Coming Home to the Mountain: Complete Edition

11. Rye

CHAPTER 11

Rye

I had a bad feeling about the girls all going upstairs with Prairie. This whole night was probably a terrible idea. Bringing her to Sunday dinner after everything she's been through is a lot all at once.

She spent years living with two people who kept her locked up. And then for the last week it was just her and me, living in our cocoon.

And then all this. It's a lot of people, a lot of energy. I don't want her light to go out. I don't want her to get swallowed up whole by Fig and Lemon—I know how they can be. Plus, with Abby and my mom all in the same room? Well, that's a lot of women.

The last thing I want is for Prairie to end up in a puddle of tears. And as I climb those stairs to Fig’s bedroom, passing half the Rough women as I go, I know something's not right.

The girls won't tell me what happened, though. My sisters give me looks that tell me there is trouble brewing, and my chest is tight, constricting as I climb the stairs, wanting to get to Prairie, wanting to be sure she is okay.

At the top of the stairs, when I reach Fig’s bedroom door, I see Mom on the bed with Prairie, who’s crying just like I expected.

I walk into the room.

“What are you saying to her?” I ask Mom. “What did you say to make her upset? It’s the last thing she needs right now.”

“It's okay, Rye,” Prairie says, reaching for my hand. “You don't need to get angry.”

“Like hell I don’t. I don't want anybody upsetting you.”

“Nobody is upsetting her. We're just talking, Rye,” Mom says, standing. “I can have a conversation with Prairie without you barging in here, thinking you're going to save the day.”

I clench my jaw. Squeeze Prairie's hand. Tight. “I think it's time for us to go.”

Prairie looks up at me. “You sure?”

“Yes, Prairie, I'm sure.”

She nods, hearing me. “All right.” Turning to my mom, she speaks. “Annie,” she says, stepping toward her and wrapping her in a quick hug. “Thank you so much for dinner. I haven't had spaghetti and meatballs in years, and it was just delicious. Your garlic bread is to die for.”

“Oh, that's an old family recipe. I’ll write it down for you if you'd like.”

Prairie laughs. “Well, I can't imagine making bread from scratch but I could give it a try. Thank you again for your warmth and your hospitality. And all of these clothes here.”

She hands me two large shopping bags and I carry them downstairs.

I appreciate my mom’s and Prairie’s ability to defuse the situation. Well, I suppose what I mean is their ability to defuse me.

When we walk into the living room, I see everyone else is getting ready to play a game of charades.

Slices of peach pie à la mode are in bowls on the coffee table and in people's laps.

There's a pot of coffee made and it smells real good. I'm sorely tempted to sit down and say screw my irritation, but Prairie needs to go. I don't want her to deal with all the drama that's going to come with a game of charades because with this family, hell, it’s a competition no matter what we’re playing.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Mac asks, frowning.

I nod. “Yeah. It's been a long day. We're going to head home. Catch up with you guys later.”

Dad stands and gives Prairie a squeeze of her shoulder. “I'm glad you could come out tonight.”

I set the bags under a tarp in the bed of my truck. Then I open Prairie’s door for her, trying to forget about Luke’s picture hanging in the hallway and my mother thinking I don’t know what I want.

Once I turn the car on, the heat blasting, and start rolling down the mountain, I tell Prairie what I really think.

“Look,” I say, “I think maybe you and I, we ought to go back up to the Rough Forest for a while.”

“Rye,” Prairie starts. “Can we just talk when we get home?—”

“My dad says my cousin Cash is helping him with the family business. And maybe he can keep on helping. We can go up to the forest. We can set up shop for a month, maybe two, or even longer.”

“Rye, I’m not running away. I want to stay put. You build houses, maybe you’ll understand this metaphor. I want to lay a foundation. I want to build from the ground up. I don’t want to hide.”

I shake my head because that won’t work here. The secret, it’s too big, and if I stay in Home, it will swallow me whole. “We can stay up there as long as we want,” I tell her as I drive. “We can even plant a garden this spring. Make that place our home?—”

“Stop the car, Rye. Listen to me!” Prairie urges. “You aren’t listening!”

We’ve just crossed the bridge over the Rough River toward my cabin, and I pull off to the side of the road.

“What is it?” I ask her. Then I grin. “You want to stop and have a quickie before we make it home?”

She shakes her head. “No. Did you not hear me hollering at you? Did you hear me telling you what I want? Because I don’t want to run to the woods. I spent enough time locked up. I want to be free.”

“Where is all this coming from? I thought you liked that hunting cabin?”

“Sure I liked it. It was better than the place I was held captive, but I want to be here. I want to be in Home. And I want you to be honest about why you want to run away. Rye, what are you so angry about?”

“Nothing. I’ve never been so happy since meeting you.”

“Then what was that back at your parents’ house? Everyone is worried sick about you. What's your problem, Rye?”

“What do you mean, what's my problem?”

“Well, you were in a bad mood half the time we were there. You hardly said a word at dinner. You stormed into your sister's bedroom. Practically dragged me out of your parents’ house. I don't know what that was about. And then we get in the car and you say you want to leave town. You want to go back out to the middle of nowhere for months on end with me. Why?”

“I don’t have a problem,” I say, looking over at her, but of course, I have plenty of problems. Reasons I don't want to say in town. I don't want to walk down my parents’ hallways, seeing family photos, being reminded of reality. I shake my head. “I don't want to fight with you. We didn't fight all week. We go to my parents’ house for one night and look at us. We're arguing. Let's not be these people.”

“Fine,” she says. “Let's not. I don't want to argue with you either. I love you. You're the last person I want to fight with.”

“Fine, then what are we doing?”

“What we're doing, Rye, is we're talking this out. What are you hiding? What aren't you saying? Because I know something is working you up. Why did your parents send you to the middle of nowhere; why were you in a bad mood for a year? What happened to you? Tell me the truth.”

I shake my head. “I don't want to do this, Prairie. I want to protect you. I want to protect everybody.”

She reaches for my arm, forcing me to turn and look at her. “Rye Rough. You listen to me and you listen to me good. I want to know what's really going on with you. Why are you so unhappy? Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth or we're done.”