“Found it.” I shut off the ignition and climb out.

Waverly runs to the sign, reading the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”

A red sedan is parked outside the house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”

I jog up to the front door and knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to follow me.

“What are you doing?” She whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out. The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an old timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”

The footsteps move quicker until we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down gingerly, the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.

“We’re closed.” Her voice is gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.

“I know, but we’re just passing through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It would mean the world to her if you—”

“Twenty minutes,” she says. “And don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”

Waverly’s mouth parts into a smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.

“See?” I say. “Ask for what you want and you just might get it.”

She scampers off toward the living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and inkpot sits behind velvet ropes.

“This was her desk,” Waverly says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”

You’d think we were touring Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”

She doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this humble dwelling.

“She had twelve children,” Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”

“How many sister wives?” I tease.

“Several. Eight, I think? She was the first, though.”

I follow her into the kitchen, where she ogles teacups Elizabeth Wagner once drank from as well as a pie pan she used to bake her famous boysenberry pies with.

The cleaning lady tromps down the stairs, a plastic caddy and feather duster in her hands. “I’m done upstairs. As soon as I finish down here, I have to lock up. Consider this your ten-minute warning.”

We head up, the staircase barely two feet wide and steeper than shit. The upstairs contains a few small bedrooms—one appearing to be a master bedroom and the others filled with makeshift bunk beds and covered in ancient quilts.

“This is where she slept,” Waverly sighs, running her palm against the multi-colored fabric that covers a bed.

“Lay on it.” I shrug. “No one will know but you and me.”

She swats at me. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Do it, Waverly. I’m sure if Elizabeth were here, she’d be more than happy to entertain you in her home.”

Waverly laughs. “I highly doubt that. She allegedly wasn’t the nicest person, but man, could she string together some beautiful sentences.” She leans over the bed, inspecting every square inch of the quilt as if she’s fascinated. “I bet she sewed this herself. She was an avid quilt-maker. Best in the county.”

I take the opportunity to gently shove Waverly, forcing her on the bed. “Oops.”

She whips around. “Jensen!”

I fall into the bed, taking the spot next to her. “Oh, my goodness. I think I tripped over the chamber pot.”

I expect her to scramble up off the bed and chide me, but she doesn’t. She lays there, parallel to me, her head resting on her hand. A slow grin captures her face and her hair falls over her left eye. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re easily persuaded.”

“You’re a smooth-talking salesman.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of things I can’t talk you into doing.” I lean back on the bed, tucking my hands behind my head and staring up at the wooden ceiling. God, growing up in the 1800s would’ve been mind-numbingly dull.

“You really think I’m that uptight still?”

“You are that uptight. Still.”

“I’m trying not to be,” she says, her hand across her chest. “I’ve gotten better. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have snuck out to go to a concert with you. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have signed herself out of Camp Zion.”

I love how we’re just lying in Elizabeth Wagner’s bed, in her museum, yakking away like it’s the most natural thing on earth. But that’s the beauty of being with Waverly—she tends to make everything else irrelevant.

I won’t tell her that, though. I won’t tell her how much I enjoy her company and the distraction she provides. I sure as fuck won’t tell her I actually might miss her come August.

“Fine. You’re making strides. I’ll give you that.” I trace my finger tip along her arm, connecting the freckles like a game of dot-to-dot. “So what kind of life does new-and-improved Waverly Miller want?”

“That I don’t know,” she says, pulling in a long sigh. “Just one of my own. One where I get to call the shots. That’s all I want.”

“Simple enough.”

“What about you?”

I think about the long answer, but I opt to give her the short one. “Exact same.”

Right now would be a perfect time to kiss her—at least, that’s what my body is telling me. I consider it, mulling it over like I’ve got all the time in the world. But I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I’m not dating her, and this sure as hell isn’t romantic—at least not to me.

But then something washes over me, an impulse heightened by my racing heart or the way she toys with the gold locket around her neck as she bites her bottom lip.

And so I kiss her.

I press my lips against hers, hard, forcing her lips apart so our tongues can meet. My cock hardens, responding to her sweet taste.

She pulls away, pressing her hand into my chest. “Hey, what’d you do that for?”

“Now you can say you kissed someone in the same bed where Elizabeth Wagner used to kiss her husband.” I ready myself for a slap that never comes, which is a shame, because I kind of deserve it.

“All right, you two, time to go,” the cleaning lady calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “Gotta lock up. Let’s go, let’s go.”

It’s for the best, because the second she pushed me away, something deep inside me wanted more. I don’t know that I could’ve stopped otherwise.

CHAPTER 24

WAVERLY

“I had fun today.” I climb out of Jensen’s truck just before three o’clock, before a mass amount of camp goers and carpool mini vans flood the parking lot.

After we left Elizabeth Wagner’s, we grabbed hot dogs, Cokes, and moon pies from a local gas station and had an impromptu picnic by the Glen Oak Lake. The remainder of the afternoon was spent driving up and down county roads, listening to music, and basking in the warmth of the midday sun like we were the only two people on earth.

Jensen gives a tight-lipped nod and salutes me. If he’s trying to be charming, it’s working.

“Guess I’ll see you at dinner.” His gaze lingers on me a bit too long until he shifts his truck into drive.

“Yeah, see you at home.” I step back, watching him pull away.

***

Dad wasn’t at breakfast that morning since he went into work early, thank goodness, but he never misses dinner. Bellamy’s words echo in my head as we gather that evening. I still can’t bring myself to look my father in his eyes, partially because of his threat to marry me off, but mostly because I fear he’ll see it all over my face. He’ll see I’m no longer his chaste and true daughter, and then all chances I had to redeem myself as worthy of attending college will be rendered null and void.

It was for that reason I spent most of last weekend keeping busy with household duties. Every plant got watered. Every trash was emptied. Every weed was pulled. If my father saw me handling responsibilities and keeping busy, he wouldn’t have been able to suspect I’d just handed Jensen my virginity Friday night like it was nothing.