The Devil You Know (16 page)

“Sentencing?” He told me he was defending himself so my own naive imagination spun up a scenario in which poor young Noah was the victim. I assumed the other guy deserved it. But now … the victim might have been
someone he knew. At the very least someone who could pick him out of a police lineup. Someone who pressed charges. “Who—?”

“Shit, Cadie, I figured he told you everything,” Matt says. “I shouldn't—you should probably talk to Noah about this. It's not my place.”

“Who was it?”

“He, um—okay. He attacked his dad. Put him in a coma for three days. Noah did a few months in juvie, but got a reduced sentence in exchange for counseling. And then his mom sent him to us to keep him away from his dad.”

“Absentee.” “Drunk.” “Son of a bitch.” Those were the words Noah used to describe his father. Could his dad have done something to deserve being beaten into a coma? Is there a crime that deserves such a punishment?
“I will fuck you up.”
Those were the words Noah said to Jason. Is that the kind of person Noah really is? The kind of person who will fuck you up? How much of what he told me about his life is really true? How many lies might I have believed?

The questions make my head feel too heavy for my body, my eyes tired. I rest my forehead on the table. I don't know how to respond to this new—and unsettling—information.

“I'm sorry I told you,” Matt says quietly. “Noah has
come a long way, you know? We're all really proud of him.”

“We should probably take him the leftovers,” is what I finally, stupidly, say. Because, no, I don't really know how far Noah Thomas MacNeal, age twenty-two, has come. “Just in case.”

When our little island comes into view, Noah is there, roasting fish like hot dogs on sticks over the open flame. If he's spent the past couple of hours simmering with rage, he hasn't been idle about it. He watches silently as we pull the canoe onto the bank. We're greeted by wood smoke, the scent of cooking fish, and Molly—her tail furious with happiness—as we make our way up to the fire. And still Noah says nothing.

Matt bypasses his cousin—who sits on a fallen tree that he's dragged from God-knows-where—and wades across the shallow water between the island and the opposite bank, then disappears into the woods. I sit down beside Noah on the tree. Not as close as before, and I wonder if he notices.

“So, uh—where ya been?” he asks. His tone is casual but my ear is now tuned for anger. I don't hear it, and handing him a Styrofoam box of half-eaten pie feels like a crappy apology for not inviting him along. Especially when he's been hauling logs, building fires, and catching fish.

“We went for pie.”

Instead of opening the box of leftovers, Noah rotates the fish to keep them from burning. In the firelight his face shines golden and it doesn't make sense that I still want to kiss him when my stomach is a jumble of bees. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I'm not sure if it's the truth. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know, Cadie.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “Maybe because you took off with Matt and—”

“It wasn't like that,” I interrupt. “It was just something to do.”

“Without me.”

“Don't be jealous.”

“I'm not.”

“No?”

“Okay, maybe a little.” He grins and rubs the back of his neck the way Duane does whenever he's about to say something that's going to be sweeter than he wants to admit. “Matt can be impulsive and reckless sometimes. I was worried, is all.”

Words plus gesture turn my insides to Marshmallow Fluff. Despite everything Matt told me, Noah still has the power to unravel me. “I'm sorry I didn't wake you.”

He touches his forehead to mine. “Me, too.”

“Are you mad?”

“Should I be?”

“No.”

“Then …” He kisses the tip of my nose at the same time his fingertips skim a strand of hair behind my ear. A tiny thrill follows his fingers and continues on down my spine. “… we're good.”

Noah digs into the pie, eating with his fingers, as I look at the roasting fish. Their unseeing white eyes seem to stare back in a way that unnerves me. I'm confused. And I'm having trouble making this Noah—the one who kisses me with a sweetness I've never tasted—mesh with the one Matt described.

I pull in a deep breath and slowly exhale, trying to prepare myself for the question I'm about to ask. “Did you put your dad in a coma?”

“Yes.”

