You're Still The One Read online

  He was constantly angry, and his scars made him look even more threatening and dangerous. He threw my mother’s purple-flowered china plates and broke them one night, though he knew I used them to cut up apples. When he wasn’t looking, I picked up the pieces and put them in a bag, hating him. I still have them. He stomped through the trailer. He swore. I don’t remember him ever hugging me or telling me he loved me.

  One night his rage, blowing at full volume, was too much. “You look like your damn mother! You got the same golden eyes, same brown hair. She kept secrets. What kind of secrets are you hiding from me? Sixteen years old and you think you know everything?” He towered over me, chest puffed out.

  I assured him, shaking, that I didn’t.

  “You think you’re better than me?” With one fell swoop he dumped my homework off the table.

  I assured him I didn’t, feeling nauseous.

  He threw a coffee mug and it shattered the window. I remember my stomach sinking. The window was right above the bench that I slept on. It was winter. I would freeze.

  “I thought you had a job, but maybe a man’s giving you money.”

  I told him there was no man. I didn’t tell him my clothes were bought used, for quarters, because my knees started to knock.

  “Don’t be smart with me, apple-core face.”

  He was huge, a thundering monster. He picked up apples that I’d taken from the orchard for dinner that night and smashed them together in his beefy hands. “Guess you lost dinner, Allie.” He pelted an apple through the shattered window, then the next apple. He pointed to the floor, then swayed. He reeked of alcohol. “Pick that mess up.”

  I grabbed paper towels and picked up the smashed apples off the floor, my hands trembling, my mind rebelling, hating him.

  “Wipe my boots.”

  I wiped off his boots. Black misery wrapped around me tight.

  He smashed two more apples when I was on my knees. The apple pieces got in my hair. I started to cry.

  “Clean those up, too, and quit crying, you baby. Your mom used to cry, too.”

  I waited for him to backhand me. That’s how he really showed me I was nothing.

  I cleaned everything up, my stomach growling. It was dark. I didn’t want to go back to the orchard that night, but I was starving.

  I threw out the paper towels and apple pieces, his mean stare glaring right through me. “Tell me about your mother’s boyfriends.”

  I sagged, completely defeated. I hated this topic. My mother didn’t have a boyfriend when she was married to my dad. I was with her all the time. I remembered no man. She didn’t even have a boyfriend in Montana. She had me. I had her. Like she said, I had a man and that was a nightmare. No more men for me.

  My dad bullied me, his face an inch from mine, his hand up in the air, ready to strike if I denied she had a boyfriend, ready to strike if I lied and said she did have a boyfriend. It was at that second that I finally brought my chin up, defeated but not dead, and said, my voice strong, “I hate you.”

  Those three words stopped him. His open palm froze in the air, his eyes widened, and the color drained from his flushed face, red with broken blood vessels.

  “I hate you, Ben.” I didn’t call him Dad. He wasn’t a dad. He was a monster.

  Something flashed in those narrowed eyes—hurt, anguish, I don’t know, but he lowered his hand, he bent his bull-sized head, and his heavy shoulders dipped.

  He swore softly, then said, his voice breaking, “Your mother hated me, too.”

  He turned and I saw him wipe his cheeks before he lumbered back to his bedroom and shut the door.

  That night I scrambled out to the orchard and picked six apples and ate them. I was scared by a raccoon and a distant gunshot. I thought I heard someone else running through the orchard, gasping, as if he was being chased. The night was black except for a moon that kept hiding behind the clouds. It started to rain and I was soaked, hungry, and freezing.

  I sat against a tree trunk, scared of the shadows and creepy noises, rain dripping off my face. But it was there, under the leaves of the apple tree, that I knew I was done. The unknowns in the apple orchard were less scary to me than the knowns of being in the trailer with my dad. I could not live like that anymore. I thought of my mother and her love and her hugs, how we made apple pies together, along with peach, blackberry, rhubarb, lemon meringue, and dark chocolate pies with whipped cream. She would not want me to live like this.

