It hadn’t been, of course. But if Sadie was right, Anne could still try, as best she could, to give that little girl the future she’d believed in.
So she wiped the palms of her hands on her shirt—a move she’d never make at home—and said, “Fine. Twenty seconds of spinning. That’s it. And don’t you dare let go, all right? If I break something, you’re coming over to take care of me.”
“I won’t let go if you won’t,” Sadie told her. “Just keep your eyes on my face. You’ll be fine.”
Somewhat reluctantly, she placed her right hand in Sadie’s left, her left hand in Sadie’s right, and Sadie’s fingers closed forcefully around hers.
“Like this.” Sadie crossed their arms over their wrists. “Hold on tight—”
And then they were spinning in a circle, in the middle of the goddamn desert, miles and miles away from anything, two tiny specks that twirled together in the dirt under the huge night sky.
Anne desperately wanted to close her eyes, the feeling of it all too much to bear, but then Sadie shouted, “Keep looking at me!”
She did.
The sheer exhilaration on Sadie’s face felt almost as overwhelming as anything else happening, her grin dazzling and brighter than any of the stars above. The blurring world was gone, nothing left for Anne but what she needed—Sadie’s strong hands in hers and Sadie’s beautiful laugh—and Anne heard herself let out a single shriek, a sudden peal of unexpected delight, as they spun and spun and spun.
True to her word, Sadie didn’t let go, and Anne didn’t either. Instead, they came to a sudden stop first, stumbling a little in the dirt. Anne had to bend over a bit, bracing her hands on her thighs while she caught her breath.
“Okay,” she managed, and stood back up. “That was fun. You were right. I’ll admit it.”
Sadie, also breathing hard, grinned at her. “Thank you for getting on that swing with me.”
This time, the view had been even better than the view from Anne’s childhood backyard. “I’ve still got it, I guess. Some of it.”
“I wish I’d known you when we were kids. You must’ve been a force of nature.”
“Damn right I was. Did I ever tell you about the time I priced out all the other lemonade stands around the neighborhood? I was ten. Mark Nelson’s operation around the corner went under so fast, he couldn’t use all the lemons he’d made his mother buy him, and she wouldn’t let him throw them out. I took them offhis hands at three cents apiece.” She tossed her head proudly. “You better bet that little shit never pulled my braid again.”
“You’re magnificent,” Sadie said breathlessly, and the longing in her husky voice was undeniable, tremendous. “I hope someday you’ll finally realize it.”
Startled, Anne looked at Sadie. Beneath the light of the moon and faintly illuminated by the distant headlamps, she somehow seemed smaller than usual, more vulnerable. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe not.
She could sayyou’re magnificent, too. You’re radiant. It would be true.
She couldn’t speak. Truly couldn’t form the words.
So instead, she reached over to take Sadie’s hand in her own, raising it to her lips. Gently, she kissed the back of it.
Sadie gasped.
Despite the smudges of dried ink, despite the lack of regularly-applied moisturizer, Sadie’s skin felt smoother against her mouth than anything Anne had ever touched. She lingered longer than she’d planned, and when she finally let go, there was just enough light to see the desire in Sadie’s face.
The wind kicked up, stirring the ground.
After a moment, Sadie said quietly, “It’s getting late. What do you want to do? Should we go somewhere else or drive back or…?” She trailed off. “If you’re tired, we could just—if you want.”
The trunk of Anne’s car held two small overnight bags with some toiletries, medications, and a change of clothes. Just in case. She’d packed her bag with a thrilled heat that straddled the line between apprehension and delight. If they stayed somewhere, if they slept somewhere, if they did that together—
She’d kissed Sadie for the first time just hours ago. But Anne Lowell didn’t do half measures.
“There’s probably a motel in town,” she said. Her mouth tingled with fresh memory, with promise. “If you want to go home, though, or somewhere else—”
“Iwant,” Sadie said softly. Her sentence wasn’t incomplete. Just ready.
Chapter 10
The Prickly Pear Motor Lodge sat just outside the small town of Joshua Tree on Twentynine Palms Highway, a one-story classic roadside motel right out of a mid-century postcard. The outside walls were a cheerful red—the same color as the fruit that grew from the prickly pear cactus, Sadie informed Anne—and well-kept, despite the nearly empty parking lot.