by JL Mac
“Perhaps not but that’s one thing, this is another,” I say as delicately as I can, knowing Sylas is listening to my side of this conversation. The word awkward flashes in blinking yellow marquee lights in the forefront of my mind.
“I’m on board but I need to clear it with Senator Holiday. He may not want to appear too closely associated to something you’ve got your precious little hands in. Touchy times on the trail, you know.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ll count on a return email no matter your camp’s decision.”
“Sure. I heard you were out of town. When will you be back?”
I hum. He’s fishing for another hookup and at this moment in Sylas’s company, my body still humming with the aftershocks of his ministrations, the idea of hooking up with Preston is about as appealing as jury duty. “As you said, touchy times on the trail. Not wise to over associate parties. Cable news jockeys are blood thirsty as of late.”
“Yes, well, Election Day is less than two months away. The dust will settle and we can all relax, enjoy ourselves a little more,” he says in a way I’m sure he believes sounds seductive but to my ears it mostly sounds slimy.
“Yes it is. Talk soon.” I hang up and toss my phone down into my bag and look up at Sy who is leaning one muscular shoulder against the doorjamb.
“Who’s Preston?” he asks in a voice I can tell he’s forcing. It’s an attempt to sound aloof, but he’s not fooling me and I’m not saying a thing about Preston other than the fact that he’s in the same industry as me.
“A colleague,” I answer smoothly. Sy’s eyes squint just the tiniest bit and he gives a nondescript noise of acknowledgment before his expression returns to that unflappable smoothness that is signature Sylas Broussard.
“Ready?”
“What’s going through that head of yours?” I ask as I continue working on the event from my phone while sitting next to Sy in his truck. I compose several more emails to a variety of other people I think would be interested in donating to Sylas’s nonprofit. I reach out to several political strategists currently on campaigns, full and part time, and dangle the opportunity to make a showy PR moment by coaxing their candidate into sponsoring BCF. I’ve sweetened the deal by guaranteeing photo ops, media citations and publicly listing them as a premier benefactor of Buzzsaw should they want any of those perks. Sy glances over at me.
“Not a lot. As a rule, I keep things pretty cleared out upstairs,” he jokes tapping his finger against his temple.
“Liar,” I huff.
“I’m just enjoying having you with me, happy to have help with BCF. That’s all,” he says softly, reaching across the console to rest his hand on my thigh.
“What’s that dreamy little look?” I question him smiling fully. He’s being weird.
“I have hope…” he states but doesn’t elaborate on that. Meantime my heart tumbles over itself in my chest.
“For BCF?” I ask looking out the window.
“Yeah, for BCF.” Sy doesn’t answer right away but when he does it lacks sincerity.
Building on what my gut tells me is a lie I add, “I’ll do anything I can to help. I love what you do and I want to see you and Dale keep it going. I like Dale,” I smile genuinely.
“He wasn’t great at first, but he’s putting in the work to get there.”
“So why did you hire Dale if you knew he was an alcoholic?”
Sylas cocks his head in thought. “He made a mistake.” Sy’s bulky shoulders lift then fall. “People make mistakes and there’s no avoiding it. It’s a human condition, and that’s okay. Doesn’t matter that a mistake was made, doesn’t even matter what the mistake was. It only matters what a person does after they did it. That tells me all I need to know.”
“And what did Dale do after he made that mistake?”
“He showed up at the marina the very next day after the accident. He was green as hell with a hangover but he checked out my truck and made arrangements to repair it. While he was there, he took a look at some fiberglass damage on Year Ten and also made arrangements to patch it. That’s how I discovered he’s the best damn mechanic and auto body guy in the state. He’s a good man he just has a past.”
“Don’t we all,” I sigh, settling deeper into my seat with Sy’s observant regard periodically fixed on me.
The rest of the drive back to Palmetto Grove is made in companionable silence with me stuck to my phone and Sy alternating between glances at me and studying the road like it holds the secret to life—and I am grateful for the reprieve the silence gives us.
