Runaway Bridesmaid (5 page)

Sarah allowed a half smile for the young man, not having the heart to point out that Dean's planet was probably in another galaxy. Billions and billions of light years away. And she drove a Bronco, not the USS
Enterprise.

A couple minutes later, as she steered the car out onto the road and headed north toward the Plunkett farm, she saw Katey and Dean come out of the kennel, easily visible thanks to the sensor light over the kennel door. As Sarah acknowledged Katey's exuberant goodbyes with a wave of her hand, she couldn't help but see Dean still wore that whipped-dog ex
pression. Frowning, she concentrated on the twin beams of light in front of her.

And ignored the panic threatening to choke her.

 

Even though Dean had left the Whitehouses' hours ago, he still couldn't get the image of a pair of endless legs out of his head.

No. It was more than that, he thought, scrunching his pillow under his head. There were plenty of long legs in Atlanta. None of them, however, belonged to Sarah Whitehouse.

And there were other images, like specters, determined to plague him that night: Sarah's brilliant smile and quick laugh and gentle, loving teasing; Sarah sitting with one long finger tucked under her chin as she concentrated on some convoluted explanation of Katey's; Sarah head to head with Jennifer as they shared sisterly secrets; Sarah joking with her mother, their laughs blending in the sweetest harmony heard this side of the Robert Shaw Chorale.

The way that laughter died whenever she caught him looking at her.

Finally, tired of flopping around in bed like water on a hot skillet, he sat up and perched on its edge, raking both hands through his hair. Too many Cokes, he thought.

Too many memories.

He fumbled for his Timex on top of the nightstand, waiting a moment until the tiny phosphorescent green numerals came into focus. Twelve forty-five. He'd been in bed for nearly two hours and hadn't been to sleep yet. Didn't look as though the sandman was going to pay him a visit anytime soon, either.

The old floorboards protested when he stood and crossed to the open window. He leaned against the sill, curtains of some diaphanous material—his aunt had redone his old bedroom immediately after he'd left, Lance had told him—brushing against his bare shoulders, making him shiver. The moon was full; stark, deep shadows carved the front yard and road beyond, between patches of silvery light bright enough to read by.

He needed a walk.

Thirty seconds of blind rummaging through his soft-sided suitcase yielded a pair of clean jeans and T-shirt. He stumbled a bit in the dark as he pulled them on, the harsh grating of the zipper magnified in the deep middle-of-the-night country silence. Seconds later, he was out the back door.

The only sounds he heard as he ambled down the road in the general direction of Sarah's house were the occasional chirping of an insomniac cricket and the murmurings of leaves as the night breeze disturbed their repose. The navy blue sky, punctuated with too many stars to take them all in, showed no signs of the earlier storm, but the air was cool and clean and fresh, the hems of his jeans soon soaked from the dampness leeching from the ground.

He passed the row of cypresses bordering the west edge of the Whitehouse property and stopped, staring at the house, wondering what the general reaction would be if he just walked up and knocked on the door. Took all of two, maybe three seconds to decide there were easier ways to commit suicide.

Then he noticed her car wasn't in the driveway. Concerned, he checked out the back…nope. She'd left on her call at nine-thirty. Where the hell could she still be at 1:00 a.m.?

He stood, hands on hips, mouth drawn. Okay, so whatever he and Sarah had once had was shot to hell. He knew that. He also knew—for the sake of family harmony, if nothing else—he owed it to both of them, to everyone, to at least try to salvage something of the present.

Otherwise, he might never be able to sleep again.

He settled himself into an Adirondack chair on the front lawn, and waited.

 

Nothing was ever simple. The lamb's leg had refused to respond to her normal manipulative techniques, so she had to load the eighty-pound animal into the Bronco and take him into the clinic where she could do a radiograph and see exactly what was going on. Turned out the joint had been sheared in half right at the growing cartilage, with the farthest piece displaced sideways. That meant sedation—at one point, Sarah
wondered if the thirteen-year-old Josh would need it more than the lamb—and some careful pulling and twisting until everything was lined up and she heard that reassuring “click” that indicated the joint had slipped back into place. If the animal managed to keep on the splints, with some careful tending he'd be just fine.

