Some Quiet Place

kitchen, standing in front of the washer. I know Sarah’s listening to every move I make, unnerved by my being here. In an effort to put her at ease, I don’t bother attempting conversation.
    There are laundry buckets all around my feet. Bending over, I find and pull a pair of Tim’s jeans inside out, checking the pockets before dropping them into the wash. Next I find one of Charles’s T-shirts and put that in as well. When I pick up a pair of Sarah’s jeans, I check the pockets as usual, but pause as my hand collides with a folded-up piece of paper.
    Maybe I should hesitate to look, invade Sarah’s privacy, but I’m opening it before I think about it.
    It’s an airline ticket. One-way to New York City.
    As I scan the words on the small piece of paper, I remember Sarah mentioning, long ago, that her mother lived there. It was Christmas morning; she’d had such a pained look in her eyes.
    I glance at the date—three days from now—before shoving it back into the pants pocket.

EIGHTEEN
    “Psst!”
    Thunk.
    “Hey, Elizabeth, are you up there?”
    Thunk .
    My eyes flutter open and I gaze up at the ceiling. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. I sit up, and my notebook falls to the floor. I lean over and stare at the poem staring up at me. The scribbled words taunt. I hide, I protect, I pretend .
    Joshua calls my name again, his voice hushed and loud at the same time. He throws something at the window. He’s going to break it soon if I don’t get up.
    When I get to the pane, his arm is arched back, getting ready to throw something small in his hand. He sees my silhouette too late. I watch a tiny crack bloom across the glass. If Tim notices it, I’ll pay.
    Joshua cringes. “Sorry!”
    The window slides open with a slight hitch and I bend forward. “What are you doing?” It’s a cold night; the air numbs the tips of my ears and nose.
    The boy shrugs, grinning. “You said late. I wasn’t sure how late, so I took a wild guess. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”
    A glance at my alarm clock shows me that it’s 2:45 a.m. Joshua waits patiently. I hold up one finger to him, and he nods. I pull away, leaving the window open. I listen to the lonely sound of the wind as I pull a hoodie on over my tank top. I don’t bother changing out of my sweatpants and slip out my door.
    He’s in the driveway, hands shoved in his pockets, still smiling. He looks so much like the little boy I used to know in this moment, with his silly-shy grin and a tuft of hair sticking up at the back of his head. My stomach does a bizarre little jump.
    “I don’t know why I invited you here,” I tell him, my voice coming out icy. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
    He inclines his head, and I notice how his hair is out of his eyes—he’s brushed it aside so that it sweeps across his forehead. The strands of red glow white under the moon. “Maybe,” Joshua acknowledges. “But maybe that’s what makes it so great. You’re letting go.”
    For the first time in my life, I admit, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
    Fear’s words come back to me: For the first time in your life, you act without thinking. It seems Joshua Hayes brings out a lot of firsts in me. But the thought of Fear brings on a whole new train of thought, and I begin to wonder if I’ll see him again. After that conversation in the hallway—
    Joshua holds his hand out. Clamping down on my roiling thoughts, I take it. His palm is rough and scarred from working on the farm all his life … just like mine. He’s warm and I’m hot. Our skins collapse against each other, and I imagine I can hear a sizzling in the air.
    He senses my distraction and won’t let it go any further. “Hey.” He tugs on my hand, leading me away from the house. “Stop thinking for once. Come on.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “You’ll see.”
    He’s leading me toward the road. We leave my house behind, and the fabric of my shoes rubs against my bare ankles—I forgot to put on socks. Joshua parked his car farther down the road. He probably didn’t want the engine to wake up Tim and Sarah. He stops by the car, nodding to himself, and turns to survey the cluster of trees by the road. His hold on my hand tightens, and he starts to walk toward the woods. I resist.
    “Joshua, what—”
    “Just be patient,” he sighs, tugging at me some more, and I allow him to lead me into the trees. But then I pull myself free from his grip. He lets me, acting as if it doesn’t affect