by Ashton Cade
He grew up.
Did I do that?
I’ve tried my damnedest not to, but I think sometimes it’s inevitable.
“Come on, I’ve been thinking about Aunt Sheryl’s pie for days,” he says, hopping into the cab of the truck, licking his lips. “So what’s this guy like?” he asks, once we’re out on the main road again.
I freeze, grip tightening on the wheel. What could he possibly know about Eli? What has my family been saying now?
Who in my family even knows?
“What guy?” I ask, trying to play it cool despite the way my voice cracks.
Clary leans back in his seat, legs stretched out as much as they can be. “Your opponent. What’s he like?”
“My—” It takes me longer than I care to admit to realize he’s talking about the council race. The whole reason he’s even here? Yeah, of course that’s what he’s talking about. Why the hell would he be talking about my romantic interests?
“Oh. Uh… Tommy Maroney has been on the council for twenty years, but most people I talk to only vote for him ’cause he’s always had the job.”
Clary frowns, stroking his chin, nodding thoughtfully.
“All right. I can work with that. Is he competent?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t do much of anything other than vote when it comes to it. He’s never introduced a new project or anything like that.”
Clary nods again. “Perfect. Name recognition won’t give him much of an edge against you,” he says with a wink my way.
I smile, but I’m not sure how I feel about it to be honest. I know in politics you’re supposed to use every advantage you have, and I know that being a Rainier is a definite advantage, so why do I feel awkward about focusing too much on that? Anyone else would if they had something similar.
But I want the people of Umberland to vote for me on my own merits. Not because I’m Sheryl’s nephew.
“What’s his platform?” Clary asks, pulling a stick of gum from his front pocket, offering one to me. I decline. He’s already folding his wrapper into some kind of swan or something.
“I’m not sure he’s got one? Probably ‘if it aingt broke, don’t fix it,’” I say with a chuckle.
Clary makes a face though. “Bet that plays pretty well in Umberland.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Hey, don’t think you’re better than us just because you went out to the coast and got a fancy education. Our little town is more progressive than you might think.”
Clary gives me a skeptical look, but seems to decide it’s not worth the argument, shrugging instead. “What about you?”
I tell him about my plans to help Umberland grow, to encourage eco-tourism and sustainable living, to make our natural assets our main draw. Clary’s looking less than convinced as we pull into the parking lot of Sheryl’s Diner.
“What?” I ask, seatbelt snapping back into place before I get out of the truck in Sheryl’s parking lot. “What’s the face for?”
Clary shrugs, getting to the door first, still making that face as he pulls it open.
“Nothing. Just sounds like it might be a hard sell here.”
I roll my eyes behind his back, taking the spot opposite him in a booth.
“But you’ve got one thing going for you,” he adds, slipping into a grin.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“The way you talk about it. It’s obvious you care, that you’re passionate. No one’s going to be able to doubt that you’re in love with this area as soon as you start talking. So we’ve just got to get them to the point where they’re ready to listen.”
I nod along, ready and waiting for the “but” to come.
Instead, there’s a gasp, a squeak, and then a strange high-pitched noise I honestly thought only bats could make.
“Hi, Aunt Sheryl,” Clary says as she tackles him in a fierce hug.
“What are you doing here?!” she screeches, breath coming so fast she seems like she’s going to hyperventilate.
“Did Mom not tell you?” I ask, one brow arched. The two Rainier matriarchs have their tiffs, but I’d be surprised if my mom straight up kept Aunt Sheryl out of the loop.
But the look on Aunt Sheryl’s face says I might be surprised. She’s trying hard to keep in her anger, trying hard to keep it focused on her excitement to see Clary.
“She did not! I had no idea you were coming out here. Is it just you?” she asks.
He nods, and I butt in.
“Clary’s here to help with my campaign, Aunt Sheryl. He’s going to give me some legitimacy,” I say, throwing a teasing grin his way.
Sheryl smiles at us both.
“Well, you’ve gotta come over for dinner tonight so we can all catch up!” she cries, clapping her hands.
I bite my lip, not one to step on Aunt Sheryl’s toes, but I’ve got my own mother’s good side to stay on.
“I think Mom might actually have something planned for tonight,” I suggest gently, hoping I’m not causing more rifts between them.
Sheryl’s smile doesn’t fade—she’s an expert at keeping it plastered in place—but it gets tighter, not quite getting all the way to her eyes anymore.
“I see. Well, no mind. We’ll do something this weekend. I’ll call Grant and we’ll get the whole clan together, how’s that?” If anything, this development seems to make her happier. Leave it to Aunt Sheryl.
Clary’s chuckling, shaking his head, knowing better than to argue. It’s been a while since he’s been around to witness the full force of Hurricane Sheryl, but I’m sure he remembers it plenty well from our youth.
“Sounds great. I can’t wait,” he says, still chuckling under his breath as she bustles off behind the counter to start calling various family members.
I groan, making a face in her direction.
“Sorry for the circus. I’m sure it’s not exactly what you had in mind for a vacation.”