  I had saved money from my job as a retail clerk in a high-end clothing shop and hidden it from my dad. I spent only what I had to on food, I probably should have spent more so I wasn’t so hungry, but I wanted money stashed away for safety and for my eventual escape even more than I wanted the food. I was on hourly wage and commission. There is nothing like being hungry to make you sell things well, and quickly, so I made a lot of money for a sixteen-year-old. Plus I understood clothes and style, taught by my mother.

  I would use the money I had saved to make a new life.

  The next day was Saturday. I sat, frozen to my bones, in the apple orchard until I knew my dad had left for his weekend job hauling rock. Before he left he stood outside the trailer and hollered my name, alternating it with swear words, and “Get the hell home, now, Allie!”

  I stayed hidden behind the trunks of the apple trees, and after he had shoved his ungainly body into his truck with the bullet holes and sped off, I took a shower, packed a bagful of clothes and the treasures I had from my mother—including the broken china plates, the locket, and the harmonica—and left the trailer.

  I went to my favorite teacher, Mr. McRose, so scared I could hardly talk. He was about sixty, his wife was an attorney, and they helped me become an emancipated minor. I had often been an angry student. I had gotten into fights, sometimes even with my fists, with other kids. I had a short fuse. I was taking it on the chin at home, so I wasn’t going to take it at school, too.

  In some twisted way, it made me popular because it made me intimidating, cold, and tough. A real rebel who had her own cool clothing style and who had affected a swagger. But Mr. McRose reached out a hand to the desperate kid who was faking that swagger.

  I lived in the apartment above their home. They insisted I live there for free; I insisted on paying two hundred dollars a month. They only acquiesced when I started to walk away. “I won’t take charity. I’ll pay you or I’m leaving.”

  Mr. McRose cried, and his wife led me up the steps. My apartment was bright, yellow, cozy, clean, with lots of windows and a lock to keep my dad out. I loved it. It was the first time since living with my mother that I lived without fear.

  My dad threw impressive fits. He even came to school, steaming, blowing smoke, threatening. Twice. The police were called. He went to the McRoses’ house, hammered up on alcohol, screaming for me. The police were called again. I had to take out a restraining order on him after he clocked me in the face and broke a window in my apartment with his fist.

  The McRoses, who I’m still close to, helped me. I stayed in school. I worked full-time. I saved everything I could. The teachers adopted me for the next three years at Christmas. I was given boxes full of food and used, but really nice, household furniture. New coats, new boots, new sweaters. I’d never had new clothes. A new red purse, I remember that, from Mrs. McRose. And, most helpful, a new bike. That bike helped hugely because I could bike to work instead of taking the bus or walking, and I could bike away my pain down charming roads in the country. It was my freedom and my survival.

  It was the first time I felt cared for. The McRoses liked me. The teachers liked me. I hadn’t felt liked in forever. That helped me even more than the gifts. I have never forgotten their kindness.

  I nailed the SAT because I was hell bent on going to college and I studied for months. An education was my way out of poverty. I had a 4.0 grade point average. I had excellent recommendations from teachers who were honest about my circumstances and told college counselors that I had persevered against heavy odd
s.

  I got a full-ride scholarship.

  I moved on. I moved forward.

  I didn’t know what else to do.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Let’s talk over dinner, Allie.”

  I sank onto my dad’s couch with my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt on it, my head in one hand, my phone in the other. I had returned late last night from my trip and I knew Jace was not happy. He was a kind man, but he was a proud man, and he was frustrated with me, with us. He did not like getting the runaround. I got it.

  “Jace . . .”

  “I have calzone and salad and I’m bringing it down to your place.”

  “Jace—”

  “Jace what?” he snapped.

