Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (9 page)

Trading worries for excitement, Ginger had relived the kiss a hundred times by now, giggling as she perfected her makeup and slipped her dress over her head. The way his tongue had slid against hers, making secret places in her body come alive, as though he’d flicked a switch and turned her on for the first time in her life. The memory of his hands on her face made her tremble, and the way he’d tenderly nuzzled her nose with his made her sigh. She wanted so much more from him tonight—a hundred more kisses to keep her company during the long, lonely months ahead, when he’d be far away. She would ask him to write to her, and he would, wouldn’t he? Of course he would, she assured herself. She didn’t know a lot about boys, but a kiss like that was real, was almost a promise—it told her she meant something to him, it told her that tonight was just the beginning of a million happy nights spent together.

Only the beginning . . .

She smoothed her hands over the homecoming gown she’d selected with her mother three weeks ago, happy she’d have a chance to wear it after all. It was royal blue, with a fitted, strapless bodice and a full, chiffon skirt. The bodice had silver and crystal beadwork that would sparkle as she and Cain danced across the Apple Valley High School gymnasium. Her blonde waves were held back by her mother’s shimmering tiara, and she’d borrowed a diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet from her mother’s jewelry box too. Grinning at herself in Gran’s bedroom mirror, she had to admit she looked every bit the princess tonight—no jodhpurs or muddy riding boots in sight—and she desperately hoped that Cain liked what he saw. He’d been with so many girls over the past few years, from what she could gather. She wanted to stand out. She wanted to be special. She wanted him to want her as desperately as she wanted him.

Playing with the straps of her matching royal blue purse, she looked up as she heard an engine turn from the road into the driveway. But when she saw Woodman’s BMW at the bottom of the hill, her eyebrows knitted together in consternation.
Dang it.
He was probably coming to say good-bye before he left tomorrow, and while she was glad of that—because she
wanted
a few minutes to say good-bye to him—the timing was terrible. Cain would be here any minute, and she didn’t want for Woodman to be standing by the sidelines as she drove away with Cain.

It’s not that Woodman had ever declared his feelings for her per se, but they were clear in the warmth in his voice when he spoke to her, in the way his eyes lit on her and lingered. He was smitten with her, and Ginger knew it, though she was committed to ignoring it, lest her rejection create an awkwardness between them.

The last thing she wanted was awkwardness with Woodman. He was her escort to every country club dance, her most frequent riding companion, her confidant and best friend and big brother. She was closest to Woodman after Gran, and she loved him deeply, but the reality was that, regardless of his tender voice and loving looks, Woodman had only “set her blood on fire” once, a long time ago, for a fleeting moment on her twelfth birthday. He was handsome and kind, but most of the time Ginger wished he’d find a girlfriend and stop looking at her with those eager, longing eyes full of the kind of love she didn’t feel and couldn’t return.

Anxious to make their farewell as genuine yet brief as possible, she waved to him as he pulled into the circular driveway, coming to a stop in front of her and cutting the engine. She fixed a smile on her face that came easily and naturally. Though she craved some freedom from his watchful eyes, she also knew she would miss him desperately once he was gone, and she knew they both deserved an unrushed, heartfelt good-bye.

“Hey there!” she called as he opened his car door. “Stoppin’ by on your way to the club for dinner?”

He stood up, and she grinned at his carefully groomed blond hair. But her smile faded as her eyes dropped lower. Woodman was wearing a tux. Why was Woodman wearing a tux?

“Awful dressed up,” she murmured, her eyes slipping to the bouquet of flowers in his hand. “And are those your momma’s prized dahlias?”

“They are,” he said, raising his arm to offer them to her.

She didn’t take them, because she was frozen, searching his face for the answers to unasked questions.

His smile was off. It was kind of hopeful, but kind of sad, and maybe a little bit worried too. It was the way he’d smiled at her the morning she found out that Bit-O-Honey’s last foal had died during the night—a gentle smile that didn’t reach his eyes, that tried to calm her before he said words that he knew would hurt her.

