"Beam, I don't get it. You really live here? This is your home?"

  "Yeah, I know.” He looks away, running a hand through his beard. “Probably not what you were expecting."

  "It's everything," I say.

  Suddenly, visions of my childhood flash before my eyes, foster homes, one after the next after the next. My foster parents, who would get rough with me. Foster dads who got more than rough, who touched me in ways they shouldn't have. Even as a little girl, I knew it was wrong. Finally, I had enough and I broke, and I ran to the streets and I was found by more bad men who did more bad things.

  Somewhere deeper than that, past the shame and past the abuse, there's this other part of me that is still wants to be a little girl again, have that childhood I never had before. When I look out these big bay windows, my view nothing but ocean and more ocean, I feel lost in a fairytale, in a fantasy. Transported to the childhood I've never had.

  I turn to Beam. "I love it," I tell him.

  "You haven't even seen the bedroom or the bathroom,” he says with a chuckle, but tears are in my eyes and it takes him a moment to register that I'm filled with emotion right now.

  Every inch of my body, head to toe, my fingertips, my spine — all of it — stirs.

  "What is it?" he asks, walking toward me.

  Oh, how I want him to wrap his arms around me, to pull me close and let me cry against his chest, to thank him for whisking me away like I was Cinderella.

  He's not a Prince Charming, but God, as I look at him right now, I like the idea of him being my beast.

  "Tell me," Beam says. "Tell me what you're thinking."

  "I'm thinking…" And then I can't help myself. I'm the one who's wrapping my arms around him, hard and tight, holding onto him as if for dear life and he is an anchor. My anchor. He's as rooted as the tree we're standing in. He's not going anywhere. And I don’t want to go anywhere, either.

  I’m crying against his shirt and it takes him a moment, but then suddenly his arms wrap around me too, his big palms against my shoulders holding me in place. I exhale, sinking against him in a way I've never sank against a man in my entire life. He holds me. We stand like that for a long time, minutes, more than minutes, maybe half an hour. He doesn't say a thing, but he runs his hand over my hair, soothing me.

  Finally, the tears stop pouring and I step away, holding onto his hand as I do. I don't want to let go.

  "Are you going to tell me what that's about?" he asks.

  I put it into words, the feelings that flood me right now. "All my life, I wished I could have had a childhood," I tell him. "A chance to be a little girl."

  His eyebrows lower, confused.

  "Maybe this sounds strange,” I tell him. “But this house of yours feels like something from a storybook. It's like the home I always dreamed about but didn't even have the imagination to see."

  "Well, I'm glad to hear that, Bellamy," he tells me, his voice cracking. He runs a hand over his thick beard, looking at me as if I'm the only thing in the world.

  I start crying again and I don't know why. Maybe it's because I want to be looked at like that, not like I'm a thing to be enjoyed, but as if I'm a thing to be treasured.

  With my hand in his, he leads me upstairs to a loft where there's a bed with thick quilts and pillows, another big window, a bathroom, a clawfoot tub.

  “Did you build this place?" I ask him.

  "It was the Gibson property."

  "The Gibson property? Should that mean something to me?" I ask him.

  He shrugs. "They’re an old family from these parts. This property was in their family for several generations, then the kids all grew up, moved on, moved out. I guess no one wanted to fix up an old tree house, but I spent the last year doing what I could to this place, piecing it back together. I mean, there's still a lot to be done. I’m working on a loft on the other side, above the kitchen. I was thinking that could be another bedroom one day. I don't know. I was just thinking. It's hard sometimes to put the finishing touches on a place. It's not like I have much experience with home."

  "You don't either?" I ask him.

  He shakes his head as he pulls towels out of a closet, setting them on the bed, and a bathrobe too. It must be his. "No. I was like you, Bellamy. I grew up in foster care. My time wasn't quite as rough as yours, but it was still shit. I don't have family. I never did, and I had no… You’ll hate to hear it, but Maker and Walker, they became my family of sorts, though Walker and I have sure had our differences, but all that, the past, that's where it is. What I want now, Bellamy, is a future, and my future's here on this piece of property and in this tree house." He shakes his head like he's bashful, like this is too modest of a dream, too simple. "I know it's not much. I know you're a girl who…"

  "I already told you, Beam, you don't know what kind of girl I am. You don't know much about me at all.”

  "I know you've been through hell, Bellamy, I know. And I wish that weren't the case."

  "Why did you come find me last night? It would be a really strange coincidence if we just ran into each other and you…"

  He cuts me off. "No, Bellamy, I was coming for you one way or another. I was headed to Father John's or whatever the fuck you call him. I had just left Walker and Wavy’s place. They had twin babies, you know that? They mentioned you, and I knew I had to go find you. It was just luck that you were already on your way to me."

  "You think it's luck?" I ask him, tears in my eyes, my heart pounding hard.

  Beam wanted to find me?

  "Why did you want to come look for me?" I ask him.

  He looks at me as if I'm crazy, as if I just said the most insane thing in the entire world. "Why did I want to come look for you, Bellamy?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Damn, girl. It's because I've been in love with you since the day I met you and the idea of you going through any more pain without anyone intervening… Hell, it would have weighed on my conscience all my life."

