by Reid, Penny
“Really, Cletus? Really?”
Lifting just my eyes, I stared at Roscoe, wondering why in tarnation he was up so early while I waited for him to realize today was not the day.
He realized nothing and gestured to the unwashed pots piled on one side of the sink. “Why can’t you just do your dishes like everyone else?”
Setting the paper down, I debated how best to irritate and antagonize him. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m using those pots to conduct a biology experiment?”
Roscoe scratched his head, his bloodshot eyes a little less irritated. “That’s what you’re doing?”
“No, course not.” I stood from the table and walked toward him, carrying my newly empty coffee cup. “I merely asked if you would believe it.”
His irritation spiked anew, and he snapped. “What? Why would you want to know if I’d believe you?”
I shrugged, leaving the dirty mug—unwashed—next to the pile of plates. “Because I’m actually conducting a psychology experiment.”
He growled as I turned for the cabinet, selected a new, clean mug, and proceeded to fill it with coffee—the last of the coffee.
“You are so infuriating!”
Ignoring him, I seasoned my coffee with molasses and apple cider vinegar, and returned to the table, picking up the newspaper once more.
He huffed, he slammed cabinets, he made a big production of making more coffee, he threw himself into the chair on the far end of the table, he cleared his throat. I bent the newspaper down and peered at him.
“If it isn’t too much trouble, given your delicate constitution and inability to comprehend even the most rudimentary acts of decency and manners, pass the sports section. Please.”
I examined my youngest brother, marveling at the intensity of his pettiness. Truly, it was the only thing he and I had in common.
I fully and freely admitted to dwelling in a state of peevish discontent this morning. Nonetheless, Roscoe’s continued beleaguering badgering regarding my dishes made no sense, and here is why:
A) I made dinner on Wednesday nights for the entire week. If I didn’t, Billy—in particular—would waste away to skin and bones, or consume an unbalanced diet, or—God forbid—eat inferior takeout, predisposed as he was to ignoring his own needs (but I digress).
B) On Wednesday nights, after making all the dinners, I loaded up the dishwasher, but many of the pots and pans didn’t fit, or needed to soak. Sometimes, I went ahead and did the pots and pans right away, except—and most importantly—I often used Grandmother Oliver’s cast iron skillet. Anybody worth their salt knows cleaning a well-seasoned cast iron skillet is a production that cannot and should not be rushed. No one else in the household re-seasoned the skillet to my exacting standards.
That is to say, usually I didn’t finish cleaning up until Saturday. I worked early and a double shift on Thursdays, and early again on Fridays. Everyone knew I had the jam session Friday night.
C) Lastly, and the most confounding of my points, Roscoe ate the dinners I cooked.
Let me repeat that, Roscoe ate the dinners.
He ate them on Thursday when he returned home from school, and Friday, and Saturday, and sometimes Sunday nights. Furthermore, I often made him portions to take back to school, which he happily did.
In conclusion, Roscoe’s frustration with the dirty pots and pans made no sense.
“Here is the sports section.” I tossed it to him.
“Thank you.” He picked it up and scanned the first page. “I know that must’ve been a trial.”
I fought the sudden and bizarre urge to laugh, instead turning the page of the front section and preparing another volley when Billy’s voice said, “What happened last night?”
Lifting my eyes, I scanned my debonair brother, presently dressed and ready for work, looking no worse for whiskey except the glassy quality to his eyeballs.
I returned my attention to the paper. “You got drunk to make me feel better.”
“Do you feel better?” Billy moved around the kitchen, completing his typical morning routine.
“I feel better than you.”
He chuckled self-deprecatingly, sitting next to me at the table. “I can’t imagine anyone feeling worse than me right now.”
“I feel pretty terrible,” Roscoe muttered, pouting at the sports section.
Billy leaned back, as though to get a better look at our brother. “Why do you feel terrible?”
“He also got drunk to make me feel better, and—you know—him getting drunk did make me feel better. Thanks, Roscoe.”
Roscoe didn’t deign to look at me, just took a tense sip of his coffee, the vein at his forehead in sharp relief.
Smirking at his discomfort, I lowered my attention once more to the paper.
But then Billy said, “Hey. Cletus,” his voice barely above a whisper.
“That is my name.”
I sensed him lean closer. “You need to talk about this thing with Jenn, eventually, even if it’s not with me.”
My eyes cut to his. Yes, they were still glassy, but they were also wide with concern as he continued. “But I want to make sure you know you can talk to me. Anytime.”
“I know.” I picked up my coffee, abandoned the paper to the kitchen table, and exited the kitchen. The last thing I felt like doing right now was continuing the ruse with my family, especially since I wasn’t sure anymore why I’d agreed to this shit in the first place.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Billy said, trailing after me to the living room.
“Okay.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.” I did a lap around the couch and then decided to hide in the library. It had a door.
“Have you tried to?”
“What?”
“Have you tried to see her?”
“No.”
Billy inserted himself between me and the hallway, blocking the path forward. “Why not?”
Because if I see her, I’ll call the whole thing off. “I’m giving her time to do what she needs to do.”
“You need to apologize.”
