Meet Me at Midnight - Jessica Pennington Page 0,64
I can hop. God, what a nightmare. All of our careful planning, and we’re going to get caught because I can’t do something most eight-year-olds have mastered. Kill me now, I’ll never hear the end of this.
Asher steps in front of me, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s doing. Even when he crouches down a little, I’m still looking at him, confused. “Get on,” he whispers over his shoulder, and the scuffing of gravel draws my eyes to Nadine’s house again. She usually takes the dog in the trees along the driveway, but she could hear us and be around that corner in seconds.
Then, I don’t think. I jump. The second I’m on his back, we’re tearing through the yard, my legs pinned under his arms. We cut along the far left edge of the yard, near the trees, where it’s dark. I’m smacked by a low branch as we push through the narrow area between the trees and Lake House A, where everything is overgrown. A mumbled apology floats over Asher’s shoulder as I squeak at the hit and dip my face into his neck to shield myself from anything else I don’t see. We make it to the front of the house, and turn sharply to the right. We’re outside the doors to the boathouse that sits under it, its entrance hidden by the deck looming overhead.
Asher pushes on the old wooden door, and it opens just as he leans back, letting me know to get off. We can’t make it in together—not if I want to keep my forehead intact. He pushes the door open and I hobble in behind him, holding his arm for support. When we’re inside, he closes the door behind us.
He flicks his finger across his phone, places it on a little shelf, and the rafters above us are lit up, the whole space bathed in dim light. The boathouse is a weird place; it’s filled with randomness. On the left wall are long wooden pegs that hold old orange life jackets, speckled with mildew. Along the back wall are random beach toys, paddles, lawn chairs, and a few of Nadine’s rejected yard sculptures. There’s a cartoonish frog with a cracked head, and a gnome that’s missing a foot. I feel your pain, pal. I see an old five-gallon bucket and flip it over before sitting on it.
“Shit,” I mutter just as Asher squats down next to me. His elbows rest on his thighs, and he’s now eye-level with me. He takes his cell phone from the shelf and places it on the ground in front of him. It washes his face in harsh shadow. “I think I just rolled it,” I say softly. “It’ll be fine in a few hours.” I wince. “Probably.”
He moves silently to where my leg is extended, and puts a hand on either side of my ankle. “We’re not staying here a few hours.” His eyes meet mine, and his brows rise. I nod, letting him know it’s okay if he touches my injured foot. His fingers push gently above my ankle, and in the cool dampness of the boathouse, his skin feels like it’s on fire. My skin feels ablaze under his touch. He cradles the ball of my foot in his palm, and tips my foot one way and then the other. I should be worried about all of the spiders that are undoubtedly setting up their underground fortress in this room, but all I can think about is the way Asher has one hand on my lower calf, and the other on my ankle. And how no one has ever been this gentle with me. Also, how long has it been since I got a pedicure? Am I sandpapering his hand right now? This night is falling apart in so many ways.
A slight twist has me hissing, and Asher stops, his hands stilling against my skin. He whispers a very sincere apology as he rests my foot back on the floor. The smell is back again. Even against the mustiness, the smell of Asher is winning out over everything. I stand up, and Asher’s hand is on my arm. “Sit back down,” he says quietly, but I don’t listen.
“We have to get out of here. I’ll be fine with some help. We’ll go out the same way we did last time, along the water. Then you can come back and get the wagon.” I look up at him, wondering if he’ll