My father nods. “Wettest summer on record.”
I bite my thumbnail, watching nervously as my father continues to interrogate Harlin. Next to me Lucy picks the pepperoni off her slice, keeping her head lowered. During a lull in the conversation, Harlin asks me to pass him the Coke. When I do, he winks, as if letting me know I shouldn’t be nervous.
“And you’re from Portland?” my dad continues. “I was just there to help set up a mission downtown. Beautiful city.”
“It is gorgeous. I’m originally from California, but my family moved to the Northwest a few years back. I was traveling there when I ended up taking a detour through Thistle. Decided to stay awhile.”
“It’s not a bad place to stop,” my father says. “What do your parents do?”
“Dad,” I warn, not liking the game of twenty questions that he’s playing. I’d think Lucy would make a joke, but she hasn’t said a word. I’m guessing she’s tired from staying up all night, which is the only rational explanation for her not admiring Harlin right now.
Harlin takes a sip from his drink before glancing sideways at my father. “I don’t really talk to my mother anymore,” he says quietly. “I live with my older brothers.”
My father immediately shoots me a look and then folds his hands in front of him, as if fascinated. “What about your father?”
Something in my chest suddenly aches, and I reach under the table to put my palm on Harlin’s knee. He doesn’t flinch, but instead presses his lips into a sad smile. “My father was a police officer, killed on duty,” he says. “Gone three years now.”
Lucy looks up as my father’s expression falters. Yet somehow it’s almost as if I knew what Harlin was going to say. Confused, I pull my hand back into my lap, but Harlin reaches to gently run his fingers over mine, intertwining them. It gives me comfort, and it’s clear it does the same for him.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” my dad murmurs sincerely. “I work closely with the police department here. Very honorable folks.”
“Thanks,” Harlin responds. Tears gather in his eyes before he blinks them away. “My father was a solid guy,” he says. “It’s been a really difficult time, especially since they hadn’t caught the perp. But last year . . .” He pauses, fighting back the emotion in his voice. “Last year they found him, brought him to trial, and sentenced him. Everyone said it was a miracle.”
“I’m glad you finally found justice,” I say. “Your family needed that.”
When the dinner conversation picks up again, my father asking Lucy about her upcoming semester, Harlin leans his arm against mine, his voice just a whisper in my ear. “I think you’re amazing,” he says. And then, without waiting for a response, he goes back to his pizza.
CHAPTER 18
After dinner I tell my father I’ll be back later and drive Harlin to his motel. It’s a run-down place off Route 5 with a light out in their vacancy sign. I wonder how long he’s been living here.
When I park in front of his room, there is a tug of sadness. I don’t want this day to end. I don’t want Harlin to go. As if sensing my mood, he turns to me and smiles.
“Did you want to come in?” he asks. My heart kicks up its beats.
“Well,” I say. “You’ve already seen my place.”
He waits as I turn off the car and climb out. I almost reach for his hand but stop myself—surprised by how comfortable I am with him.
The room is small, but immaculate. There are two beds, although one has a sleeping bag on top of it. In the corner is a small desk, and I notice the sketch pad lying there.
“You’re very neat,” I say, walking toward the desk. “Were you a well-behaved child?”
Harlin grins. “No.”
I touch the edge of the sketch pad and look over my shoulder at him. “Can I?” I ask.
He hesitates, but then nods before going to sit on the bed. I open to the first page: a landscape of a beach, the ocean at low tide.
“That’s where I grew up,” Harlin says quietly from behind me. “Near Oceanside, California.”
“It’s pretty,” I say, turning to the next picture. It’s another landscape, this time a bridge in the background. “Portland?” I ask. He agrees, and I continue turning the pages until the images start to change altogether. There’s a sinking feeling when I get to the pictures of a girl. Something about her is familiar.
Harlin stands and looks over my shoulder. He’s so close that I no longer care about this other girl. I feel the warmth from his body as he reaches to take the pad from me. “Let me show you something,” he says, flipping to the back. I realize then that the entire book is filled with pictures of this other girl as he skips past them.
I turn sideways, my face close to his as he concentrates. I want him to notice me the way he obviously noticed her. Her every curve. Her every feature.
“Here,” he says, setting the book down and tapping the page. “I did this after that first day at Santo’s. It’s not great, but I was drafting from memory.”
I look down, startled to see a picture of me. The edges are blurred where he rubbed off the pencil several times, but the likeness is there, and it’s flattering. He reaches to turn the page. “I thought about you a lot,” he says quietly.
There’s another picture of me, laughing. I’m struck with an emotion I’ve never had before, or at least, not like this. I’m completely and totally in love with Harlin—even though I hardly know much about him at all.
He reaches for the book, but I turn to him, putting my hand on his chest. He tenses before slowly lowering his gaze to mine. By his expression, I think we’ve gone well past mutual attraction. And I don’t think I can wait anymore.
I lean up to put my lips to his, testing his reaction. He doesn’t move at first—as if he’s scared to touch me. I kiss his top lip. His bottom lip. I slide my hands until they wrap behind his neck, pulling myself closer to him.
There’s the slightest touch of his tongue and I make a soft sound, renewing my kisses. He’s so gentle, so careful—but all I want is for him to grab me, hold me. “Harlin,” I murmur between his lips. “Kiss me.”
He moves his hands to my waist, drawing me tighter against him. But he turns to rest his cheek against mine. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear. My eyelids flutter closed. “But I can’t,” he adds.