A short, bitter laugh burst forth even though I grit my teeth. I needed to apologize, I did. I needed to apologize for wanting the woman so fiercely for going on several months at this point, that the love I felt for her had begun blackening at the edges, singed with the darkness of my selfish thoughts.
My laugh made Billy frown. “Cletus, you need to apologize,” he said more firmly.
Emptying my features of telling expression, I swallowed and nodded once. “I know.”
Blue eyes moved between mine, searching, piercing; his dark brown eyebrows drew together. “Do you want me to talk to her?”
I looked beyond him to the hallway he blocked. “If you wish to speak with Jennifer Sylvester, you should.”
He made a short noise of frustration. “How about check on her? You want me to check in?”
“She’s okay.” Last night, she was better than okay.
“I doubt she’s okay.” Billy’s voice, heavy with restrained sympathy, deepened to a compassionate baritone. “I imagine she’s the opposite of okay. You know Jenn loves you.”
I took a step back, setting my coffee cup on the entryway console table. “We’ll see.”
“Cletus.” Billy waited until I looked at him again before continuing. “Listen, it’s not like me and—and her. It’s not like us. You two don’t have anything keeping you apart.”
My temper fractured. and I spoke my thoughts on the subject without regard to their possible effect. “You two don’t have anything keeping you apart. But here you are, and there she is. Apart.”
“You know what I mean, it’s different.”
“You’re correct there. It is definitely different.” I checked my watch, immediately irrationally angry that I’d lost all my morning relaxation time to Roscoe’s sense of entitlement and Billy’s questions about my fake fight with Jenn.
When would this untenable limbo end
? Did Jenn enjoy this? Being separated? Torturing us both? I told her I loved her big heart, and I absolutely did, but when would she finally put herself and her needs above others? When?!
“And it’s been two weeks,” he went on, audibly determined, bringing me back to this inane conversation. “I can see you’re suffering. Maybe it’s time for you to go over there, see about setting things right. The longer you wait to apologize, the worst it’ll be for both of you.”
“I thought you said you wanted to check on her.”
“I do.”
“Then check.”
“Cletus—”
“Go. Check.” I turned for the front door. “And leave my coffee mug right there, I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
“You should come with me to see her.” Billy continued to stalk me, onto the porch, down the steps, lifting his voice.
“I absolutely should not,” I called over my shoulder, pulling the Bronco’s keys from my pocket. I’d planned to put on coveralls before leaving the house, but I had an extra pair at the shop I could use instead.
“I wish you would come with me.” My brother stood just behind me, and I spotted his reflection in the Ford’s window, arms crossed, glaring daggers of disappointment at my brain stem.
I tossed his disappointment right back. “And I wish you’d drive your backside to Nashville wearing one of these custom suits you favor”—I gestured to his bespoke clothing—“and pick up Scarlet at a bar, or break into her apartment and let her find you naked in the shower. Hey—do that. She’d love it.” I yanked open the door.
“Stop deflecting.”
“Stop avoiding.” Sliding into the driver’s seat, I fit the keys in the ignition and turned.
“Being respectful of another person’s boundaries is not avoiding.”
“Well, there you go. I’m being respectful of Jenn’s boundaries.”
“You’re being a stubborn asshole.”
“You would know.” Pulling the handle, I slammed the door shut, necessitating that Billy glare at me through the glass. But then, as I switched the gear from park to drive, a thought occurred to me, and I rolled down my window.
“You change your mind?” He asked before I could speak.
“No.” I shook my head. “Just wanted to remind you, the clock is ticking. You got four years left.”
Chapter Twenty
“Hate is by far the greatest pleasure; men love in haste, but detest in leisure.”
― Lord Byron, Selected Poems
*Jenn*
I left a voicemail at the police dispatch number for Boone first thing Friday morning about Tricia Wilkinson’s windfall of chickens, as Cletus and I had agreed. I also left him a voicemail on his personal cell phone, just to cover all my bases. Then, having not much else to do but stew, I put on a pair of overalls, boots, a flannel, and went out to the backyard.
Just as I finished pulling on work gloves and picked up a shovel, a voice asked, “What are you doing?”
Turning, I discovered Billy Winston standing at the back corner of the house.
“Is Cletus with you?” I dropped the shovel and crossed to where he stood, hope swelling, searching the side yard behind him.
“He’s not with me,” he said quietly, his gaze apologetic.
“Oh.” My steps halted, my heart slowing to a sluggish, disappointed thud.
“What are you doing?” he asked again, lifting his well-groomed beard toward the back. “What’s all that dirt for?”
“Prepping for spring.” I brought my hands to my hips, glancing over my shoulder. “I want to plant a garden. I’m mixing perlite, there”—I pointed at the pile of volcanic glass pieces—“with compost from the zoo, there.” Now I pointed to the much larger mixture of rich, deep brown dirt and fertilizer. “I’ve been filling feed sacks all week, getting everything ready. But I need a saw to cut wood for the raised boxes.”
“The zoo?” He meandered closer, picking his path carefully. Billy wore a long black wool coat, a distinguished—and by all appearances—cashmere scarf, and shoes that looked like they’d never stepped on anything but plush carpet.