Clary snorts and shakes his head. “You kidding? This is great. It’s just like old times. I can’t wait. Does she still make that chocolate cake with the gooey fruit stuff inside?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. That’s Trevor’s favorite too.”
“Aren’t they all Trevor’s favorites?” he jokes, making me laugh too.
It’s like we’re twelve again, I swear. It’s so weird, but also awesome. It doesn’t feel like it’s been more than a decade since we’ve hung out. It feels like he’s visiting like normal. And suddenly I’m kinda sad that he doesn’t visit more often. Maybe one of these days I’ll have to take a trip out to the coast and visit the other part of the Rainier clan. Who knows. Could be nice.
“He’s gotten real sensitive about the belly he’s put on since getting hitched,” I laugh.
“What, his husband’s not keeping him busy enough?”
It catches me off guard enough that water comes out my nose as I’m drinking.
Yep, hasn’t changed a bit.
“I don’t care, Aislynn. Just because your son invited him doesn’t mean you get to host all the events,” Sheryl’s griping into the phone from within the kitchen, her voice raised enough to hear in the whole diner.
“Oh boy,” Clary groans, frowning, shrinking into his shoulders. I wanna tell him not to worry about it, not to take it too personally, but what’s the point really? He’s gonna feel how he feels about it.
“I don’t think we’re gonna get any work done here. What d’ya say we go back to my place to continue this strategizing?”
Clary shrugs. “Sure. You said you’ve got some signs already made up?” he asks, grabbing his jacket and sliding out from the booth. We never did actually get anything other than water, thanks to Aunt Sheryl’s bombardment. Guess Clary’ll have to get his pie another time.
“Yeah, I can show you on the drive.”
Clary’s not impressed with my signs. Says they don’t tell him anything about me, or what I’m running for, or what I want. It’s just my name.
“How much can you really fit on a little sign?” I ask,
arms crossed. I was kinda proud of my little design. I know it’s not special, but I did it myself. That’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it? I’m running for the town council, not the damn senate. Maroney doesn’t even have signs up.
“Well, you could add a website, for instance,” he says. “Then people can look you up and see your position. What? Garrett?”
He’s narrowed his eyes at me, looking very suspicious as he leans in. That’s my fault though, because I’ve done a shit job of keeping my face neutral.
“I, uh… might not have a website?” I mumble under my breath, so quiet I don’t think he hears it.
“What was that?”
I clear my throat, then mumble anyway. “I don’t have a website,” I say, barely more than a whisper.
“You’re joking, right?” he says in a rush, eyes wide like he can’t believe I’d even joke about a thing like this. But then when I don’t crack a smile, don’t yell “Gotcha!” he accepts it as truth, sagging as he asks, “Why not?”
Poor Clary doesn’t know what he’s got himself into with me. Probably thought before he came out here that it would be another one of those campaigns like he runs out in the cities. Who even knows if he’s got any experience with something this small.
I shrug.
“Isn’t it like… really hard to build one?”
Clary looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head, his face twisting up. “How old are you? This is the twenty-first century. It takes ten minutes. What’d you do for the eco-tours site?”
I look away from him purposefully, looking everywhere but at him.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he sighs, dropping his head into his hands, shoving his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s Umberland, not medieval Europe, Garrett. Why the hell don’t you have a web presence? You’re the one talking about growing tourism and bringing in outside money. How are people going to find you?”
“I… uh…” Shit.
He’s actually got a point. A really good one.
“Guess I need a website, huh?” I mutter.
Clary scoffs. “I’ll say so. Two from the sounds of it.”
I sigh, hanging my head, dropping it into my hands, raking my fingers through my hair.
How hard can it be? It’s just a website. Every business and restaurant in the world seems to have them these days. Surely I can make it work.
I swallow, looking at the laptop gathering dust on my little “office” desk. I run the business out of my home, but the front of the building is like any other business with a reception desk facing the entrance.
I hate that laptop. Every time I look at the screen I feel like another part of me dies. A part that wants to be outside, in the sunshine, soaking up fresh air and filling my lungs with the scent of pine trees. Every hour I spend on the computer working on invoices or taxes or whatever else, is another tiny part of my soul that withers away.
But it’s a necessary evil. I know how damned lucky I am to be able to support myself the way I do, with the minimal work and investment I put in—don’t get me wrong, it’s hard work, but it’s hard work for a few hours here and there. Lots of folks have jobs where they have to spend a lot of time, but not a lot of effort. I’ve got the opposite and it suits me just fine.
Until times like now when I’ve got to bite the bullet and do the unthinkable.
“All right, show me how to do this thing,” I growl, snatching the laptop from the desk.
This better be worth it.
Eli
I’ve managed to get through this whole week without any more disasters. It’s finally Friday, and tonight’s my date with Garrett at the steakhouse outside of town. We’re planning on meeting up around seven, so I’ll have time to go home and shower and change beforehand. It’s early in the day still, but I’m anxious about the plans later and ready to leave work already.
That’s not the only reason I’m ready to leave work, obviously. Dr. Peterson’s here, and even though he hasn’t said anything to me about our shared past in the last few days, I haven’t stopped feeling uneasy about being around him. I keep thinking of what Nate told me, how it would hurt Dr. Peterson just as much, if not more, to out our previous dalliances.