She hoped her own prognosis was as good.

As she pulled into the driveway, she muttered a prayer of gratitude that the Bronco wasn't a real horse that needed stabling. Cut the engine, go to bed…the day was over at last—

“What took you so long?”

With a little scream, she banged into the open car door, scraping her arm.

“Lord Almighty, Dean! You scared the hell out of me—”

“What took you so long?” he repeated.

“The call was more complicated than I expected, what do you think?” she lobbed back, rubbing her whacked arm. “That happens, far more often than I usually admit. And what on earth are you doing here at—what time
is
it…?” she tilted her watch up to the moonlight, squinted at it “—one-fourteen in the freakin' morning?”

She could make out broad shoulders lifting and falling, delineated by a thin outline of moonlight. “I couldn't sleep. So I took a walk, ended up here, saw you weren't and got worried.”

“Well, here I am, nothing ate me on my way home, and I'm about to drop in my tracks.” She slammed shut her car door. “I'm going to bed, if you don't mind.” She started up the driveway toward the house, spinning around in shock when Dean grabbed her arm.

“We need to talk.”

Oooh, no,
she thought, smelling danger like a wolf. She was exhausted, and vulnerable, and the damp night hair had heightened Dean's scent far more than she knew she could safely handle.

“Look—if I don't want to talk to you when I'm awake, it's a sure bet I don't now.” She jerked away from him and con
tinued toward the house, awake enough to notice even that brief contact had sent a wave of shivers skittering over her arm. “Good night, Dean,” she tossed over her shoulder.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

“Sarah, I'm sorry—” she heard behind her “—I know it's way overdue, but I feel terrible about what happened between us.”

Ignoring the little voice that said keep walking, don't respond, don't get into it, she whipped around. “And that's supposed to mean something to me? Please don't tell me you're that naive.”

“I'm just trying to apologize here, if you'll give me half a chance—”

“You
are
that naive!” she countered, incredulous. She crossed her arms across her ribs so tightly it hurt. “Here's a flash for you, Parrish—apologies are what people do when there's some chance of making things better again. You could apologize for, maybe, being late for a date, or dialing a wrong number, or forgetting a birthday, even. There's no apology for what you did to me—”

“Give me a break, would you?” he shot back, his voice tight with restraint. “I was twenty years old and confused and stupid, all right?”

Her hands flew into the air as she backed away, shaking her head. “I don't want to hear this, Dean—”

She stumbled over something, which slowed her down enough for Dean to snag her wrist. “Well, too bad, because you're going to. You don't think I saw the hurt in your eyes tonight, every time I looked at you? You don't think I know why you took off before dinner? For God's sake, Sarah—this is
me.
Maybe it's been nine years since we saw each other, but I can still see inside your head better than anyone else.”

He dropped her wrist; she stayed put, pinned by the electricity in his gaze.

“Running away isn't going to change anything, and you know it,” he said, more softly. “And I don't think either one of us wants this crap hanging over our heads on Saturday. So
let's have this out, right now, right here, so we can get on with our lives.”

She hesitated another few seconds, realized he'd just pester her to death until he had his say. “Okay.” She let out on a short breath. “Talk.”

A ragged sigh of relief floated over her head, but remorse flooded his features. “My aunt kept hammering away about how different we were, how you had all these goals, and I didn't. And your folks…I knew they liked me and all, but when things started to get serious between us, you don't think I knew what they were thinking, too?”

Before she could even think of what to say to that, he went on.

“And eventually, I thought, yeah, they were right…if I stayed around, if we got married, you probably wouldn't finish college, we'd end up having a couple of kids, and a few years down the road you'd realize you'd thrown your life away for some worthless high-school dropout with no future. I couldn't let that happen to you. So…I decided the best thing was to leave, to get away so you could do what you needed to do and I wouldn't get in your way. Especially…” He pinned her with tortured eyes. “Especially after we made love,” he said, his voice low, the words arcing dangerously between them.