She raised her chin, cutting her eyes to his, and she saw it there too. Anger made his green eyes darker and deeper, but the color was brightened with a thick topcoat of compassion that made her fists ball by her sides, a growing realization flushing her skin to uncomfortable warmth.

She gathered her courage. “Say what you have to say, Woodman.”

“First,” said Woodman, that gentle, sorrowful smile still in place, “let me tell you how stunnin’ you look tonight, Gin. You are a—”

“You’re just makin’ it worse. Say it.”

His jaw tightened, twitching once, twice, and the smile faded completely, until Woodman’s face wasn’t gentle or sorry anymore, just angry.

“He’s not comin’.”

“Who?” she murmured, the sound of a baby barn owl waking alone in the darkness, calling for its momma while she was out hunting.

“Cain.” Woodman took a step closer, letting the dahlias fall listlessly to his side. “Cain’s not comin’, darlin’.”

Cain. Cain’s not comin’, darlin’.

She swayed in her dyed-blue, high-heeled shoes and heard the light rustle of Miz Sophie’s dahlias hit the ground as Woodman’s hand slid under her elbow to steady her. Her eyes filled with hot tears, and she dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, ruining her lip gloss, scraping off the imprint of Cain’s lips brushing hers.

“Why not?” she managed to ask, staring down at the dahlias, which looked limp and forgotten on the gravel driveway.

“Because he’s an . . .” Woodman made a tsking sound, then took a deep breath, and Ginger knew he was choosing his words. “Cain’s Cain. You can’t count on him, Gin. You know that, honey.” Still holding her elbow, Woodman pulled her gently against his body. His arms came around her, and she closed her eyes, resting her cheek on his shoulder and biting her tongue to keep from crying. “I’m sorry.”

She struggled to swallow over the lump in her throat, Gran’s words coming home to roost in her head:

But do you really
know
him? Are you really seein’ him clearly?

Dragging in a shaky breath, she understood the worry in Gran’s eyes now. Somehow her grandmother must have known. And stupid, naive Ginger had still believed in Cain, had still hoped for the best.

A sob escaped her as she thought about the tenderness of his touch, the gentle pressure of his lips parting hers.
You still want that first kiss?

It had meant everything to her but nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

Something very much like anger, sprinkled with a healthy dose of self-preservation, seeped into her heart, and she felt her tears dry. She wouldn’t cry for Cain. No, goddamn it. She wouldn’t cry for a boy who treated her like garbage.

“I’m so dumb,” she sighed, her voice breaking a little as she tried to take another breath.

“No!” cried Woodman, holding her tighter, validating her instinctive demand for self-respect. “You’re
not
dumb. You’re—Gin, you’re the most amazin’ girl in the world. Don’t let Cain make you feel bad. Cain is a, well, he’s just a rat bastard, if you want to know the truth. I’m ashamed to be his cousin most days, but today? I’m furious. I’m so sorry he hurt you. I could just—”

Ginger leaned back, looking up at Woodman’s face, and for the first time she noticed the reddish-purple bruise on his cheek. She reached up and brushed her fingers against it gently, and he flinched.

“Y’all fought?”

Woodman scanned her face, trying to figure out how she’d feel about that, but she kept her expression cool, wanting his honesty. Finally he nodded. “He deserved it.”

Her lips twitched as she shook her head in disapproval. “How does the other guy look?”

“Split lip. Bleedin’ nose.”

A small, unladylike snort of laughter escaped through her lips. “Is it terrible that I’m glad?”

“If the image of Cain bleedin’ makes you smile, darlin’, I would have beat him up years ago.”

“Woodman,” she said softly, sliding her hand down his arm and weaving her fingers through his. “What am I goin’ to do with you?”

“How about lettin’ me take you to homecomin’?” He shrugged, looking down at his tux, then catching her eyes with a grin. “I’m a little overdressed for the club. And you are too beautiful to stay home alone tonight.”

