‘They’ll take me away.’
‘We’ll get you back. The right way.’
Sam takes a deep breath and slowly, the last shreds of his stamina falling away, he leans sideways until his head rests on Mr De Lainey’s shoulder.
The De Lainey father scoots closer and pulls Sam into his arms. He’s all sawdust and sweat and he holds Sam like he knows how to keep boys who are slipping.
They stay like that for a minute or a year.
Then Mr De Lainey pushes to his feet and pulls Sam up, carefully checking the bloodstain on Sam’s white shirt. ‘We’re going inside to get this cleaned up.’ Not a question. ‘And then you can let me know what we’re doing. I won’t stop you if you leave. But if you stay, we’re building properly, starting with a phone call to your social worker. I confess I’ve been asking about you and already have his number.’
Sam nods, his words in knots.
He trails behind Mr De Lainey, past the rosebushes and the mess of toys in the front yard. Sam falters on the steps and Mr De Lainey quietly points to the tall front window, which throws golden sunlight all over Moxie’s sewing table. The top of her head is visible, bent over cloth and needles.
‘I don’t want to go in,’ Sam says.
‘I’ll bring the first aid kit out then.’ Mr De Lainey gives Sam’s shoulder a squeeze and goes inside.
A wave of hellos and the smell of pasta and frying onions pour out. There’s the squeak of Toby’s tricycle and the slam of Grady closing a book. The sewing machine shuts off.
Sam takes a step towards the window. Another. Another. He raises a trembling hand and
taps the glass.
Moxie looks up.
She’s wearing a striped yellow shirt and overalls, her long legs bare and streaked with coloured markers thanks to a day with Toby. Her hair is caught in a frizzy bun. A scowl fits over her lips, all vinegar and suspicion.
When she sees him, the scowl falters. Her lips part in surprise. He lets his forehead rest against the windowpane, wondering if he has anything to say after he told her to leave.
Then she slams down her handful of cottons and storms away.
He tips back from the window and looks at his fingers as they unravel like he’s a boy of spun wool. He pushes away from the window. He deserves that. This. All of it.
He should just walk away now.
Steal another house.
Disappear.
But he
doesn’t
doesn’t
doesn’t
want to.
Then suddenly Moxie is sweeping out the front door, rainbow strips of fabric falling out of her pockets. Her eyes burn and the vinegar frown is gone, replaced with something like longing. Something like fear. She doesn’t walk to him, she flies.
Her hands are at his face, tracing his jaw, his cheekbone, his lips.
He expects a slap.
Instead she puts her arms around his neck – carefully, like she knows he’s unravelling. And she hugs him.
His arms slip around her back. She is endlessly warm, like hugging waffles with honey.
‘I’m angry,’ she says fiercely. ‘I’m angry at you but I also care so much. I told you that, didn’t I? You’re making me care when I said I was done with that.’ She pulls away from him, her eyes bright. ‘How dare you get stabbed?’
‘I’m nothing,’ he says. ‘I’m nothing and I’m from nowhere and I don’t want to hurt you.’
She shakes her head. ‘Things hurt. People hurt. Life hurts. I don’t want you to disappear, Sam.’ Her hands slide away from his neck. ‘I hate that you lied and I hate that you’re running. But I don’t want this to be the end.’
Sam takes a shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry.’
She glances down then and sees his shirt. She gives a sharp intake of breath. ‘You stupid beautiful boy. Go sit on the steps. Right now.’ Then she spins and runs inside.
Sam does as he’s told.
She returns with a first aid kit and a clean shirt, which Sam thinks Mr De Lainey was probably fetching but got rapidly relieved of. She throws the lid open and rummages for clean bandages and tape. Then she unbuttons Sam’s shirt. Blood soaks her fingertips.
He’s so cold.
She peels off his old bandages, wiping it clean as best she can. ‘I think you’ve busted a few stitches.’
‘I kind of ran across the city.’
‘Typical boy with a pea-sized brain.’
He nearly smiles.
She tapes a fresh bandage on and he tries not to think about her hands on his feverish skin and how fiercely tight her lips are as she concentrates. She bites the tape off and then hands him the T-shirt. He gets stuck lifting his arms high enough. She helps.
‘You lose it when someone else is getting hurt,’ she says suddenly.
Sam tugs the shirt down so the bandage and his sins are covered. It’s Jeremy’s shirt, a superhero emblazoned on the front. Ironic.
‘I’m sor—’
‘No, don’t say sorry again. Tell me what you’re going to do now.’
‘I’m a bad person, Moxie.’ His voice is stripped raw. ‘I’m not Goldilocks. I’m the monster in the woods. I can’t stop myself. I-I-I get so close to killing people whenever they touch Avery. And I don’t like it … I hate it. I hate it. I deserve jail. I deserve it if you never speak to me again.’
‘You can do monstrous things and not be a monster.’
‘I don’t w-want to be this.’
‘Then we’ll help you not to be.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘No, you listen here, Sam.’ She sits down so close to him, her leg crushed to his. She takes his hands and their fingers fit together.
He aches.
‘Life punched you to your knees when you were little, so you freaked out and fought back. None of this is right or good or – or fair. It’s so, so unfair. But I won’t stop forgiving you.’
‘Everybody leaves.’
Her thumb brushes the bruise on his cheek. ‘I’m not leaving.’
She pulls his chin down and their mouths meet. It’s not the lit skin and wild beauty of their other kisses. It’s salty tears and bloody memories and empty boxes. She tastes of longing, he of tears.
She stops kissing him and wipes his cheeks with her palm. Her eyes are wet when she smiles. ‘You’re going to make me cry again and then you’ll be in trouble. I hate crying.’ Her nose touches his and their lips brush again—