CHAPTER ONE
Six years ago. Bardstown
He’s a criminal.
He has to be.
First, he’s wearing all black: black jeans and a black hoodie with the hood up. In summer, no less.
And second, he’s very carefully and cautiously laying out a string on the ground.
It’s a very long string too.
It at least circles around the thick bushes that border this massive back yard, and goes well into the woods behind that back yard. Where I’m currently standing behind the thick trunk of a tree and watching him secretly.
Or more like watching his back, because he’s facing away from me, walking backward.
When he’s come far enough I guess, he stops and kneels on the ground, completely blocking my view.
I can’t see what he’s doing.
Why he’s bent over that string.
Whatever it is though, it can’t be good.
It might even be dangerous.
The prudent thing to do — prudent means practical; also known as feasible, realistic, sensible, matter of fact — is to turn around and run. To get away from him. Especially when no one knows that I’m here, wandering around the woods in the middle of the night, and not up in my bedroom, sleeping like I should be.
In my defense, tonight is special.
Plus I couldn’t sleep in my new bed, in the new house, in a new place.
We — my parents and I — only arrived here last week, see.
Both of them got a new job and so we packed up and left our old apartment in Brooklyn and came to Bardstown to start a new life. As opposed to Brooklyn, everything is super open here: our big two-story house; these woods that I’m taking an impromptu walk in; the back yard beyond it, the giant manor beyond the back yard.
But I’m not going to lie, I miss Brooklyn. I miss my friends, my old school, even our old rundown apartment that had more leaks and squeaky floorboards than not. But it’s okay. My mom always says that you make sacrifices for people you love. That this is what love is.
To compromise. To make adjustments and to be good to the people you love.
So I’m happy as long as my parents are happy.
Except for this.
I’m not happy about this, whatever it is that this boy is doing.
I mean, if he’s really doing something bad then shouldn’t I confront him? Shouldn’t I stop him? I’m new here, yes, but these are my woods now. This is my house, my property and estate.
Well, not technically.
We only live here, but…
“I know you’re there.”
My thoughts come to a screeching halt at those words.
His words.
He said them, right?
Yes, he did.
Even though he hasn’t turned around or stopped doing whatever it is that he’s doing.
What is he doing though?
“I can hear you fucking thinking from over there.”
This time, I have no confusion as to who spoke because his shoulders tense up and his arms jerk, as if his entire body is speaking along with his lips.
Or more like snapping at me.
Which gets my back up and I dig my fingers into the trunk. “I’m not fucking thinking.”
At this, he finally stops and straightens up, cocking his head to the side slightly as if paying attention to me. The only thing he doesn’t do is turn around as he says, “What?”
I know he can’t see me but still I lift my chin as I reply, “I’m just thinking. Period. No fucking.”
Okay, that sounded so much better and smarter in my head, I swear.
Also, not funny.
But apparently it is because it makes him chuckle in response, his shoulders moving again.
And this time I notice that they’re broad.
Probably because he’s straightened up now and isn’t hunched over that string of his. In fact, his shoulders are broader than any guy’s shoulders in my class, either at my old school or the new.
“No fucking, huh,” he drawls. “Well, there’s a lot to unpack there, in that statement. But I don’t think you wanna go there.” I frown as to what he means but he keeps going. “So instead, why don’t you tell me what you’re just thinking about?”
His tone makes me narrow my eyes.
Actually everything about him is making me narrow my eyes.
The fact that he sounds so amused, his voice thick and raspy — something else that I’ve come across for the first time ever; no boys at my old school or new sound like him — and that he still hasn’t turned around to face me while speaking, like he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being looked in the eye while talking.
The sheer arrogance.
The sheer conceit, haughtiness, hubris.
The egotism!
It makes me come out of hiding — it wasn’t a very good hiding spot anyway, since he’d already spotted me — and put my hands on my hips as I say, “I’m just thinking how rude it is that you’re talking to me and yet you haven’t turned around and shown me your face.”
This time I don’t think I’ve said anything remotely funny, but he still chuckles.
It’s almost a laugh, actually, and I breathe out sharply, ready to say something else, something even more stern, but he springs up to his feet so quickly and so suddenly turning around that I snap my mouth closed.
And simply stare.
And gaze, gape, goggle and gawp at his face for the first time.
A face that looks like… summer.
That’s my first and very nonsensical thought. How can anyone look like a season?
He does though.
Despite his all-black clothing, he looks like my favorite season.
Probably because his skin is so tanned.
It’s so beachy and bronzed. Like he’s been out in the sun for a long time. And that he could potentially stay out there for even longer and never ever get burned. Plus all that hair.
That I can see now that his hood has fallen off.
And even though his hair’s dark, as dark as his clothing, I still think that it’s a surfer’s look.
Probably because it’s on the long side, falling over his brows and the side of his face, skimming the neck of his hoodie, all loose, slightly wavy and messy.
So yeah, summer.
Despite being all dark and… dangerous.
“You done staring, Bubblegum?”
Startled, my eyes snap up to his.
They’re dark too.
Probably black or a very dark shade of brown; I can’t tell right now.
All I can tell is that they have a glint in them.
“I wasn’t…” I say, my hands coming off my hips and simply falling limp at my sides now. “Staring.”
Liar.
You’re a liar, Echo.
He knows that too, and so again he finds my words amusing.
But this time, he doesn’t chuckle.
He simply lets his mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile. And I think it’s worse because his smile isn’t just a smile. It’s a smirk, and it makes him look even more arrogant.
“Good,” he says. “Because then I’d have to tell you what I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes glint some more. “About how rude it is that you’re staring at me and yet you haven’t told me your name.”
Your name…