by Alex Grayson
I grin as I lean down and kiss him again before I climb off his lap and he makes a face. “It’s not like you won’t have another round in you, Davidson.”
“You know me too well,” he replies with a laugh as I cuddle up next to him.
Jori clears his throat nervously as he runs his hands over my hair.
Here it comes, I think trying my best not to sigh.
“Red?”
“Yeah?”
“I have to tell you something.”
He pulls away from me, sits up, and pulls the sheet over his lap, his face in his hands as I sit up next to him and place a hand gently on his back.
“Tell me,” I say softly.
8
He runs a hand back through his hair and sighs, resting his arms across his bended knees.
“Alright. There’s a reason I brought you here. Today.”
I run my hand gently up and down his back, encouraging him to keep going. He doesn’t need my words right now—whatever he has to tell me needs my understanding.
“The week before Hoyt got arrested for .. um .. Well, I had gone to the house to see you, but you weren’t there. Again,” he says, his voice turning as bitter as the color of his eyes. “Anyway, I snuck into your bedroom window and Hoyt was waiting for me. I got really scared, you know? I mean here I am, a young kid getting stared down by Hoyt Fucking Blackburn, but he wasn’t angry with me. He just shook his head and told me to climb back out and meet him by his truck.” I smile at the memory of Hoyt’s beat up old pick-up. He loved that goddamn thing almost as much as he loved me. “So we went for a drive. He was telling me that he had a feeling things were going to go to shit soon because he found some stuff out about Doreen and he was going to talk to her about it. We ended up here. He told me that you were lucky to have a friend like me and that he knew we’d always find a way to be together. Obviously this isn’t what he meant, but I think he knew,” he trails off for a moment as he blows his breath out. “So we kinda just sat in his truck outside of the Inn and he talked and talked. Asked me a shit ton of questions. How school was going, how my grades were, what I thought of living with Millie. He even told me that he was proud of me. Me, Red. No one had ever been proud of me before you, but he was too, and he admitted it.”
Jori lets out a sigh as he whips the sheet off his body then gets to his feet. He finds his boxers and pulls them onto his body as he goes to stand by the window overlooking the small lake on the property and crosses his arms.
“I didn’t care what he thought of me. I never did. I only cared what you thought about me but he tried his best and it didn’t turn out the way he wanted. I think he accepted it though, because before we drove back, he promised me to bring you out here one day. And that’s why we’re here. That’s why I wanted you to be happy today. Because I promised Hoyt.”
Jori clears his throat again and I can see his shoulders slump a little.
I get off the bed and walk over to him, wrap an arm around his waist, and rest my head on his shoulder.
I don’t say anything to him.
I know that there are some things that words will never truly express how grateful you really are for the little actions others take for your happiness.
Jori glances down at me from the corner of his eye, and uses a knuckle to wipe away a stray tear. I lean up on the tips of my toes and kiss the next tear away from his face.
The boy that slew all of the dragons that had ever done either of us wrong, grew up into a man that only ever wanted someone to love.
And he chose me.
About Yolanda
Yolanda Olson is an award-winning and international bestselling author. Born and raised in Bridgeport, CT where she currently resides, she usually spends her time watching her favorite channel, Investigation Discovery. Occasionally, she takes a break to write books and test the limits of her mind. Also an avid horror movie fan, she likes to incorporate dark elements into the majority of her books.
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You Complete Me
Shari J Ryan
As a single dad, my tween daughter's PTA events are the only time I find to mingle with women—they all seem to enjoy my presence—except one. Journey Milan. She’s not like the other moms which attracts me to her even more.
1
I don't know what imaginary little voice popped into my head when I was listening to my sister, Melody, and her new boyfriend, Brett, who were trying to figure out how to get his daughter to a school event tonight. The two of them have a work thing going on at the same time, putting them in a predicament. As I was listening to their list of solutions, that little voice in my head became very convincing, which led me to offer my non-existent babysitting services. Before I knew it, I had offered to take Brett's daughter to a bake sale and even sealed my offer with an "Of course, I'm sure."
It was a lapse in judgment on our behalf. I'm not exactly babysitter material. I might be one of just a few females in this town who didn't make a small teenage living by offering childcare services like all everyone else. Kids haven't been on my mind, and I don't think I'd be on their mind after spending time with me. I don't do voices. I can't tell a good joke, and the thought of trying to make life sound normal to an innocent person seems impossible.
Yet, here I am at my family's bourbon shop, where my sister and Brett run this shop side-by-side, picking up Parker Pearson, Brett's adorable seven-year-old daughter who appears to be the easiest child to care for. Maybe that's why I didn't hesitate. Anytime I've seen the kid, she's had her head in a book, hardly says a word, and dresses like my inner soul child would with vibrant tutus, leggings, and biker boots. She has more style than any kid I've ever seen, and it doesn't seem like she's even trying to make a statement.
"Are you sure about this?" Brett asks as I walk through the backdoor into the front of the shop.
"Yes, I'm sure." There it is again. Where are these words coming from? I could be at home, editing photos, researching trends for upcoming shoots, sleeping, anything but attending a school event, but nope. "It's really not a problem."
