Authors: Karen Whiddon
She felt a flush of pleasure, which she instantly stifled. “Thanks, I—”
He held up a hand, his expression cold. “I don’t know why you’re here.” He paused for a second. “Look, I understand we used to mean something to each other when we were teenagers. But, whatever was between us was over with—a long time ago.” Though he was right, it
still hurt to hear him say it
.
Blinking back foolish tears, Hope told herself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. “How,” her voice faltered and she cleared her throat, to try again, “how do you know this?”
He shot her a glance, full of anger and a deep, bitter pain. “I heard that you hadn’t been back to Dalhart since you graduated high school. Ten years is a long time.”
Because he was right, Hope turned away and searched the sky for the sight of the lonely buzzard. She couldn’t find it again. For some reason, this both
ered her.
“So why, Hope Glidewell? Why are you here?”
“I came back to help you,” she said in a low voice.
“Why?”
“Because ... because
..She
didn’t know. Not really. Because when his sister had called the week before school let out for the summer, she’d been wondering how to fill the empty months she was off. Because she’d often wondered about him, and she’d never forgotten him. Because she, too, in her own way, had betrayed him. She told him none of those things.
“Because I thought coming here might make a difference,” she finally said, quietly.
Silence again, while he digested that. Hope chanced a look at him, glancing up from under her lashes.
Jeff’s enigmatic expression gave nothing away. “Maybe you can,” he said, his voice as rough as hers had been.
The quiet admission stunned her. She blinked again, trying to swallow past the strange lump in her throat. If he only knew, if he only remembered.
But then,
she thought wryly,
if he did remember, he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with me—or me with him.
“How?”
Jeff continued to regard her with the same curious detachment that both intrigued and infuriated her. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Maybe Charlene is right Maybe we should do stuff that we did as teenagers.” Heat flared in her cheeks as she remembered exactly
what
they’d done as two lovesick adolescents—and how, and when, and where. Praying her thoughts wouldn’t show in her face, Hope leaned forward and pointed. “The high school,” she told him. “Let’s go there.”
Without another word, he headed off towards the highway and the building where they’d spent most of their days.
Funny how some things never change, but still look different, Hope thought upon seeing the beige brick building that housed Dalhart High. Different per
spective, she imagined.
“Well?”
Startled, she swung around to find Jeff watching her. On impulse, she touched his arm. “Come on, let’s get out.”
Together, they walked up the sidewalk to the dou
ble front doors. They were locked, of course.
“You’re gonna have to tell me.” Jeff’s mouth curved in a mocking smile that rocked her back on her heels.
It was a moment before she could think coherently enough to answer him. “Tell you what?”
“Things we used to do. Where did we go? Who did we go with?”
He wanted her to relive her memories—their mem
ories—out loud. “I don’t—” He was right one hun
dred percent. If she didn’t share those times with him, there was no way her being here could help him.
Reluctantly
, as if her precious memories would be ruined by reliving them, Hope sighed. “We were in the same class here, you and I. We were inseparable, even as freshmen.”
Nothing but simple curiosity shone in his face. “Did
we meet here?”
She nearly recoiled. “You really don’t remember anything. No, Jeff. We’ve been, that is, we were, friends since the third grade.”
“Just friends.”
“Until our sophomore year, yes.” She smiled, remembering the lanky boy, all legs and ears, who’d brought her a red rose on Valentine’s Day. “After that, we were a couple. Until we graduated.” Or a few weeks before, she amended silently.
“What happened?” Sharp-eyed, Jeff rubbed his temple as if his head had begun to ache. “Did we just drift apart?”
Farther than you know,
she thought. She tried to think of an answer that would be truthful, but not too revealing. “We decided it would be better if we broke up.” Odd, how those words brought such fresh pain. “Then we went our separate ways. I went off to college at the University of Texas at Arlington, and you
...”
A thought struck her. She’d always wondered where he’d gone after graduation, how he’d ended up back in Dalhart when he’d been as eager to leave as she. “Did you go to Texas A&M on that football scholar
ship?”
His lips thinned. With a
restless
movement, he ran his hand over the metal plaque on the right of the school’s double doors. “I don’t know.” Bitterness colored his voice. “I really don’t know.”
For the first time, she realized how total the loss must be. How awful to exist, day to day, surrounded by people and things that should be familiar, but weren’t. How horrible to know that all one’s memo
ries, connections, and emotions existed, locked some
where inside. At least, she hoped they were there, that the slate hadn’t been wiped clean eternally.
Impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Sometimes I forget.”
His eyes darkened and he covered her hand with his with an awkward movement.
She stood stiffly, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Inside, she melted.
They stood that way, outside the entrance to the place that had once dominated their young lives. It felt familiar, and right, and poignantly sad. How many times, Hope wondered, had they stood in this very same spot, waiting for school to begin, her small hand tucked in his large one.
With a muffled oath, she yanked her hand away and moved to gaze out at the endless fields and the train tracks.
He watched her, his expression merely curious. It hurt even more to know that he had no idea how painful this was, or why.
“Tell me,” he ordered, his voice gentle and caring. It was the voice of a concerned stranger, to a woman in distress. She hadn’t known it would be this hard. After all this time, why was the wound still so raw?
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she muttered. “I just didn’t
expect..
Jeff went still, his expression wary. “What happened between us, Hope? It must have been something pretty bad to put those shadows in your eyes.”