The word sits on the air a moment, and I'm not sure what to do with it.

“But my dad is not a decent human being,” Noah says. “He is an abusive asshole.”

He removes the fish from the fire and stakes them, upright, into the ground so they'll cool. Molly lifts her
head off Noah's boot to sniff the air and lick her chops, but relaxes when he tells her no. He reaches down to pet her head.

“I was a pretty wild kid,” Noah continues. “I ran with a tough crew. Did drugs. So if it was just me … there were times I deserved to be knocked around. But one night I came home and caught him with his hands around my mom's neck. I punched him to get him off her, and he smacked me in the head with a tequila bottle. I was so high I didn't feel it. So high that I just kept on hitting him until he was on the ground, and after that I kicked him and kicked him and—” There's a catch in his voice and Noah blows out a sharp breath as if he's trying to keep from crying. “I would have killed him if Mom hadn't pulled me off, but I swear to God I didn't mean for it to go that far.”

“Matt didn't tell me you were defending your mother. He just said you were volatile.”

“What would you do if someone hurt your brother?”

Noah's question gives me pause because there is no limit to the damage I would inflict on someone who tried to hurt Danny, but before I can answer, Matt comes sloshing his way back across the river from the trees.

“If a bear shits in the woods and there's no one around to smell it, did he still shit?” he says. “The answer, in case you're wondering, is yes, and the bear recommends staying upwind of it.”

Noah laughs as he reaches into the cooler and tosses Matt a beer. “Have you heard about the new movie
Constipation?”
Noah waits a beat. “Hasn't come out yet.”

He and Matt crack up like a pair of six-year-olds, reminding me of my little brother, who is only just starting to discover potty humor.

“Okay, I've got one for you,” I say. “Why did Tigger stick his head in the toilet?”

“Ooh, I know this one!” Matt points a finger at me. “He was looking for Pooh. What's brown and sticky?”

Noah shrugs. “What?”

“A stick.”

The air between them seems cleaner, and I wonder if they just needed a break from each other. They've been together since their grandmother's funeral in Savannah. Noah offers me the next beer out of the cooler, but the thought of drinking makes me tired. “I'm going to bed,” I say. “Today has caught up with me.”

He catches my pinkie finger and tugs me gently toward him. “You okay?”

I nod. We've all been on top of one another since we left O'Leno, so even though the softness of his finger around mine makes me want to drag him off into the tent, I'd rather be alone. For a while I lie listening to their low and unintelligible words, their quiet laughter, and the
whoosh-crack
opening of beer cans. These are the sounds of Noah and Matt righting whatever was
tipped over. Going back to who they are without me in between.

I wake when Noah crawls into the tent on all fours, grabs a sleeping bag, and backs out again. I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it feels like only a few minutes. Except Molly is pressed against me, belly-up and legs in the air. I watch through the open flap as Noah spreads the sleeping bag over a sound-asleep Matt and then comes back to the tent.

I close my eyes as Noah curls up behind me, his warm skin smelling like smoke and sweat and maybe even the rain itself. My body shifts from soft with sleep to wideawake want—and I'm surprised by how quickly it happens. Even without him saying a single word.

“Are you awake?” he whispers as his arm steals around my waist. “Because I really want to kiss you.”

“Is that all?”

His laugh is low and warm on the back of my neck. His lips follow his breath, and my nerve endings light up with pleasure. “If you want to do more, I'm not going to say no, but—”

“Are you drunk?”

“A little bit … maybe … definitely … yes,” Noah admits with a thick-tongued slur, and I know I was asleep longer than I thought. “But I want to kiss you all the time. When you smile. When you're pissed off and fierce. Just—it
doesn't even make sense because I just met you three days ago.”

“It doesn't.” I shift to face him. His arm is already around me, his fingers splayed on my back. He presses me gently against him. Legs. Knees. Hips. Chests. “Because you scare me and it doesn't stop me from wanting to kiss you, too.”