Brett seems hesitant, more so today than yesterday when I initially offered. "We have a box full of sealed cookies with the prices marked on a sheet of paper on top. One of the PTA members will come by to collect the cash at the end of the night."
"I got this, Dad," Parker tells him, sounding quite confident for a girl her age.
"I know you do," he tells her, placing a kiss on the top of her head.
Brett hands me a booster seat for my Jeep and places the box of cookies on top. "I owe you," he says.
"I'll steal a cookie, and we'll be even," I tell him, smirking for good measure.
"Journey, are you sure you got this," Melody, my more mature younger sister, approaches me after ringing up a customer.
"Yes, I can handle a bake sale with a seven-year-old." I offer a reassuring smirk.
"Call if you need anything," Brett tells me.
"Everything will be fine. I will bring Parker back here after we leave," I tell them, thinking about whether I entered Brett's address into my phone earlier. I'm sure I did.
"Ready, kiddo? Let's go sell some goods," I tell her as she pushes through the back door before me.
"You should call them cookies," she says. "We don't want anyone to think we're up to anything weird." The kid doesn't flinch a muscle when saying this.
2
We get settled into the Jeep, and Parker seems impressed by the interior, staring at the painted metal trim most cars don't have inside. "I've never been in a car like this," she says.
I glance into the rearview mirror, finding a hint of excitement on her face. She has good taste. "It's even more fun in the summer when I can take the roof off," I tell her as we pull out onto the main street.
"That does sound fun," she agrees.
I know where the school is, at least. I was a student there twenty years ago or something. I wonder if anything has changed, or if any of the teachers I had are
still there. If they are, I doubt they'd recognize me. I spent the first fifteen years of my life enduring teasing remarks for having red hair. I finally dyed my locks a dark shade of auburn and never looked back.
"Are there a lot of kids participating in the bake sale tonight?" I ask Parker, making small talk even though she has a book out on her lap.
"Yeah, I think so. It's mostly the PTA moms with their kids." There's the massive regret I was waiting to feel. PTA moms. I've heard of their type. They'll know I'm not her mom, and I'm sure I'll be receiving some severe stink-eye-looks all night.
The parking lot is full when we arrive, which tells me the place is going to be a crowded zoo. "Do we have an assigned table, or do we just find an empty spot to set up?" I don't know if she has the answer, but I didn't think to ask Brett either.
"My name will be on a table," Parker says.
"Cool."
Maybe this is just the reminder I need to stop second-guessing the life choices I've made to date. I've been pro-single life for quite a while, and it hasn't let me down yet.
I help Parker jump out of the Jeep before I grab the box of cookies from the trunk. "I like your boots," I tell her, admiring the black leather and the silver buckles.
"They're fun," she says. "I like to dress differently than everyone else. It's boring to be the same."
I shuffle the box into my right arm, so I can offer Parker a high-five. "I like the way you think," I tell her.
"It's kind of like you and Melody. You two are sisters but completely different from each other. I don't think anyone would ever confuse you."
"This is true. You have to own the person you are," I tell her.
We walk into the school, and if I was the type of person to have social anxiety, I'd probably drop the cookies and run, but I'm the type of person with social anxiety who takes meds for that, so I can see through the crowd in search for the empty tables. "I see our table," Parker shouts, pointing in the opposite direction from where I'm looking.
"Good eye," I tell her.
The school lobby is swarming with moms and their kids. I see a spattering of dads tagging along too, but the adult portion is female dominant. I thought there was an equality of gender-related activities with this new generation?
I set the down the box filled with the bags of cookies, taking up a small section of our white-linen table. We have about ten minutes before the event starts, so I unload the bags of cookies, the tin trays, and the pricing sheet from the box. For a guy, Brett is very organized. I'll give him that. He even sent us with a package of napkins.
As I'm displaying the goods—I mean, cookies, I notice the women surrounding one of the dads by the front doors. My God. They look hungry, and I'm willing to bet at least half of them are married. The guy has a beard too. Gross. What's this attracting for grizzly men with beards? Has anyone considered how much dirt gets caught in those little hairs throughout the day?
"We're all set up now," Parker says.
"Fantastic. Just in time," I tell her, taking a seat behind the table. Parker is already sitting down with her hands folded neatly over the table.
A little girl approaches the table, looking directly at Parker. She's probably a few years older but smiles. "I didn't think you were coming tonight. Where's your dad?"
"Yeah, we got it all figured out. He's not here, but I am, so I can still sell the cookies," Parker tells her.
The girl leans over the table and covers her hand around the side of her mouth. "Who is that?" I hear her whisper.
Parker looks over at me as if she doesn't know how to introduce me. "I'm just the babysitter for the night," I tell the other girl.
The girl gives me the stink-eye I expected to get from the moms. "Oh," she says. "You look fun."
"Thanks," I tell her, clearing my throat. "I like to think I can entertain a crowd." I'm talking to what is probably a ten-year-old like she's an adult. I should stop talking. The girl rolls her eyes and walks away, but not before stating, "I need to get to my table before the doors open."
