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When 17-year-old Arbor Hayes' best friend turns up alive after a mysterious six-month disappearance, she must piece together the fragments of her story to make sense of what happened. But as clues e...
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After Rowan's tucked into bed and I tell her the story about the teenage hitchhiker who disappears from the car as soon as the driver passes an old cemetery, I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. Headlights flash in the driveway as I hurry down the stairs, my heart drumming in my chest.
Smith's here, exactly when he said he would be.
He hops out of his Volvo and sprints towards the porch, his arm shielding his face from the rain. Before he can knock, I blow out a breath and open the door. His smile greets me, slow and relaxed, as it spreads across his face.
When I let him inside, a gust of chilly air chases after him. "Am I too early?"
"Perfect timing. I just got her into bed."
"Does Rowan make a habit of getting up when it's not expected?"
His question makes me grin. "We should be good for the rest of the night. Here, let me take your jacket."
When I help him peel it off, the suede is cold and dotted with drops of rain. As I hang it in the closet, a whiff of aftershave kicks up a sudden nervousness in my chest.
This is the first chance since we've started dating where we've been completely alone with no one expected to interrupt. I've been wanting this time, waiting for it. I only hope he has been, too.
"Are you hungry? There's leftover pizza in the fridge," I offer, trying to break the awkward silence.
"I'm good." Smith studies me, his eyes shaded with concern. "I felt bad leaving you this morning. How are you feeling?"
My arms cross over my middle and I grip my elbows, an attempt to block the chill still lingering in the foyer. "I just wish I knew how Jordan's doing. Someone must know something by now, right? It's been a whole day."
"Oh. You didn't hear?"
All the warmth drains from my face, leaving my head both heavy and weightless at the same time. I force the words from my mouth, afraid of what he might say. "Hear what?"
Smith cracks a knuckle, and shifts his weight. "She got out of surgery a couple hours ago, and they moved her to the pediatric ICU. Her doctors say she's going to be okay."
A wave of relief crashes into me. "Oh, thank God—I've been so worried! What all is wrong?"
"She has a punctured lung, two broken legs, a cracked pelvis, and an open fracture to her arm. There's no way she'll be playing soccer again this year. Or maybe ever. Who knows if she'll even make it back to school."
Relief morphs into dread.
Jordan's a talented soccer player, and it's obvious from watching her these past few years that she has a true love of the game. If I couldn't play anymore, I'd be devastated. Ever since I was a child, all I've wanted is to play professional ball. If something came along and destroyed my dreams, I'm not sure how I'd handle it.