  “I’m—”

  What to say? I thought of you my entire trip and I’m wiped out and I have no resistance against you at all . . . I can’t wait to see you . . . I can’t believe I’m thinking very seriously of moving, because then I would never see you; but it would be another form of hell to stay here and be near you as your life goes on . . . I have missed you since Yellowstone . . . I love you and I want to jump into bed with you more than I’ve wanted anything.

  “You’re what, Allie? No, hold that thought. I’m coming down and you’re going to eat Italian with me.”

  He hung up.

  I stared at the phone, then looked up at his architecturally stunning, warm, safe house on the hill. He would do what he wanted to do. He would be here in five minutes.

  I ran for my closet and my lipstick.

  It is amazing what a woman can do for her looks in five minutes, if pushed.

  “How were the interviews?”

  “They were fine.” I missed you. I put down my fork. I love calzone, but I could hardly focus on it with Jace sitting across the kitchen table from me looking all manly, the sun plopping down over the horizon. I had lit my scented candles. He looked even lustier by candlelight, and that beat down my resistance to him even more.

  “And? Are you moving?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you offered jobs?”

  “Yes, two offered me jobs and I received a call this morning from the third.” The salaries were impressive. The workload would be incessant, draining, and no Jace.

  He nodded, those brown eyes guarded, not happy.

  I had a quick vision of me underneath him on his couch the other night . . . how far we’d gone, how yummy and toe-tingling it had felt.

  “I would be selling expensive clothes to expensive women again. Traveling, too.” How frivolous. How lonely. I was wearing a burgundy sweater with a deep V, jeans, and crystal earrings, my hair up in a loose ponytail. I will not admit that I wore a black push-up bra so my cleavage would be up and out for Jace. I was so much more comfortable without the tottery four-inch heels I wore during the interviews.

  “Would you be happy doing that?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Do you not like me?”

  I like you and I love you. “No. I like you.”

  “Good. I like you a lot. You’re my favorite person. Let’s play a game.”

  “A game?”

  He pulled his chair over until our knees were touching. “If you don’t kiss me, we don’t go to the barn dance together. If you do kiss me, you’re my date.”

  “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  He grinned.

  “For heaven’s sakes, Jace.”

  I stood up, he stood up close to me. I moved to the left, he moved to the right. I moved to the right, he moved to the left.

  He knew I was starting to feel waves of luscious desire rolling on through. I could feel my own blush. He knew what he did to me. He bent that dark head, his mouth an inch from mine. He pulled me close, hip to chest.

  “That’s not fair. You can’t touch me.” My voice was all whispery, breathless.

  “That’s not part of the rules.”

  I took a few steps back. He backed me into the wall. I put my hands on his shoulders and laughed; couldn’t help it. Sexual tension did it, I was sure. We were pressed up close to each other. “One kiss, Allie,” he murmured. “One.”

  He pressed up even closer, tight and warm, and I wanted to wrap my legs around his hips. I could smell him. Mint, pine trees, yum. His mouth was inches from mine.

  “I missed you,” he said. “Missed your smile, your laugh.”

  My eyes fluttered closed and I breathed in deep. The man was overwhelming.

  “I looked down the hill and your lights weren’t on. You weren’t there.”

  I was revved up about as high as I could go. I could feel his heart under my hand.

  “I thought of you not being there, and I think I’d have to sell my house, honey, if you moved.”

  Desire zigged and zagged through my body, and I felt weak.

  “Maybe we should discuss this kiss in bed, babe?”

  “Ahhh . . . not in bed.”

  “Kiss me, Allie. One kiss. For the barn dance.”

  I couldn’t help it, I was shivering for the man. I put a hand behind his head and brought his lips down to mine.

  “Please don’t leave, Allie,” he said, between marvelous kisses that traveled all over.

  My dad kept holding open the door with his urn.

  I didn’t know what to do with his ashes.

  People often spread their loved ones’ ashes.

  But where would I spread my dad’s? He was not a “loved one.” He was a scary, manipulative, drunken loser.

  Did I even owe it to him to spread them?

