4. Lane

The fire burns brightly, heating my skin. It's not just the heat from the flames that are burning me, though. The memories that keep playing out every time I look across the fire at Noah blaze a scorching trail through my body.

The last time I came to one of these parties, my life was ruined. Okay, ruined might be overselling it a bit. It"s not like anyone died, although people did get hurt.

I got hurt.

It feels like I died a little inside, maybe. And in the vacant space left by our actions that night, something else bloomed. A seed that was already there was given life. And no matter how much I've tried to bury it, to snuff it out or poison it, it just keeps growing. An invincible weed that keeps creeping up no matter how many times I hack it down.

Noah catches my eye before I can look away, a knowing smile spreading across his lips. He gets too much joy out of tormenting me. It"s my least favorite part of our screwed-up arrangement. If he liked it less, I"d feel less humiliated. I"d hate myself less for not always hating what happens when he walks into a room and gives me that look of his. The look that says I"m about to debase myself for his entertainment, and walk away feeling more shame than I did last time. The look that says he can see me spiraling and knows how to bring me back to earth in the most painful way possible.

His head cocks when I narrow my eyes, and then his lips pucker. He laughs out loud at my back as I walk away.

It"s what I should have done that night. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, I know punking out of that situation would have blown over more quickly than allowing it did. I wouldn"t have had to deal with four years of this torture. The seed would have stayed buried.

Has it really been four years?

Somehow, these last years have been both the best and worst of my life. It took me over a year to stop punishing myself for wanting more out of life, as if my desires were responsible for my grandfather"s death. As if God heard my prayers and gave me a twisted version of what I was asking for. I still have moments. Maybe someday I"ll get over the guilt for the relief I feel at getting to live life outside of the church"s compound. Out from under his thumb, where my every thought was disassembled, dissected, punished.

I had no idea how much I was missing, living on the compound with my grandfather, and that a lot of what I grew up with isn"t considered normal. Keeping my mouth shut and my head down is familiar, at least. I rarely talk about my upbringing because it attracts too much attention, too much judgment, and I figure I"ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. Although, with the news that came out today, the people that know where I come from are looking at me like an oddity again. Them and everyone else that heard Noah's idiot friend Miah asking me about it. Loudly.

Sigh.

I miss him, of course. My grandfather was my only real parent figure, and I believe he loved me in the way he thought was right. But with him gone, I get to live in the world and have experiences. I"m free, within reason, to be myself and have things I enjoy. I get to go to school and get to know people outside the church. The only time I ever got to meet anyone new was during the summer, but there were so many rules attached to my interactions with the kids that came to Deliverance Camp. Although, after Chris, I didn"t really try anymore. Knowing him changed me. He made me understand that there was more to life than what I'd been indoctrinated into. There were people that looked different from me, that lived differently and worshiped differently. Thought differently.

I"m going to college and there"s a whole new life for me to live. Out here in the world. And, if I can, I plan to leave that part of my life behind. Noah and his friend Miah are going to the same school, plus two others from our graduating class that I"ve never spoken to. No one else will know me, or my background. They"ll have heard of the church on the news, of course, but they won"t know I was ever there.

"God, grant me the ability to earn your forgiveness, to remake myself in your image, and live a life worthy of your love. Help me navigate the temptations that the Devil has laid in my path to eternal salvation. Lord, I?—"

"Are you praying right now?"

Noah laughs from behind me, and I nearly trip and face-plant into the underbrush. I turn around, my heart beating fast at the hulking illusion his silhouette makes against the faint glow of the campfire far behind him. I doubt he could hear what I was saying, since I was muttering the words quietly to myself, so I ignore his question.

"What do you want, Noah?"

"Eh. Not feeling social."

I lift an eyebrow in disbelief. "It"s the last night of our last year here. That"s the only reason I even made an appearance."

"And because Maci begged you."

"That too, but we…"

"You finally broke up," he says. It"s a statement, not a question. He already knows? I know word travels fast, but it only happened half an hour ago.

"Not that it"s any of your business, but yes. We"re going in different directions for college, and we don"t want a long-distance relationship to hold us back from new experiences. College is about finding ourselves, and?—"

Noah snorts out a laugh. "Sure. If you mean finding herself on someone else"s lap already."

My face tightens as my frown pulls my lips down and my eyebrows furrow. "You can be such a jerk sometimes."

"If you don"t believe me, you can go back and see for yourself."

It"s too dark to make out his features to tell if he"s lying. Craning my neck to see past Noah"s silhouette, I realize that I"m not really looking for Maci—I'm only acting jealous because it feels like I should be. Not that I actually am concerned. Schooling my features into what I hope is a cool mask of indifference, I shrug.

"She"s a big girl. She can do what she wants."

"Now that you"re not holding her back, she"ll be able to do who she wants," Noah says suggestively.