“Yep. What do you think they do with all the excess herbivore poop? You don’t want to throw that stuff out, it’s garden gold. A full-grown elephant eats between one hundred to one hundred twenty-five pounds each day and defecates between eight and ten times every day.”
“That’s a lot of, uh, defecating.”
Something about his inflection made me smile, and I said, just to tease, “You mean shit. That’s a lot of shit.”
He laughed, but also tried to mock shock. “Jennifer Sylvester! Such language.”
That made me laugh, and there we were, laughing. It felt good to laugh. I’d been going out into town every day, hoping to run into my father and schedule a meeting, pretend I was open to a relationship. Thus far, I hadn’t seen him, and I hadn’t done much talking with anyone since the blowup with my mother at the bakery two weeks ago. I hadn’t laughed for days before that.
I missed Cletus. Missing him was akin to balancing a heavy stack of books on the top of my head, one of the exercises my momma used to make me do to improve my posture. Last night, after he’d abruptly ended the call, the stack of books had migrated to my chest, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we were doing—pretending to be broken up—was not only a waste of time, it was ruining us.
Every day felt longer than the one before. It didn’t matter that this was the first time in years I had more than one day off in a row, nothing about this leisure felt restful.
Billy openly scrutinized me while our laughter dissolved into smiles, his blue eyes wary. “You seem to be doing okay.”
“Do I?” I asked, scrutinizing him in return. “I don’t feel okay.”
His expression sobered and he immediately opened his arms. I stepped into the offered embrace and he squeezed, the warm strength of him made me want to cry. Instead, I inhaled deeply. He doesn’t smell like Cletus.
“My idiot brother isn’t doing okay either,” Billy’s voice rumbled from where my ear pressed against his solid chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Cletus is miserable.”
Ugh. His words were a sucker punch.
“Don’t feel bad for him, he brought this on himself.” He sounded so grumpy. “It’s good he’s miserable.”
“Billy, no. I don’t want him to be miserable.”
“Then you two should talk to each other, sort this out.” Billy’s chin came to rest on the top of my head. “And he needs to apologize. Jealousy makes people do crazy things, but that’s no excuse. I’ve told him every chance I get.”
I chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. “Please don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t need to apologize.” He’s a saint, and he’s doing all this for me, AND I MISS HIM!
“He does need to apologize. I love my brother, but Cletus can be sneaky and stubborn.”
“I promise you, that’s not at all what’s going on here.”
“There are always two people in a relationship contributing to its success, or its failure, Jenn. He needs to take responsibility for his part.”
“No, I mean—” I turned away, frustrated.
Was this what Cletus dealt with every day? His family harassing him about mistreating me? I’d lied to my mother, but that’s it. I’d been alone with my thoughts and loneliness, it hadn’t been necessary to lie to my loved ones daily.
But Cletus, he was surrounded by people who cared about him, and he’d been lying all this time because I asked him to.
I rubbed my chest, feeling heartsick and just plain sick.
“Jenn—”
“Just let him be, okay? He hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m the one . . .” Crap. I kicked a rock. It jumped, bouncing against the side of the house and then down the path to the frozen grass. Kicking it did not help me feel better.
Billy’s concern seemed to dwindle, eclipsed by apprehensio
n. “Are you—are you saying that Cletus was right? About you and Jackson?”
“No! Of course not.”
His suspicion fled, replaced with renewed worry. “Then he needs to—”
“It’s a lie! It’s all a lie!” I threw my hands up, stalking back to Billy. “We didn’t break up. We’re still together. Cletus did nothing wrong. I asked him to do it. It was all staged.”
Billy reared back, standing straighter and suddenly looking very, very tall. “Pardon me?”
“It was a mistake, and it’s all my fault, all my dumb idea,” I muttered, peeling off my work gloves, shaking my head at myself and my nonsense. “I wanted to go undercover, to get my father to trust me, so I could find out who hurt my momma and killed Mr. Badcock’s chickens. But now it’s been two weeks and my father is nowhere, and I’m going crazy missing Cletus. That’s it, I’m calling it off, and I’m sorry we lied to y’all, but don’t blame your brother.”
The big man stared in my direction, but I could see his attention had turned inward, his mind working to untangle my words. After a protracted moment, he pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, navigated through a few screens, and lifted it to his ear.
A thoughtful frown in place, his attention flicked over me as he spoke into the cell. “Hey, Cheryl. It’s me. I’m not coming in today . . . that’s right.”
My cheeks burned as I listened to Billy continue his conversation with his secretary, the heat of embarrassment shining brightly from my pores and itchy discomfort at the back of my neck.
“Tell Dolly first. Shift all my meetings and calls to next week. Text me with any emergencies . . . Okay. Sounds good. Bye.” Billy wrapped up, tucking his cell back in his pocket.
I braced myself for the unavoidable and mortifying conversation with Billy Winston. But you know what? I also felt relief. It was over. I could call Cletus today and tell him it was over, and we would be together tonight, hopefully laughing about how silly I’d been—
“Jennifer?” A voice called from somewhere at the front of the house, and the sound of it cut a chill through the fire of my chagrin. “I see your car in the drive. Open the door.”