  Jace came by at seven o’clock the night of the barn dance.

  “I told you I’m not going to the barn dance.” Heck no. “I don’t dance anymore, and you tricked me with those smokin’ hot kisses.”

  He laughed, walked into my house, and shut the door.

  I had showered with apple-scented body wash and apple-scented shampoo, not because of the barn dance and Jace, but because I like apples, and for no other reason. Same with the apple-scented lotion I spread all over afterward, too. I also put on a low-cut, lined, white lace shirt; a pretty yellow bra; my tighter blue jeans; cowgirl boots; and lipstick, because I was tired of being frumpy, and surely Margaret and Bob—he who hates squirrels—would appreciate my efforts.

  “I don’t dance, Jace. I don’t need to meet people, I don’t know how to play the fiddle, and Marvin, Bob, and Margaret need my company. They’re lonely. And I need to find Margaret’s pink stuffed bear. She can’t sleep without it.” By the time I stepped back from Jace’s smokin’-hot kisses that night, all my clothes were on the floor and he was shirtless. Oh, how I loved that sweet man naked . . .

  “I’m lonely for you, too, Allie. You kissed me last time, and that makes you my date for the barn dance, per our agreement, and you look . . . you look . . . absolutely gorgeous.” Jace’s chest heaved up for a second, and his jaw was held pretty tight. “As for the dancing, I know you dance, I’ve seen you dance, you have perfect rhythm, you don’t need to know how to play the fiddle, and the animals have had you all day. Marvin wants me to tell you to go to the barn dance.”

  I looked at Marvin. He meowed. I refrained from meowing back in front of Jace. Marvin meowed again, irritated with my lack of conversation.

  “I’m staying home to embroider.”

  Jace studied me and I studied him back. He had on jeans, a blue shirt, a cowboy hat, and well-worn cowboy boots. Man, if he was any sexier, I would pass out, I would. I so loved that weathered look he had, too—that tough, rough, I can round up cattle, ride a horse, and sew your leg up if you need stitches look. My heart beat like a fool.

  Jace smiled, free and easy, the tough-guy face softened by indulgence and humor. “You’re going to stay home to embroider? Well, okay. We’ll stay here together. I’ll hand you the thread.”

  “I can’t embroider when people are watching.”

  “You can’t embroider at all, Allie.” He winked.

  “That�
�s true. I think I’m going to dust.”

  “Looks clean enough in here to me”—he glanced around—“plus housework bores you out of your mind.”

  “And I’m going to take a toothbrush to the wood floors and clean them.”

  “I’d like to see that. Maybe you could do it naked.”

  “I have told you not to make comments like that.” Stop, foolish heart!

  “Okay. Well, you could be naked and so could I. We could clean about a foot of floor and then do something else.”

  Full-blown, 3-D images of what he and I could do after we cleaned a foot of floor, nude, filled my mind. My gaze went to his chest. Wide, strong, safe. Then his hips. Ah, how they moved. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble with you, Jace.”

  His face became serious, but I saw the kindness there. “We’re not going to get in any trouble together, Allie. We never did, we never would. We’d be together. That’s it.”

  That would not be it. He doesn’t know.

  He is so irresistible.

  Jace wrapped his arms around me. On instinct, I hugged him back, our temples together. That big bazooka then started to dance me around my family room, past the magical apple tree painting, singing a country song. I got that giddy, breathless, smiley feeling and gave in, my feet following his. What else could I do?

  I rode the first wave of desire, starting from my brain and heading toward the nether regions. I sucked in my breath and pulled away before I stripped and handed him a toothbrush.

  “Okay, Jace.” I laughed. “Yes to the barn dance.”

  He shook his head mockingly. “Shoot. I was thinking it would be better if we stayed home and worked on that embroidery pattern.”

  “No, oh, whew. No.” My whole body was now throbbing, all drummed up. “Can’t do that.” I turned and grabbed my keys. “Let’s go, cowboy.”