I scoff and turn to keep walking. I have no doubt that Noah only followed me to torment me. There's no way he's looking to get out of a party. It"s the number one thing he"s looking forward to in college. I know this because it"s all he talks about. He hasn"t mentioned anything about leaving for school, not even soccer, or that we"re going to be playing on the same team for the first time.

I"m not looking forward to having to see him every day, but at least I won"t be living with him anymore. Aside from practice, and any freshman classes we might share, we will live blessedly separate lives. And if he"s more serious about partying than classes, maybe I"ll get lucky and he"ll drop out to go somewhere else. And then I can truly relax.

One can only hope. And pray… Please, Lord, let college be my opportunity to remake myself.

Now that he"s had the chance to make a dig at my expense, I"m expecting him to go back to the party. It is the last night, after all. Instead, he falls into step beside me. I side-eye him, watching for a moment while his eyes are looking down at the leaf strewn dirt path through the woods. He looks pensive. It's not an expression I"m used to seeing on his face. By the time we"re standing in the courtyard between our respective cabins, because thankfully we haven"t had the misfortune of being bunkmates again, I"m actually a little worried. The good-natured part of me wants to ask him about it, but anytime I"ve tried in the past it's been met with sarcasm and snark.

He beats me to the punch. "Are you alright?"

I"m taken aback for a moment, retracing our conversation to remember what we were talking about. "Oh, you mean Maci? Yeah, I"m alright."

His lips twist and his gaze cuts away from my eyes. He"s feeling awkward. Which means he"s not talking about my relationship status. My body stiffens, not wanting to give him any more fodder to tease me with. We"re adults now, damn it.

"I meant the news. I didn"t realize?—"

"I"m good," I cut in. It"s a lie, but he doesn"t need to know that.

"I"m sorry," he mumbles. He sounds almost sincere, but if there"s one thing I"ve learned about Noah Milner in the past four years, it"s not to let my guard down for even a second.

"Like I said, I"m good," I tell him curtly, spinning on my heel and walking into the cabin I share with Blake Tamlin, a goalie that"s headed to Stanford. He"s quiet, unobtrusive, and keeps his part of the room neat. He"s the perfect roommate, and I hope I get paired up with someone like him in the dorms. Is he the one Maci is with right now? I"ve seen the way he looks at her, and it was hard not to feel a vibe in the room whenever she came to visit me in here. I hope it is him. They"re both good people that deserve to be happy.

I use the restroom and change into some pajamas, realizing I never closed the door properly. My forehead scrunches, and I look around the room before I stick my head out the door. There"s no one out there. Noah left without bothering me. Normally he'd consider an open door an invitation. Like the time, only months ago, when the bathroom door didn"t latch while I was taking a shower. The asshole let himself in under the pretense of needing to pee, then accused me of leaving it open on purpose so he could hear me washing myself. His words were far more crude, of course.

It"s really messed up that I"m disappointed he"s not here, forcing me to shame myself. But it"s not because I want it—it"s not.

It"s because I know he only stopped out of pity.

A knock on the wall that separates my makeshift bedroom from the laundry room draws me out of space. I"ve been staring at the same picture in this photo album for I don"t know how long, not actually seeing it.

"Lane?"

I clear my throat and wipe away any evidence of tears, standing up and facing the shelf I was packing up before I invite my mom in. There"s no actual door for the room, but she stands back from the archway that opens into the rest of the basement, giving me privacy until she hears me call for her to come in. She"s been careful about that since day one, and I appreciate it. I was worried about the lack of privacy down here, but the door at the top of the stairs has a lock, and Noah has surprisingly never tried to step foot down here. I"m both grateful for a safe space from him, and angered that he gets my mother to do his laundry for him.

"Are you almost packed up?" Mom asks.

I see the flash of pity and concern in her eyes, but she redirects her attention to some clothes I have laid out on the bed. She busies herself with folding them, and I let her do it, even though I know I"ll be refolding them the way I like before packing them in the luggage set she and Scott got both of us for a graduation gift, along with hefty gift cards to make our dorms more comfortable.

"Just about," I answer her, lifting a stack of books.

She looks around the space I"ve kept perfectly neat and organized, and her brow furrows. Her eyes lock on the empty bookshelf.

"Without your books, you can"t even tell you live here. There"s not one speck of anything personal."

I shrug. "Now that I"m moving out, you can use the space for whatever you were planning to use it for, you know, before I moved in."

"This will still be your room, even if you"re not currently living here, Lane. I hope you"ll be back for breaks and summer."

My head cocks, and I frown. I hadn"t thought of that.

"I can stay somewhere else."

"You can stay here," she says insistently. "This is your home, Lane." The way she puts emphasis on the word home hurts my chest.

I wish she"d leave, but I don"t want to hurt her feelings by asking her to go. I feel like she"s gearing up for a heart-to-heart like the one she tried to have with me when I was fourteen. But I do not want to revisit that conversation and I do not want to talk about anything else.

