The Runaway House

Sixteen . Promise

   Saturday, the majority of chores are left undone. Most people have been scheduled to move wood and to get the bonfire ready for tonight.

I watch as benches are hauled out of the barn and wood is stacked in the middle of the yard. Sweat is dripping off everyone's backs.

That's the thing about this place. You earn your keep.

I've been tasked with laundry, as Penelope is still worried about my hand. Travis and I both rolled our eyes at her pettiness, but I'd still much rather be in a tank top and shorts, hanging wet clothes on the line to dry, than toiling hard under the sun.

I pin a shirt up, and the breeze knocks the refreshing, wet fabric into my face. The coolness kisses my skin, and I contemplate the sweaty kids working just a few yards away. I rush through hanging up the rest of the clothes. Then, laundry basket in hand, I head over to the van, where Travis is still slaving away at repairing it.

"Hey." I nudge him, and he stretches. He's been bent over this thing for too long. "Take a break and help me?"

He nods, relief in his eyes. "I'm all for a break. This thing is killing me." He lets out a frustrated, weary sigh.

We head into the kitchen.

"Wash your hands," I order as I grab the bag of paper cups from a bottom cabinet.

He tilts his head at me but obeys. Water runs over his grease-coated hands, but the normal hand soap doesn't do much.

"Here," I murmur, pouring dish soap into his open palm. I start working at his hands, rubbing the soap into his skin, the suds turning gray. I scratch lightly, just hard enough to get the coating of grease off of them. My fingers brush over a rough spot on his hand—a scar. I wonder how he got it.

He watches me closely the whole time, and I can feel his breath cascade down my neck. As I finish rinsing his hands of the last of the greasy soap, his thumb strokes my hand.

The tenderness of the moment is so breakable, but it also feels like it could be infinite. My stomach is fluttering, and my eyes watch his thumb, sliding back and forth over my wet hand.

As I glimpse up at him, his lips lightly touch my forehead.

"I thought we could fill the cups with water for everyone outside," I say, his hand still holding mine, his face ever-close to me.

A smile flickers on his face. "Very thoughtful."

My hand slides out of his, leaving behind a lingering shiver.

As we work together filling cups with cold water and setting them on trays, my breaths become shorter and more panicked. Every once in a while, our hands brush together, or our shoulders bump.

Too close, too close, too close.

I give Travis a hasty glance. Could I be ready for this? Could I be brave enough to let him love me—and to let myself love him?

Shaking my head, I begin to set the last two cups on a tray. I honestly don't know.

"You all right?" He hovers beside me, but we don't touch.

"I'm scared." I stare at the water in the cups. I haven't let go of them yet, and my shaking hands create a ripple effect.

He carefully extracts my hands from them. "I am, too."

And I know when he looks at me, his eyes wide, that he's seeing Emilie and whatever happened to her, wondering if the same will happen to me. Hoping, praying, that he'll be able to protect me like Jeff hadn't.

"We're going to be okay, Travis. We will. I promise." If the words are true, I can't feel it. But right now, I need to keep going. I need to at least pretend that I'm going to be okay.

Somehow, through all of this, I need to find my bravery.

So I pick up a tray and head for the door, Travis following suit. And we head out, two shaky kids with hopes and dreams and fears that they don't know what to do with. I glance back at him, and he smiles.

It's not a happy smile—it's a supportive one. And I breathe deeply for the first time in a good fifteen minutes.

We're going to be okay.

Everyone accepts the water gratefully, gulping it down. Samantha stands in the background, wiping sweat off her face as her eyes watch Travis. I set down my tray and, cup of water in hand, weave my way toward her.

"Here." I offer her the water, but she just glares at me.

Sweet Samantha, glaring. Was it all an act, just trying to impress Travis? I furrow my brows. It couldn't be.

"C'mon, Sam, just take the cup. It's not like I'm asking you to be my friend."

"Good," she whispers. "Because I won't. Not ever. I can't believe you're still pursuing him."

"What?"

"How could you? You know I like him!" She swigs the water.

I rub my face. "Samantha, it just . . . happened, okay? We're not even an actual thing. We're testing things out. That's all."

"That's not what he said. He said you were dating."

"He said we were kinda dating. He knows I'm not ready yet. I'm still dealing with a few things."

"Well, I'm ready! And I've been here, waiting for him, for years!"

I bite back the harsh truth. Telling her the fight isn't worth it, that Travis isn't going to change his mind, would just destroy any remainder of a relationship Samantha and I have.

Instead, I try, "Sam, you have to know this isn't worth fighting over. And . . . having your whole life revolve around Travis like this, it's not healthy." The words came out quietly, gently. My eyes were soft, staring into her glare. "Take a step back from all of this. Is all of this obsessing really worth it?"

"I love him," she snaps. "Can you say the same?"

I hesitate. It's written all over Samantha that she's consumed with infatuation, and has been for too long. Her version of love is different than mine. "He means a lot to me."

"Do you love him?"

Again, I hesitate, swallowing hard. Do I? I know the answer is definitely not "no." Travis would protect me with his life. I know he would. But would I do the same with him?

My eyes fall on him, laughing as he chats with a few friends. His tray is empty.

He deserves to be here more than I do, and even if just for that reason, I'd do anything for him. And I think that—a willingness to sacrifice anything for a person—is the greatest love there is.

So I turn back to Samantha. Her eyes are waiting, brimming with fear and anger.

"Yes." My voice is shaky as I say the words I've been shying away from. "I love Travis."

And I know I've ruined everything with those words. Samantha's sharp inhale screams that. But all I can do is calm my heart pounding in my chest as she stalks away.

How was I supposed to handle that? I watch her go, running from me, toward safety. Even if I've only just realized it, the truth is the truth. I love Travis. He chose me, for whatever reason.

And I couldn't be more grateful.

hey, everyone! thanks for reading part sixteen of the runaway house! please vote, comment your thoughts, and follow for updates. part seventeen, "burn," will be posted soon!

xoxo,

rebekah