She laughed, a sound that was almost a sob. “It was a long time ago. It shouldn’t bother me any
more.” And it wouldn’t, she was determined. “Years go past, life goes on. People move on.” Despite her effort to sound blase, she knew she sounded bitter.
“But it does.” With a
gentle
finger, he raised her chin. It struck her as the ultimate irony that he should be the one comforting her, when it should be the other way around.
Helpless to move away, she allowed his touch, the light caress of his thumb. She closed her eyes and
swallowed, trying to force away vivid memories of another time. “We were two totally different people.” An instant of anger flashed in his eyes, then van
ished. “And now I don’t even know who I am.” Guiltily, she glanced away. “I’m sorry.”
“You can go, you know.” He released her, shifting so that his body blocked the sun. They might have been chatting about the weather, for all the lack of emotion in his tone. “There’s probably nothing you can do for me anyway.”
“I can help.” Fiercely, Hope clenched her fists. “Give it time, Jeff. I can do this. I want to help you.” This time he didn’t ask her why. After one final, wordless glance at the empty high school, he strode to his truck and opened the passenger door. “Come on.”
Bemused, she couldn’t help comparing him—this handsome man, so big and powerful—with the lanky boy she once loved.
Loved.
It was the past tense. She needed to remember that. Taking a trembling breath, she reminded herself that it would be all right after all. She climbed into the truck and he got in beside her. The interior of the cab seemed to shrink.
“What now?” he asked, his voice so bleak that she knew he didn’t hold out much hope for whatever help she might be able to provide.
Determined to prove him wrong, she drummed her fingers on the dashboard. Her long, shapely painted nails were all wrong for Dalhart, but she didn’t care. She would keep them that way until they broke off. When she returned home to Dallas, she would simply have them done over again.
“I think we need to make a list.” Projecting self- confidence might help to instill some, or so she told herself.
“A list?” he echoed,
faintly
mocking.
“Yes.” Now that she’d thought of it, a list seemed to
be a wonderful idea. “I’ll make a list of things we used to do and places we used to go. Charlene can help. Then we can plan daily activities around that.” Looking briefly over his shoulder, he steered the truck out onto the highway. “Whatever.”
“You could show a
little
enthusiasm.”
He gave her a dark look. “Well, I would,” he drawled, “if I knew what I was supposed to be enthusi
astic about.”
Hope closed her eyes. This was going to be a long, long month.
The sun was straight overhead when they returned to the low-slung brick house. Walking through the doorway, Hope headed straight for the kitchen.
“I’m going to make a salad for lunch.” She’d noticed some fresh romaine lettuce and tomatoes in the refrigerator earlier. “Do you want one?”
Jeff was already heading towards his old room in the back of the house. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “I never eat lunch.”
Then he was gone.
“Invasion of the body snatchers,” Hope muttered to herself, determined to eat her salad and start work
ing on the list.
“What?” Charlene looked up from her book when Hope entered. “What did you say?”
Hope felt herself flush. “I was talking about Jeff. Sometimes it seems like there’s another man inside Jeff’s body.”
Charlene nodded sympathetically. “Did you make any progress this morning?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright and eager.
“No.” Hope found a colander and began rinsing lettuce. “But I’m hoping I can change that.” She outlined her idea of making a list
“Fascinating.” Setting aside a romance novel that was from Hope’s own stack, Charlene got up and began
rummaging in a drawer next to the sink. “Ah, here it is.”
Curiosity outweighing her hunger, Hope turned to see Charlene holding a faded spiral-bound book. “What is it?”
“Your old yearbook.”
Hope froze. “Does Jeff know?”
“About this?” Charlene gave a self-conscious laugh. “No. I just found it the day before you came. I was getting the guest bedroom ready. I so seldom have guests, you know, and I decided to turn the mattress. There it was, tucked in between the mattress and the box springs.”
Hope closed her eyes. The image of Jeff, the Jeff he’d been, haunted her. She could picture him shov
ing the yearbook in its hiding place because he couldn’t bear to throw it away—especially knowing what came after.
“Here.” Charlene slid it across the counter to Hope. “Maybe you two can look at it together some
time.”
Staring at the familiar book, Hope balked. “I don’t know. Maybe he should look at this on his own.”
“Too simple.” Waving her hand, Charlene gri
maced. “You look at it with him, point out pictures, tell him what happened in each one. He should
live
it with you. That way, he’ll know
exactly
what hap
pened and where.”
Slowly, Hope ran her finger along the spiral bind
ing. Jeff’s sister truly didn’t know, didn’t understand, what she was asking. How could she? Hope hadn’t even told her best friend what had happened all those years ago. For all Charlene knew, Hope and Jeff had been only teenage sweethearts, their romance fizzled out years ago, forgotten. She couldn’t know the truth.
She couldn’t know that Hope still ached from a wound ten years old. A wound that felt as fresh and new as if it were yesterday.
Conscious of Charlene’s steady regard, Hope reluc- tan
tl
y nodded. “I’ll try.”
With a soft sigh, Charlene covered Hope’s hand with hers. “That’s all you can do, honey. That’s all you can
do.”
“What does—” Hope lost her train of thought as Jeff appeared in the kitchen. Even now, the mere sight of him made her knees go weak. Locking gazes with him, her heart began to pound. She noticed he’d changed his sneakers for a pair of scuffed boots. He carried a battered black Stetson in one hand. Self-consciously, she slid the yearbook behind her. “I’m going home now.” He turned away, unsmiling.