  "You think you love me?" I ask him. I shake my head. "You couldn't love a girl like me."

  Now it's his turn to step toward me, anger fueling his eyes. "You going to tell me what I can and cannot do? You're going to tell me what I want? You don't know me either, Bellamy."

  "What do you want then? What do you really want, Beam?"

  He looks down at me, speaking his truth. “I want to live in this tree house with you."

  Chapter Seven

  Beam

  With a step closer, Bellamy is on her tiptoes and her lips are brushing against mine. Fuck. Her kiss is heaven and the last goddamn thing I expected. I want to kiss her, really kiss her, do so much more than kiss her, but I won't.

  I push away. “No," I say, my voice more stern than I anticipated.

  She steps back, surprise covering her face. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I don't know… I thought you… It doesn't matter." She grabs a towel from the bed. "I'm just going to take a shower. I think… I just…" She scurries off to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her.

  I hear her turn the water on in the clawfoot tub and I sink to the bed, dropping my head in my hands, wondering what the fuck I just did. The girl of my dreams kissed me. And I pushed back, said no.

  I sit there listening as she steps into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. I imagine her, her sweet skin, hot with the steaming water, drops of it rolling down her body.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to go there, to dream like that. It's trouble and Bellamy doesn't need trouble. I didn't kiss her back because I don't want her to think that’s what this is about, because it's not. This is about protection, about giving her a chance to be free, about making sure she can get back on her own two feet and live the life she wants.

  When she stood here telling me about her feeling like this place was a childhood fantasy she never had, hell, it hurt. I looked at her and I saw a woman so damn beautiful and so goddamn bruised, it hurt to hear what she missed, what she longed for because, hell, I understood. I understood it all too well. When I saw this place, when I was looking for a piece of land and I stepped foot on this Gibson property, I knew the moment I saw the tree house that this was my childhood fantasy come true too.

  I never had a tree to climb, rocks to skip. I never went fishing with my pops and I never had camp-outs with my cousins. What I had was a shit-show for years until I grew up, and I left that all behind: the foster homes, the drunken dad, the mom who was here or maybe she wasn’t. And I know Bellamy is more like me than not. We come from places that look the same: fucked up, broken, used.

  We both ended up with Maker for one reason or another. None of it good, all of it gritty, none of it grounded in hope. It was about surviving. So when she kissed me, I couldn't kiss her back. Hell no, I won't do that to her. Make her think that’s what this is about. Bringing her here, to my tree house, isn’t about her and me hooking up. No. Bringing her here is a chance for her to take a hot shower and get a warm meal and figure out what the hell she wants for the rest of her life.

  I'll help her figure it out, just like I figured out my shit. Got myself a boat, a job, a real ass future. That's what I want for her and, of course, in a perfect world, that future would be with me, but I'm not putting that on her. Hell, I'm not putting anything on her, ever. She's taking a shower and she's cleaning up good and that's what I want for her. I won't be in her business.

  Still, I rap my knuckles against the bathroom door and I tell her the bathrobe’s on the bed, in case she wants it.

  “I’m going to go fix us up some food. How about biscuits and gravy?”

  Her face turns white. “Not biscuits.”

  "Okay," I say, taken aback by her request. “Not biscuits.” I walk away hating the idea that I made her feel worse than she already felt. But I did the right thing.

  Of course, I shouldn't have told her I loved her, that I always have loved her. Just made her feel more obligated to me. Like she owes me something. And that girl owes me nothing. It's me who owes her, with a chance to make it right.

  I stood by all those years thinking it was all I could do. Now, I know better and I'll do better. I'll do right by her.

  In the kitchen, I pull out eggs and bacon, start a pot of coffee, open a can of peaches.

  By the time she comes downstairs, her dark hair wet around her shoulders and wearing that white bathrobe of mine, the food's ready. "You like cream or sugar?"

  She shakes her head, "No, I drink my coffee black. Bitter just like my heart," she says dryly, with a smile.

  God, this girl makes me happy. "Same as I take it," I tell her.

  We sit down at the table. It's a small one. Made for two. We fit here perfectly.

  After we dish up our food, she takes a bite of bacon. "Oh God, this tastes so good. I haven't had bacon in so long."

  "What does that guy John, or whoever the shit-fuck he is, feed you?" I ask.

  She laughs, "Well, we have a lot of eggs and we have chickens and we have venison, which, I mean, it's not really a great breakfast meat," she says with a smile.

  "Yeah, I can see that. I heard the feds tried to shut down the commune, so what were you still doing out there?"

  She shrugs. "We were just living. I don't know, there weren't a lot of us left, maybe a dozen or so. Just kind of had this piece of shit house and we were all scraping by, kind of the leftovers, I guess.” She shrugs again, looking down at her food.

  I take a drink of my coffee, wondering why the fuck I brought that up.

  "So, is talking about John your way of avoiding that awkward moment upstairs?" she asks.

  "Oh, so you don't like leaving elephants in the room?" I ask her.

  She laughs, "No, I don't. I'm kind of one of those girls who always says it like it is. It works out for me sometimes and other times… it really screws me over."