There is a lot to digest, a lot to think about and sleeping with Sylas has only muddied the waters. I may love swan diving into those muddy waters right now but it doesn’t mean that it’s the smartest course of action. I can’t even begin to entertain what my goodbye will look like. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret my time with him, triggers be damned. The delicate dance of remaining evasive is, however, growing very old already and I have only been home a few days. Skirting around Sylas and constantly choosing my words—what I reveal to him and what I keep guarded is exhausting. Especially so when Sylas is still very good at peeling back my carefully erected walls of defense.
We arrive at my parent’s house and both of them are on the front porch, books in hand, and iced tea on the small tables flanking the porch swing daddy built when I was still a gap-toothed kid.
“This isn’t going to be weird at all is it?” I say under my breath. Sy just chuckles as he gets out of the truck and comes around to the passenger side to help me out.
I climb the steps with Sy at my back and smile sweetly at my parents. “Rae, Sy, how was the fishing trip?” Daddy asks.
“Terrible.”
“Good,” Sy and I say at the same time turning the atmosphere leaden with nerves as we both cast our eyes anywhere but toward my parents.
“And the fundraiser plans?” Daddy inquires.
“Rae has been working her magic. I don’t know exactly what she’s doing, but she says it will work out.” He smiles.
“I’m sure it will. Rae is good at wrangling the public,” Daddy looks at me with pride glimmering in his eyes.
“What other trouble y’all been gettin’ in to down in Cattail?” Momma asks like the leader of the grand inquisition and there is no glimmering pride in her eyes on skepticism.
“With such a short window of time to work this event up into a headline snatcher it hardly leaves time to get into trouble, Momma,” I say coolly but silence is quick to settle over the four of us once more. I feel like a teenager busted while attempting to sneak out.
“I’ll be back,” I say before slipping inside the house, the air conditioning a welcome sensation on my flushed cheeks. I am halfway up the stairs when I hear the screen door creak open then gently tap closed again. I keep my pace, entering my room with Momma hot on my heels. I can tell it’s her by her gait.
“Rae, what’s the meaning of all this? Fishing trips, staying the night?”
“Did you or did you not volunteer me to help his banquet?” I retort.
“Yes, of course I did but don’t get lippy with me missy britches. You know what I’m gettin’ at.”
“I’m just trying to help him secure a windfall in donations from the charity event. That’s it,” I lie. “We’re just friends, Momma,” I insist, collecting my things from my childhood room. “Friends help one another. Friends spend time together.”
“I saw how he looked at you when he helped you out of his truck,” she says like she’s solved the case.
“And what do you believe you saw,” I ask tiredly as I coil up my laptop charger and tuck it into my workbag.
“A man hoping against hope.” Momma clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “I knew he still had a flame for you but I never thought you’d put kindling on it, Raegan. You made a big show of hating him for the last decade then you show up and cozy right on up to him.” “If I had known—I wouldn’t have sent you his way so easily,” she says this as thou
gh she’s thinking aloud. “This has heartbreak written all over it and I can’t take the sight of it.”
“I’m a big girl, Momma. I’m smart enough to avoid getting my heartbroken.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ about you.”
Ouch.
“Listen, Sy and I have an understanding. This is a favor to him and an opportunity to do something for a good cause while several big wigs can put their money where their mouth is. That’s it. No attachments, no hard feelings, no regrets, no expectations, just two consenting adults enjoying a few days together while we wring all the cash we can out of every deep pocket in my phonebook. That’s all.” The words sound sincere. So much so that even I am tempted to believe them. “I could use a break from the campaign to recharge a little, break the monotony. I needed this too,” I admit, and that part is definitely the god’s honest truth. I grasp her by the shoulders and hold her at arms length, hoping she believes me—hoping I believe me too. Momma’s eyes are wary but she inhales deeply then sighs.