She looks down at a stack of books, rubbing her hand over the leather-bound Bible on top. It belonged to my grandfather. Every time I look at it, I feel ill, but I don't have the heart to let it go.

"That detective came by again."

Nausea rolls through me, and my chest feels tight, like a fist has taken hold of my heart and squeezed. This happens sometimes, but not as harshly as it feels right now.

I say nothing, in case my pain is too obvious. I'm dizzy and want to sit down, but I don't want to draw attention to my discomfort.

"I told her you"d already answered their questions, and if you were interested in answering any more, you"d call her. I have her card just in case, but you know you don"t have to talk to them."

I nod, thankful. I don"t want to talk to them. I don"t want to talk to anyone.

It's getting hard to breathe. Sweat prickles on my forehead.

"But I wish you"d talk to me," she whispers. "If anything, I"m one of the few that will really understand."

My vision darkens, and I feel faint. I have to sink down to the floor when my knees buckle, unable to hold myself up. My hand clutches my chest.

I think I"m having a heart attack.

"Lane—"

"I"m fine," I choke out.

"You"re not fine, Lane. You haven"t been fine since the day I picked you up. I suspect you haven"t been fine a day in your life." Her voice is sharper than her normal soft tone.

"Mom." Please, I beg her with my eyes.

I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it anymore. I was getting better at not thinking about it, and then the stupid raid had to happen. The stupid detective had to track us down and bring it all up again.

"I"m sorry. I"m so sorry."

Mom whimpers as tears stream down her face. I"m used to her looking at me with sadness, but she always manages to hold back her tears. I try not to stiffen when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me to her. She tried that four years ago, the day we got back from that disastrous first summer at the soccer camp, and it didn"t go well for her. I"d wanted to go back to the compound, to have my soul cleansed and my sins wiped clean. I couldn"t bear to tell her what I"d done, what caused the fight between me and Noah.

"I don"t belong here," I told her.

She looked anguished that I didn't want to stay, but there"I know it"s different. It"s a lot to get used to, I know?—"

"What do you know?!" I cried out, feeling helpless and confused.

"I was older than you when I left," she reminded me.

"When you left me, you mean?"

The pain in her eyes made me irrationally angry. I hated how normal she was.

I"d had such a skewed perception of what she"d be like. For some reason, I"d imagined her wearing an ill-fitted, too-short dress and gaudy boots. I thought she'd have deep bruises around her eyes like the pictures of strung-out drug addicts they'd showed us, with stringy, greasy hair and a cigarette hanging out of her thin, too-red lips. Probably holding a bottle of booze, because of course she'd be drunk or high.

Not that I knew anything. I'd never seen someone smoke, or seen a prostitute, or a person with tattoos in real life. I"d never even seen a woman with short hair, or a man with long hair. The church was clear about how they felt about all that, and we lived by a strict set of guidelines on Grandfather"s compound.

"I loved?—"

But I wasn"t ready to hear it. I jumped up and ran to the small table beside the second bed in Noah"s room and grabbed my grandfather"s bible. I wanted to rage and scream and cry, but I wouldn"t do any of that. I was raised better than that. I sat and read the Bible until she returned with a shoebox full of cards and letters, all stamped "undeliverable/return to sender". Seeing them was unreal. My name—my birth name—written on the front of the envelopes in her loopy handwriting. It undermined everything I"d been told about her. It messed with the perception I"d had of her my entire life, of the irresponsible young woman who wanted freedom more than living with the evidence of her mistakes. Of a woman gone astray because the devil tempted her too far. All the things my grandfather told me about her, which was almost nothing. She was his daughter, and he acted like she didn"t exist. No one in the compound was allowed to talk about her. A whore of the devil was no daughter of his.

"I"ve always loved you," she said through her tears. "And I know this is all a lot. So when you"re ready to hear why I left, I"ll be here to talk."

I didn"t say a word, only stared at the box of letters and contemplated burning it so I could pretend none of this ever happened and that I was just a normal fourteen-year-old boy.

But I wasn"t, and she seemed to understand that. Just like she understood why I wanted to change my name. It was one of two things I"d told her on our eight-hour drive from the compound to my new home: I like playing soccer, and have a new name. She didn't even ask questions about it.

Before she left my room, she slipped me a manilla envelope that had paperwork to legally change my name to Lane Blakely instead of Isaiah Warren.

I never talked to her about any of it, or ask her why she abandoned me. But I didn"t hate her anymore after that day. And I started calling her mom, instead of avoiding calling her anything or calling her Hannah.

She"s been careful of my feelings and respectful of my space since the moment I was in her care. That"s why I let her hug me now. It"s why I comfort her as she cries. She"s not looking at me, so I let some of my own tears fall, too. I don"t think she"ll mind.

Grandfather said men weren"t supposed to cry. But I"m not the man he wanted me to be, and I probably never will be.

Letting the tears fall seems to soothe some of the pressure in my chest, and I can breathe again through the pain.