  "It's working out for you now."

  "Look, I just…" she reaches out and squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry. I get it. I'm probably so not your type. You said you love me and I assumed it meant something more physical when maybe you were just meaning it like a brotherly love, like looking out for me, like you care about me."

  I cut her off. "No, Bellamy. That's not what I meant. I want you… I love you… Fuck. When you say you're not the kind of girl I'd want, you're dead wrong."

  "You're wrong," she says pushing back. She drinks her coffee, shaking her head. "The thing about me is, I'm damaged goods, Beam."

  "So am I."

  "Not like me," she says. "In all those years I knew you down in California, I never once saw you with a girl. How many men did you see me with?"

  I clench my jaw. "That doesn't matter," I say. "Our past is our past."

  She shakes her head, her hand still on mine. "It does matter though, Beam. My past isn't just erased because it's not pleasant. The girl I was is the girl I am. I can't just make it disappear because I don't like it. I know what kind of woman I am, where I've been and I know that's not for every man, everybody, but it's who I am."

  "Okay, so you don't want to erase the past. What do you want?"

  "I want a man… Look, I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this, but the truth is I want a man who wants me just as I am. Doesn't want me to be erased, doesn't want me to change, doesn't want me to fit into some sort of mold. John was a real shit-show, but there was some good to him."

  I frown, looking at her straight. Trying to see her heart. “You saying you want to be with that Father John guy?" I ask her, incredulous.

  She scoffs. “No, I don't want to be with John. But John and I understood each other. We’re both fucked up."

  "I'm pretty fucked up, too, Bellamy."

  "Are you?" she asks. "Because you seem pretty damn perfect, Beam."

  "Me? I seem perfect to you?" I let out a growl. "You may have done things with men, Bellamy, but I did things to them. I’ve killed men. I've turned the blind eye. I've made my bed with the devil and it's really fucking hard to sleep at night. So yes, you may have a past you're not proud of, that you don't want to hide. But my past isn't like yours. It's criminal," I say. "So, yeah. I don't want those memories. I don't want to be associated with that shit. That's why I moved to the middle of God knows where and started over, in a goddamn tree house. I'm a fisherman. Me, Beam. A motherfucking thug from the streets. I don't want anything to do with that person anymore, the person I was, Bellamy.”

  "And how's that going to work?" she shoots back, looking at me, her eyes locked on mine. "How's it going to work for you to pretend that you're someone you're not?"

  "It's been working for a year."

  "Yeah? You think it can last forever?" she asks.

  "Maybe. Maybe if I was with the right person who could let the past alone.”

  “And who would that right person be?" she asks softly.

  "It would be a person who understood my past but didn't hold it against me. You say you don't judge me, Bellamy? Is that really true? You really don't judge a man like me, who's done what I've done?"

  "I really don't," she says, tears filling her dark eyes. "When I kissed you, it wasn't because I thought I owed you something, Beam. I kissed you because I wanted you."

  "You wanted me."

  “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?" she asks.

  "Yeah. Yeah, it is, Bellamy, because you're the girl I've been dreaming of for years. The idea that you'd want me…” I shake my head, emotion rising up inside of me in places I never knew existed. “Fuck, girl. I want you. All of you."

  She drops her fork. It clatters to the plate. “Then where in the hell have you been all my life?" she asks.

  "I'm sorry," I tell her, stepping from the table, reaching for her hand. I pull her to me. "I should've never let you go."

  “Well, Beam, you can start by holding on tight right now."

  Chapter Eight

  Bellamy

  I wasn't planning on this, on Beam and I running up the stairs, falling into his bed, a tangle on that mattress, blue skies streaming through the window, an ocean surrounding us. We are an island.

  "I don't want you to think you owe me anything,” he tells me.

  I shake my head, climbing on top of him, the bathrobe falling down, my breasts bare, my pussy exposed. I'm naked before him and I want him to take me, have me, hold me, consume me. All of me. "I like how big and strong you are,” I tell him, unbuttoning his flannel shirt. “I like the tattoos on your chest and I like your big beard and your thick hair.” I press my hands against his skin. He's warm, hot. Mine. "Maybe it's me who's pushing this,” I say. “Maybe you don't want—”

  He cuts me off, "No Bellamy. I want this. I just want you to be sure. Because girl, you've been through hell with men and I don't want to be added to that list."

  "You couldn’t,” I tell him. “I know I told you I don't want to think about the past, but maybe you're right. Maybe there are some parts of it that I need to move on from. Maybe I can have a redo with some things, but hold onto others as a reminder."

  "A reminder of what?" he asks me.

  “A reminder of where I came from, of where I want to go."

  "And where's that? Because, Bellamy, I already told you what I want. A life here, in this tree house, on this island. I want to take out my boat and I want to catch some goddamn fish, and I want to bring home a salmon and have my woman grill it. I want to sit on my porch looking out at the ocean, knowing the best days are right here, right now."

  "Stop it,” I tell him, a tear sliding down my cheek. I clench my eyes tight. I'm naked, giving myself to him and he’s still talking about the future, about forever.