“You’re a grown woman but my memory is sharp, and it doesn’t seem like it was that long ago that my daughter was a sobbing mess for months on end and Sylas Broussard camped out in the front yard every day until one of the adults dragged his hind end home. Afterward you both moved away and neither of you seemed quite the same since. I don’t know what y’all are up to, hell I don’t even think y’all know what you’re up to but please tell me some careful thinking is actually going on,” she notes somewhat dismally but doesn’t say more beyond that, something for which I am grateful.
“I’ll be back in a few days, Momma,” I assure her with a smile.
“I don’t think there is any room for deception for either of you. If what you say is true, great but if not—,”
“Momma,” I groan.
“Don’t you momma me. I hope you are both forthcoming with one another.”
“Like you were forthcoming with me about Dad’s diagnosis?” For a moment her eyes widen and she flinches but she’s quick to recover.
“Your father has diabetes, yes, but with his medication and diet, it’s under control. There was no need to bother you with any of it. We have it handled.” The upward tilt of her chin and crossed arms tells me she’s not going to cower under my scrutiny and in truth I don’t relish the idea of criticizing her or my father, no matter how upsetting it was to be left out of the loop.
“I’m not trying to criticize you or Daddy for not letting me know that dad was sick, and that they took him off the truck at work I just wish you would have told me, that’s all. I could have helped—still can.”
“Sylas was here to help.” I nod, unwilling to contribute anything aloud that would give away how conflicted I am about Sylas.
“Rae when you go, be sure you leave that man the way you found him. In one piece.”
“Yes Momma.” I don’t bother telling her that Sylas isn’t in one piece and neither am I. You can’t break something that’s already broken and Optimism made a valid point about closure. It has been a long time coming. I still blame Sylas for the things that happened back then and his mere presence is a bright, shining reminder of what happened back then but I also miss him. More than that, I hate the way things were left between us. Maybe this time, when we go our separate ways, it will be without either of us making a spectacle of ourselves like we did last time.
I step out onto the porch and Sylas and daddy fall silent. I would love to know what they were discussing but the weirdness around this entire situation has me tugging Sylas off the porch and nudging him toward his truck while I click the button on my key fob then pile my things into the funky green machine. “I’ll follow you,” I say over my shoulder before folding myself into the driver’s seat.
I follow Sylas through town on a very familiar route that I could traverse in my sleep. The baseball fields and the copse of trees hiding our secret bayou come into view to my left and I stare at it while we sit at a stoplight. I look up and see Sylas looking at me in his side mirror. Even with aviator sunglasses in place I can tell he’s giving me one of those classic Sylas Broussard looks that I used to love so much. He lowers his sunglasses and quirks up his brows. I shake my head side to side, declining to go to the bayou but the truth is I have the distinct urge to visit the secret spot where we fell so deeply in love like one would visit a graveyard. Not to look around and enjoy the place but to reflect on the legacy of something forever dead and gone.
The light turns green and we leave before I can change my mind, thank god. We drive for a few more minutes; making our way through a subdivision that wasn’t established the last time I was here. The middle-class neighborhood is bustling with children riding bikes and parents sipping drinks on the front porch. We drive for several more minutes, coming to the very edge of the subdivision on a dead-end street before Sylas pulls into the only driveway there. It’s a lovely red brick home with black shutters and a wide, open front porch furnished with black wicker furniture and several large black pots with plants overflowing and cascading down the side of them. It’s beautiful. Sylas hops out of his truck and waves his hand, motioning me to come in. I shut off my car and hurry up the stamped concrete driveway. Sy unlocks the glossy black front door and waves me in.
“Come on in. I’m gonna grab a few things. Make yourself at home,” he says swatting my ass as he disappears down a darkened hall. My feet drift over the wood floor, inspecting his private space. I take the opportunity to gather whatever insight I can but my immediate thought is that Sy’s home is so him, so inviting, so cozy. A vision of myself barefoot and relaxed, cooking dinner in his kitchen with him makes my heart crow in pain.