“Cadie, you don't have to be afraid of me.” His mouth is so close I can almost taste his words. “You've got me so twisted I can't even think straight, but I would never hurt you. I promise.”

Promises are easy to believe in the middle of the night when it's dark and just us. When his kisses burn my lips and the stubble of his hair feels soft against the palms of my hands. When the movement of his hips steals my breath. And when I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder, I have the fleeting thought that tomorrow—or maybe it's even today by now—is going to be a very long day on the water. But every minute, every kiss, will be worth it.

The next time my eyes open, I'm face-to-face with a still-asleep Matt, who must have come inside in the night. The heat of four bodies in one tiny tent is oppressive, and the rain is unrelenting. There are no two ways about it; this day is going to be miserable.

We are spared the thunder and lightning of yesterday, but the sky spits rain at us all day long. Sometimes it comes as a downpour, other times it's a mist that gets in our eyes and clings like a second skin. There is nothing to see except the endless splatter of drops on the river. Molly burrows beneath one of the thwarts of Noah's canoe, but it doesn't keep her dry. Nothing is dry. Even our food is soggy, but we eat it anyway. And we don't talk because there's nothing to say about how tired, hungry, and saturated we are. We just look at one another with weary eyes and paddle like robots, over and over for hours, as if it's the only thing we know.

This is insane.

And not just paddling twelve twisty miles of Peace River in the rain.

What am I doing here?

I haven't talked to my dad in two days. He's probably moved from worry to sheer panic because I haven't come home. And maybe he's right to be afraid. Maybe I should be more afraid. I had sex with a guy I barely know. Followed him into the middle of nowhere because of it. Even after I found out about the gun. Even after Lindsey didn't go home. He swears he won't hurt me, but his past tells a different, violent story, and I don't know what to believe. I rationalized everything, telling myself that I earned this time away from home. But now, with too much time to
do nothing but think, I wonder if I was just plain selfish. Just … stupid.

By the time we finally paddle up to the beach at Gardner, the blister on my hand has swelled, shredded, and bled. The skin on my fingers is so wrinkled it hurts. I stumble getting out of the boat, fall onto the sand, and just stay there, crying with relief. Crying from the pain. Crying because I want to go home. I stay there until Noah helps me to my feet. My legs are rubbery from sitting too long, sand clings to my shins, and I feel as if I'm in an unfamiliar body as we walk to the Cougar. Matt is already at the trunk, rummaging through the bags for dry clothes.

I'll get my stuff and then I'll call home. Duane will come. My vision blurs again as I think about how he will drive three hours for me, no questions asked.

“Are you okay?” The concern in Noah's voice twists my insides. The pull toward him is so strong, even when I don't want to feel it.

“Yeah. I don't know. I think—” I stop short, not wanting to tell him I'm leaving. Not wanting to look at him for fear of changing my mind. He's like a sickness, a craving, and I want to believe the best about him, even when the worst has been crawling around inside my brain all day. “I need to call home.”

“Yeah, sure.” Water drips off Noah's duffel as he scoops it from the bottom of the canoe and hands it to me. “My
phone's in here somewhere. Get dry. Call home. Matt and I will meet you at the car after we get the boats on the trailer.” I nod and as I walk away, he says, “And, Cadie, if you want me to take you home, I will.”

I change into my clothes in a tiny stall in a primitive bathroom, where the toilet is just a hole and the air smells like shit and chemicals. My clothes are as wrinkled as my fingertips, and they're not exactly clean but they're mostly dry. After being so wet, I can live with a little dirt and a bit of damp. I wring the water from my hair with paper towels and then unzip Noah's bag, searching for his phone. I push aside a green flannel shirt, and stuck between the folds is a map of Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge with a campsite rental receipt stapled to the corner. The date stamp on the receipt puts Noah and Matt there at the same time as the guy who went missing. The coincidence sends a creeping uneasiness down my spine.