"Good luck," Parker tells her.
"You too," she responds.
Parker glances over at me with a worried simper. "Sorry, Hannah has a little 'tude problem sometimes," Parker says.
My eyes widen in response, agreeing with that statement. "Ah, is she your friend?" I ask. The little twerp better be nice to Parker if she is, or I'll show her what kind of babysitter I can be.
"We're family," Parker says.
Wonderful.
Parker begins to rearrange some of the tins, making sure they're all equal distance from one another. My gaze drifts back to the women trying to get the bearded man's attention, and all I see is the guy trying to slip away from the group. He's laughing like he's uncomfortable with the attention. Yeah, I'm sure you're super uncomfortable by the look of that cocky grin.
3
A bell rings, and an announcement over the loudspeaker introduces the start of the bake sale. There are so many tables full of baked goods that no one will likely have a long line. It's probably better that way for the kids, so they can ring up the sales themselves.
We get a few gazers every minute or so, and we sell a few cookies every few minutes. It's a steady pace, not bad. Parker seems to be enjoying every minute of this, at least. She hasn't needed me to do a thing, which is fine by me. I've taken my phone from my pocket and have been mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when the table shakes. One might think there's an earthquake.
I drop my knees from the edge of the table and straighten my posture, looking up to find the grizzly man with the gross beard.
"You're new around here," he says.
"Yeah, just helping Brett out tonight," I tell him.
"A volunteer?" he continues.
"Sure," I tell him. "I'm glad Brett found someone to help him out. I know he was bummed he couldn't make it tonight."
I look next to me in search of Parker, noticing she's disappeared.
Shit.
"Yeah, he wanted to be here."
"Do you have a kid in this school, too, or did he just hire you to babysit?" This is a lot of personal questions for a bake sale.
"Uh yeah, I have a kid here—somewhere," I tell him. "She's old enough to do her own thing, so I offered to help out Parker." I'm not the best liar, but I can hang in there.
"Oh, nice. Which kid is yours?" This school is not that big.
"Uh," I need a common name. "Amy," I say, pressing my lips together and nodding.
"Amy, huh?"
"Yup, fifth grade—tough year," I say, putting my fist up.
The guy grits his teeth and smiles awkwardly before leaning in toward me. "This school only goes up to fourth grade," he whispers.
The color might have just drained from my face. "Oh, crap. What am I saying? I meant fourth grade. I'm already thinking ahead to next year. Amy is all excited for middle school."
The beard's lips press together as if he's lost in thought. "They don't start middle until seventh grade. We have an intermediate school."
When the hell did that start?
"That's what I meant," I tell him. I'm losing this battle.
"What's your name again?" he asks.
I'm giving him a look to let him know it's not his business, but I am in a school, and I realize rules and security are a little different these days. "I'm Journey Milan."
He narrows his eyes at me. "Journey Milan."
"Yup, that's me." I am almost positive there is no Amy Milan at this school, but I can be divorced. I am divorced. It's not too far from the truth.
"I knew a Journey once. It's not a name you hear all the time," he says.
I shrug, wondering who the hell this guy is, and why I'm scared that he might have known me at some point in my life. "Maybe it's more common than you think."
"Did you ever have red hair?"
I run my fingers through my hair in response. "No, I'm a brunette. So, I guess there is more than one person named Journey."
"Is Mi
lan your maiden name or married name?"
"Married name," I tell him.
The guy's hands are now pressed into the tabletop. "What's your maiden name, Journey?"
"Why does that matter?" I ask him.
"Why do you seem nervous?" he responds.
"Because I need to watch Parker and she's disappeared," I tell him, standing from my seat and leaving from behind the table. I look around for the magenta tutu Parker was wearing, but I don't see anyone with a tutu or pigtail buns. I walk down the hall toward the bathroom signs, hearing footsteps follow behind me.
4
"Did you seriously lose Parker?" Grizzly bear asks.
"She was with me one second and gone the next. I didn't think she'd run off during the bake sale."
The man groans. "Maybe if you weren't so concerned with your phone, you would have seen where she went."
I spin around and face the guy. "Are you kidding me right now?"
He smirks. "Maybe."
"This isn't funny. I need to find her," I tell him.
"Okay, well, it's a little funny because she's at the table with my daughter since you sold out of cookies. I heard Parker had some random mom sitting with her, so I came to see who you are."
"And who are you to be concerned?" I retaliate.
The guy folds his muscle-clad arms over his chest as if he's the Brawny paper-towel dude. The fleece shirt isn't helping the look. "I'm Brody Pearson, Parker's uncle."
Shit. Shit. Shit. FML.
"Oh," I say, sounding as off guard as I feel. "I didn't realize you would be here." Why the hell didn't Brett have his brother bring Parker?
"I'm head of the PTA, so yeah, I'm here."
"Head of the PTA?" I ask, laughing. "You?"
Brody looks from side to side as if I'm joking, which I am, but I'm laughing at him not along with him—if he were to be laughing.
