Beneath

36 THE HARDEST TRUTH

NOAH

"We should talk."

I blink and sit up. There are only embers left among the ash just ahead. John's in a black coat and boots with two cups of steaming coffee in his hands.

Panic starts to claw its way up my throat. "Where's Camila?

"She is outside helping me with work. Charlie is there. I suppose he is more of a distraction than anything. Loud, not like my Goldie was. I will never have a dog after her. I do not like the barking. Please take this mug. She said to give this to you beforehand."

I make two fists, very much ready to throw something. "Before what?"

"Her story." He lifts one white mug. "Coffee."

I take the coffee from John's hand, not because I want it, but because my hands need something to do. The scorching of the cup seeps into my stiff fingers. I ease slightly and lift the mug to my lips. It's all rich hot bitterness.

"John," I start, my voice tight, "Cam's been through enough. She doesn't need to be outside in this weather."

John takes a sip of his coffee. "She's tough. I have no worries."

"She's been pushing too hard. She doesn't need to be out there freezing to death."

He just looks at me, his dark eyes piercing but still composed, and something about it strikes me as haunted. Haunted by him for reasons I don't understand, and by me because right now, in this moment, this man looks like my father. A ghost of someone I've known.

"When the mind is too loud, work is the only thing that quiets it," says John.

"That's bullshit." I leave the coffee on the nearest table and stalk toward him.

John steps back with raised hands before I get too close. And for whatever reason, I stop. He looks scared of me, and I don't want that. I've never wanted that. My scar already makes me look like a monster.

"She's not strong right now," I say. "She's fragile, and she needs to rest, to heal. You have no idea what happened with her mother yesterday—"

"Rugby!" John shouts, cutting me off mid-sentence.

I blink, taken aback by the widened stare I'm faced with. "Pardon?"

"The first thing I had to say was once upon a time she never played rugby. She lied. She's sorry."

"So she never played rugby," I repeat.

"She wanted to be strong. Wanted to be something she wasn't. That's what she said. She's sorry."

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

John says, "Follow me. I need something to eat."

Rugby? She lied about playing rugby? That's trivial. I don't get it.

I shuffle down the hall after him. That's when I notice the quiet stillness. Like the snow outside has absorbed every sound for miles. John sets his coffee down on a nearby table with a few pieces of sliced bread and jam on it, and looks at me. "She's outside. She asked for my help to explain. She says to listen to me."

There's no point in trying to argue with him.

"Please, sit. I have food," John says with a hand to the big oak table. I do, the wood creaking under my weight. He grabs a knife from the drawer, slicing into bread, and spreads a generous layer of jam over two jagged slices, placing one on a plate before me.

He sits down across the table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. "First, her father, whom she loved, passed on. You see, he was from Mexico. A hardworking man. She was only eight when he parted."