She went very, very still.

“No comment?”

All she could do was shake her head.

“Don't you see, honey? We'd gotten in way too deep. Even as a twenty-year-old airhead, I knew that much.” He paused, still apparently expecting a reply. When there wasn't one, he added, “I loved you so much…and I didn't know what else to do, how to fix things.” He lifted his hands, let them fall to his sides again. “It seemed to make sense at the time.”

She stared at him for several seconds, the words not fitting together in any sort of logical order at first. Then, suddenly, they did, and her skin went cold.

“You
lied
to me?”

A breeze stirred the leaves overhead; something skittered
underneath the rhododendrons. “Yes,” he finally said. “I lied. And what really sucks is that I can't even say I never meant to hurt you, because I did. I had to make you hate me, or I never would've been able to leave at all.”

She regarded him for another moment, her hands braced on the back of her hips. Her shoulder bag slipped, the strap banging into her forearm; she let it slide down to the ground, walked away a few steps, then strode back. “All…all that business about hating Sweetbranch was an
act?
”

Dean ran his hand over his face, then through his hair. “I never hated my home, Sarah. I didn't want to leave. But I thought I had no choice.”

“And this is somehow supposed to make me feel
better?
” As the implications began to sink in, she felt bitterness choke her heart like bindweed—invasive, profuse and virtually impossible to get rid of. “Let me get this straight—you lied to me, told me you'd never loved me, that you found everything about me and this town so boring you couldn't stand the thought of being here one minute longer, not even long enough to take me to my prom. And you did this because you
loved
me?”

He looked away, a muscle popping in his jaw.

“You
jerk!
” she shrieked, taking a wild swing at him which he easily dodged. Tears of fury pricked at her eyes, but she would not let them come. She would
not.
What she did was walk away.

Twenty paces later, she found herself standing next to the forty-foot willow in the middle of the yard, one knee on the wrought-iron seat circling its base, her head and right hand resting on the trunk.

So. He
had
loved her, just as she thought. No—not as
she
thought. As
he
thought, in some convoluted manner unfathomable to her. She would never have just run from a problem, especially not a problem with Dean.

The suffocated laugh didn't even make it past her lips. Yeah, right. Who was she kidding? Hell, if running from problems was on Olympic event, she'd be a gold medalist.

Suddenly, she knew nothing about anything, except she was so very, very tired.

The grass rustled softly as Dean came closer; she didn't move. Despite the fury raging inside her, she realized how few males in her admittedly limited experience would have come clean the way Dean just had. Man had guts, she had to admit. Still, his confession wasn't going to eradicate the past, just like that.

“I cannot believe,” she began, rocking her forehead on the top of her hand, “the only solution you saw to this so-called problem of our differences was to make me think everything we'd shared was a complete sham.”

“You had all these plans,” he said quietly, his voice as much of a caress as it had always been, “these dreams…and I let myself be convinced I couldn't be a part of all that.” Her eyes actually hurt when she looked at him. He shrugged. “I told you…it was stupid.”

Now she turned, collapsing like a rag doll on the bench, her back against the tree. She could only see his silhouette. Just as well.

“Oh, what you did goes way beyond stupid, Dean. You didn't care enough to even attempt to talk about what was bothering you. To see if we could work this out together. That concept completely eluded you. Instead, you made me feel like some cheap throwaway who wasn't worth even losing a little sleep over. Do you have any idea what that summer was like for me, Dean? After you left? Do you?”

After a long pause, he said, “They told me you got sick. Mono, right?”

She hadn't expected he'd known that. Momentarily thrown, she scrambled for her next sentence. “Before that. Of course I missed the prom, which, like any normal teenage girl, I'd been looking forward to since the first day of high school. But then, I was supposed to give the valedictorian speech at graduation, remember? I didn't want to read from cards, 'cause I always thought that looked tacky, so I memorized the speech.
Except, I blanked.” Her laugh was harsh. “Couldn't remember one single word. I was completely humiliated.”