. Eight doesn’t deserve this. He deserves to surround himself with people who love him, people who want to spend the rest of their lives with him.

Someone like me.

An overwhelming shock courses through me. Spend the rest of your life with him? With this one person you’re still learning about every day? But isn’t that what love is? Learning all those little things that make a person who they are? Molding yourself to someone, our broken bits and pieces fitting into their broken bits and pieces until you form one complex puzzle? The thought is staggering. Staggering and terrifying and completely exhausting. I want to hug him, kiss him, tell him I love him, but most of all, I want to run.

But I don’t. I stay.

“Come back to the house,” Cate pleads. “Talk to Father.”

“Not tonight,” Eight replies, his voice thick with emotion. “Let him mourn.”

“Not tonight, but you will return?” Amelia bounces on the balls of her feet. “Someday?”

“Someday soon,” I say, smiling at Eight. “Even if I have to force him.”

Cate laughs. “Something tells me she isn’t kidding.”

“You two should head home before he sends the men out with pitchforks and torches,” Eight says. “I can’t believe he left you behind to speak to me as it is. Let’s not push him.”

“No, let’s not,” Amelia agrees. “Baby steps.”

And just like that, I’m transported back in time, to a similar conversation with Eight. A time when I grew frustrated with the wall he’d built around himself. One that’s slowly crumbling with time.

“Brantley’s right,” Cate says, shuddering in the cold. “We should go before we catch the death of pneumonia.” Cate balks at her own words, shaking her head. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“No you’re not.” Eight embraces his sisters one last time. “Can we drive you?”

“Are you kidding?” Amelia laughs and the three siblings break apart. “Can you imagine Father’s face if he saw us getting out of a car?”

They laugh like it’s the most absurd thought imaginable while I stand by the wayside, numb and dumb. The two sisters pull me in for a hug, so unexpected that my arms flail about unsure what to do until it’s too late and they’ve extracted themselves from my body. We follow them to the back of the car, watching as they both turn and wave.

Hand in hand, they disappear in the darkness, my worry following them. Having never been the outdoorsy type, I imagine bears and mountain lions and coyotes jumping the fences lining the roads, attacking the two young, doe-eyed girls as they walk back to their home.

Eight and I lean on the back of his car, me wringing my hands and him chuckling at my absurd concerns.

“I grew up here, and I only saw black bears once or twice,” he says.

I stare at his big, dumb face. “Once or twice? ‘Once or twice,’ he says.” I throw up my hands, exasperated. “Once or twice is enough to get someone killed.”

“No one is going to get killed.” One glance over his shoulder brings a solemn frown to his face. “I waited too long.”