Part of her
did
want to stay home. Part of her wanted to throw her dress in the fireplace, change into pajamas, and cry herself to sleep. Besides the fact that her kiss with Cain—which had meant so much to her—meant absolutely nothing to him, it must have sucked, which made her feel embarrassed. What a foolish little girl, thinking an experienced man like Cain would be swept off his feet by her inexperienced kiss, content to take her to a stupid high school dance on his last night home. What a ridiculous, naive child to think that a kiss that had shaken the foundation of her world could mean anything to him.

She looked up at Woodman’s sparkling eyes and managed a smile for him.

Here was Woodman, dressed to the nines. He’d beaten up Cain, picked his mother’s sacred flowers into a bouquet, and raced over to her house to comfort her and take her to a dance. He was leaving for boot camp tomorrow, but he was choosing to spend his last night at home with her.

The sun slipped below the horizon, bathing the farm in a gold and lavender half-light, and Ginger looked closely at Woodman, at his burnished blond hair and handsome smile. He didn’t have the dangerous flash and flare of Cain, but maybe she hadn’t been looking closely enough all these years. Maybe Woodman, whom she’d friend-zoned for so long, deserved more of a chance.

“You
sure
you want to spend your last night at home with me?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Baby,” he drawled, sounding so much like Cain, she almost could have closed her eyes and tricked herself into believing he was here, after all, “ain’t nothin’ in the world I’d like more.”

***

Two hours later, she was flushed and happy, holding Woodman’s hands on the dance floor and hollering along with her classmates to a jazzed-up version of the Apple Valley fight song. Giggling with glee as she stumbled over the words, Ginger looked up as yet another popular high school senior approached them, politely interrupting their dance to have a short word with Woodman.

Here was something new she’d learned tonight: Woodman was popular. And not just popular, but
stratospherically
popular, well liked, respected, and admired. Never having attended high school at the same time as the cousins, Ginger had not had a firsthand opportunity to see how the teens of Apple Valley regarded them. But she’d lost count of the number of people, students and teachers alike, who’d stopped by to wish Woodman good luck at boot camp.

He shook the senior’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder, telling him to behave himself and “kick Canton’s ass all over the field” next week. Ginger watched with a growing mix of fascination and pride. He was, by far, the highlight of the dance for everyone there, and he was her date. Hers.

He’d also saved her bacon tonight, showing up when he did. If he hadn’t, she’d have sat on that old porch swing for hours, waiting for Cain, finally dissolving into pitiful tears when she realized she’d been stood up. She would have missed the dance, her new dress would be ashes, and she’d be huddled under the covers now, feeling beyond worthless. Instead she was at the dance with the uncrowned king—and instead of being Cain’s princess, she was Woodman’s queen.

She thought back to her twelfth birthday as he grinned at her, taking her hands for another rock-and-roll song. Although Woodman had held her hand and hugged her a million times since that afternoon on the driveway when he gave her the charm bracelet, that was the first and last time that her feelings for him had edged, just a touch, into the realm of more. Until now.

For years, she’d been pining for Cain, when right smack in front of her was the whole package: Woodman, in all his golden-boy goodness, was hers for the taking.

Placing her hands on his warm face, she pulled him to her until her lips grazed his ear. “It’s so hot in here. Can we go outside?”

When she drew back, his eyes were darker and less playful, his glance flicking to her lips before he nodded. “Sure.”

Still holding her hand, he pulled her through the crowd of dancing students, stopping whenever a girl wanted to kiss his cheek or a boy wanted to shake his hand. She wondered if he’d taken her right hand by design so that he wouldn’t have to drop it, and gradually she realized that his thumb was rubbing slow, soothing circles on her skin. She concentrated on his hypnotic touch, getting lost in it, even as the music thumped and Woodman’s cheerful voice thanked every other student for his or her good wishes. Surrounded by a hundred or more moving bodies, she was aware only of him—the soft touch of callused skin, rubbing, lulling her into a simultaneous state of bonelessness and hyperawareness.