That’s all that keeps me mostly sane, really.
That and the steady stream of patients. This time of year there’s all kinds of accidents from people trying to wrestle with nature, trying to get things done before winter makes it too hard, chopping wood, making fires—all things that can go very bad if you’re not paying enough attention. Dr. Peterson’s the only physician at the clinic, but I’m registered and licensed to do just about everything he can do except for writing prescriptions. And for that he makes three times as much as me, I’m sure.
I’m restocking the exam rooms when I see him looking at me. At first I think he’s just seeing what I’m doing, but there are three exam rooms here and it shouldn’t take him that long to figure out. I look away purposefully, focusing on my work, my face hot, heart racing with the thousand possibilities running through my head.
I stock the gloves in Room 2, and when I come out, he’s still staring at me. A prickle of unease skips down my arms, making me shiver. I head into Room 3 and freeze, sensing him standing right behind me, his shadow in the doorway.
“You look familiar, you know,” he says casually, leaning against the doorjamb while I try to hide how my hands are shaking as I check stock levels on tongue depressors and cotton balls.
“That right?” I say, voice wavering.
“Did you work for this company in the city?” he asks. This clinic is one of a chain—not a small-town doctor like Umberland used to have. That hasn’t been a thing around here since before I moved here. I hear about it plenty though. How these corporate doctors aren’t the same. How doctors used to let you get treated even if you couldn’t pay. Not so anymore.
“No. I did my internship with them, though,” I say, trying my damnedest to keep cool, to play this off like it’s nothing.
“That must be it, then,” Dr. Peterson says with a smile that makes my stomach feel queasy. “I must remember you from that,” he adds, something in his eyes making me want to squirm away and out of the room. But there’s nowhere for me to go with him blocking the doorway. Not without being rude and pushing past him.
“I don’t remember you, but maybe,” I say, snottier than I should, I’m sure. Of course I remember him. How could I not? The filthy things he wanted me to do, the way he degraded me and I had to take it because I needed the money… How could I forget any of that?
And he’s here acting like we’re old colleagues without any sordidness in our past.
Screw him.
I don’t buy it though. I don’t believe his innocent act, because the moment I say I don’t remember him, Dr. Peterson’s face falls, his smile pinching into a hard look as he narrows his eyes at me.
If I had to guess, I’d say I just struck a nerve with the doctor.
“Say, I’m looking for a nice place to take my family out to dinner, any recommendations?” he asks, shifting the subject quick enough to give me whiplash.
His family?
Now I really might be sick.
It was never any secret that a lot of the guys seeking out gay prostitutes were living double lives—these guys frequently have wives and kids and a whole model-citizen life, just like Dr. Peterson.
How many monsters are there out there just like him?
That’s what makes me feel sick. This man—the same man who did unspeakable things to me and feels no remorse about it—has children of his own, children that probably adore him and think he can do no wrong.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a steakhouse outside town,” I tell him, ice washing through me at the sudden memory of my date with Garrett there tonight.
Shit. Way to go, Eli.
“But if you want the Umberland experience, you have to go to Sheryl’s,” I say quickly, hoping to cove
r up the bad suggestion and steer him away from it. I don’t want to run into him on my date. That’s the last thing I want when I’m trying to enjoy my time with Garrett.
Dr. Peterson makes a face and waves me off with a dismissive gesture.
“That diner?” he sneers. “A bit pedestrian for my family’s tastes, I think, don’t you?”
I fight not to roll my eyes.
Pedestrian? In Umberland? Not sure Dr. Peterson’s going to fine much else. Maybe he’ll find the whole town lacking and leave sooner than expected.
“It’s the best place in town,” is all I say with a shrug, trying to move on. I start toward the door, and he looks for a moment like he’s going to try to block my progress, but at the last second, he moves aside.
“My family has more refined tastes,” he says. “The steakhouse should be acceptable.”
My skin crawls again, but I try to keep my face pleasant and neutral. Now he’s going to be at the same restaurant I’m planning on having a date at. Fantastic.
“Just so you know, there are some menu items that are made in limited quantities,” I tell him, hedging my bets here. “If you want all the options available, you’ll want to get there early.”
He nods. “Of course, of course. My wife insists dinner be no later than six.”
I somehow manage to hide the sigh of relief that escapes as I head back to the supply closet. Minor crisis averted, I hope.
It’s midafternoon and Dr. Peterson’s with a mother and child—seems like it’s probably strep—when another patient comes in.
I recognize Carson Bell and his grandpa right away. Carson used to work at the grocery store as a bagger, but in the last year he’s gotten his real estate license and has started to seem a lot more grown-up than the skinny teen he was when I moved here.
“Gramps took a spill and I wanted to get him checked out,” he says, signing in at the front desk.
“I’m fine,” Mr. Bell says, snatching his arm away from his grandson. He’s always been friendly enough, but he’s got dementia and that can make the friendliest folks downright nasty.
“Not gonna hurt for the doctor to make sure, now is it?” Carson snaps. “He hit his head,” Carson offers, looking to me for sympathy.