The leather sofa the color of brewed coffee looks well used and plush. I can imagine Sy’s big frame relaxing here, maybe watching a movie.
Probably depressed and all alone because you ditched him back then, Self-Loathing says in a singsong voice that grates on my nerves.
Honey, there’s no way that man is ever alone and if he is, it isn’t for long. Have you seen him? Regret whistles. Should have locked that down a long time ago.
Ugh! How are any of you being helpful, exactly? Practicality says curtly in a rare show of attitude.
“I really need a shrink in my life,” I whisper-sing to myself with my fingertips grazing over Sy’s furniture.
One wall of his living room is composed entirely of shelves holding books, picture frames and military memorabilia. My fingers drift lightly over the spines of books, over picture frames of Sylas in his military uniform with armor and his weapon slung across his body. Several other marines are flanking him. They’re all grinning for the camera. Beside the frame is a beautiful cedar box no bigger than a cigar box. I crack it open and find the dull-silver dog tags, a Purple Heart medal as though it’s a useless trinket, a small green notepad and several other items. I pull the dog tags from the box and examine them. They’re Sy’s. I fold them into my palm and feel a sudden pang of sadness and guilt for not having been in his life during what must have been the scariest time. I replace the box and its contents and close the lid when a book on the shelf behind it catches my attention. The spine is worn and cracked from use but I can see the title clearly. Memories of him reading the book with earnest curiosity when we were in high school flood my mind.
“Far from the madding crowd,” I whisper to myself. Plucking the book from the shelf, I look over my shoulder for Sylas but he hasn’t emerged from whatever part of his house he disappeared to. The corners of the book are dented and turned down. Creases spider across the once glossy cover, giving it a broken appearance. The pages that were once creamy white are now discolored and yellowing, some appear stained with what appears to be food or drink food or drink. I gently fan the book, spotting several dogeared pages and bookmarked sections, denoted by neatly folded gum wrappers. I smile wistfully and turn to a section with the page folded in on its self.
“He had been held to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than
by a chain he could not break,” Sylas quotes at my back eliciting a squeak of surprise from me.
“Why do you still have this?” I ask holding up the abused paperback. A long moment of silence stretches out. Sy doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look away. He holds my gaze. I hold my breath.
“It’s a good book,” he says simply. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the place.” Sy folds his large hand around mine and I let him lead me through his home, showing me the house room by room. He drags me into his bedroom, which much to my dismay is lovely in every way and smells heavily of Sylas. My eyeing the king bed with far too much longing has Sy chuckling. The master bathroom connected to his bedroom is a large space with a huge walk-in shower stall. The mirror runs the length of the bathroom. I step to the counter and run my hands across the cool granite.
“There’s a ton of work to be done for the banquet and I know Cattail isn’t your scene,” he says snaking his muscular arm around my waist from behind. “I know it’s not near as glamorous as running around playing king maker like you do but it’s honest work and I appreciate it more than you know,” he says dropping soft kisses down my neck.
“Mmm,” I hum. “There is nothing glamorous about pundits doing their best to trash your character and bazooka your career on national television.” Sylas loosens his grip enough to turn me in place so I’m facing him. Another weighty staring match ensues.
“Then stay here,” he whispers between hot kisses. “Fuck that job,” he declares. A breathy laugh escapes me because he can’t be serious.
Right?
“This is your home, Snow. Come back to it,” he says huskily, grinding his cock against me, his gaze penetrating. He twirls me to face the bathroom mirror again so we are staring at our reflection. “Look at us,” he says not for a moment relaxing the onslaught of seduction. His hands land on my bare thighs beneath my bargain sundress. His palms graze over my skin until he finds the hem of my panties. He tugs them down, exposing me to the cool air. Sy maneuvers himself until his erection is freed from his jeans. The hot length of him presses against my ass teasingly. His chin juts out as he watches my response to him through eyelids turned heavy with lust.
