Not because I was being bad either.
Adam just had a rule that after every job I had to have a session with Donovan before I could go play with Nate again.
It didn’t make sense at first. But later it did.
Because I would come home from the jobs and feel… funky. McKay would say, “You’re in a funk, Indie. And you have to talk yourself out of it.”
So that’s when Donovan came. And he would talk me out of it.
But sometimes…sometimes even when he left that funk was still there. So I would go outside—because I would have the all-clear from all three of them—and I would find Nate, and he would take one look at me and take my hand, and lead me into the woods. To this little grass meadow. And in the summer, he would make me flower crowns. In the winter he would make me twig crowns. And he would tell his stories.
“Indie, do you see that bird up there on that branch? That’s a violet eggplant-headfluff whistler.”
I’m making that part up. But he would know what the bird was and he would change its hard, factual name into something hazy and soft. He would change my whole life into something hazy and soft.
He would take me out of this world and into his story.
He would empty me out. Just… spill me out all over the place.
And then he would fill me back up.
CHAPTER SEVEN - ADAM
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
Indie was dressed the way I asked and she came with a little pink roller suitcase. Plus a sweater and a journal. She was waiting for me down by the dock, just standing there in the moonlight looking like a little girl should look.
Donovan came with me when we left so he could talk to her. I gave them their privacy, so I don’t know what was said, I just watched them from afar. But when he was done, he came up to me and made a big deal about the journal.
“Don’t take it away. She needs to write.”
“Why?”
“It helps her.” He turned me around so she couldn’t read our lips while we talked. “You know what she is, right?”
“I know.”
“She’s not like the others. She’s like you, Adam.”
“I get it.”
“I hope you do. Because I like her. A lot. I’m invested in her and I want her to make it.”
“Define ‘make it.’” I laughed. Because she was what she was. Her future involved lots of danger, and pain, and stress. Even if we did manage to break this whole shit show up into a million pieces, what did he think she was gonna do when that happened? If that happened?
Go to college? Get married to someone normal? Have a couple kids?
Her future was my present. Literally. Look at me, Indie. Good and hard, little girl. This is as good as it gets. There is no version of your life that includes the words normal, or easy, or predictable, or safe.
Donovan’s face got serious. He was fifteen so it wasn’t serious the way McKay’s face might look serious. But I could tell he was not fucking around. “I want her to live.”
“Everyone dies, Donovan. We’re born waiting to die. That’s just a part of life.”
“OK. Let me be specific then. I want her to grow old.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
“Make sure it happens.”
“Whatever,” I said. Then I walked away from him. Because I paid three million dollars for the girl. She was mine now. Not his.
He called out after us. “I’ll see you soon, Indie.”
Then we left.
The trip home was pretty uneventful. There was a yacht, there was a plane, there was car. Then we were driving through the gates of Old Home and McKay was waiting on the porch for us.
Indie did not say one fucking word to me. She wrote in her journal a few times. She sat still. She slept and ate when I told her to. She was actually pretty obedient.
But once we got home all that changed.
I won’t lie and say it was easy. She is just not an easy girl. But after we got used to each other—and I did have to call Donovan to sort her out that first month—she settled in.
At least she started talking to us.
Now, one year later, I realize that it was Nathan St. James who really kept her in line. Donovan comes once a month to read her journal and talk with her. She doesn’t let McKay and me read it, but I don’t need to read it. I get the recordings of her talks with Donovan and he discusses the journal pages with her. So I know what’s in there.
Nothing special, really. It’s mostly all about Nate.
Which is fine. He’s a kid. She’s a kid. I don’t mind that relationship. But I do worry about them now that she’s getting older. Because I see where this is going.
Even though Nate goes to public school in the nearby town, he never brings any friends home. At least not that I’ve seen. And I’ve told Indie many times that if he does, she cannot play with him on those days. So maybe she warned him about this and that’s why that kid has no other friends.
Or… maybe he just loves her the way she loves him?
That’s the part I worry about.
This boy will be the first one to kiss her. He will be the one she falls in love with. He might break her heart, she might break his, but it’s clearly one of those love stories you read about in books.
And I don’t know how I feel about that.
No, that’s a lie. I know exactly how I feel about that.
She’s mine. That’s how I feel. That girl is mine. He can be her friend, but that’s it. That’s all he can be. So today I’m gonna have a talk with that kid.
It’s Sunday, so everyone around here goes to church. It’s just something people do. I’m not particularly religious, but I was raised the same way and I’d like to think that church gave me another perspective on the jobs I have to do and the life I have to live.
I know Nate goes to church with his grandfather and Indie goes with me. But I also know that Nate’s grandfather is sick so he’s staying home today.
I’m staying home too. And Indie is going to church with McKay.
I make sure Indie knows I’m staying home because I have a meeting. Which isn’t a lie. I do. It’s just with the boy next door instead of some Company fucks.
I watch McKay’s black truck disappear down the driveway and then push through the screen door, let it slam shut behind me, and set off into the woods towards the St. James place.
It’s just a little brick carriage house that used to belong to my great-grandfather. Nate’s great-grandfather worked for my family back in the day and was gifted the house and a few acres around it when he retired. But there’s a well-worn path that leads from here to there, and I’m traveling down it when I spy Nate out in his backyard splitting wood.
He’s taller now than he was last summer when I first took notice of him. And his ax-swing has form, splitting that wood easily. He’s got the ax above his head when he sees me and brings it down hard on the upended log, cracking it neatly in half.
He pounds the ax head into the dirt near his feet, wipes his brow with the back of his free hand, and leans casually on the ax handle. “What can I do for you, Mr. Boucher?”
His accent is decidedly Southern. Like mine started to be when I was his age, but which was quickly trained out of me by my father. But it has creeped back in the years since he passed.