by Mary Frame
Grace grabs a serving spoon and follows her without meeting my eyes.
They’re up to something, no doubt.
In the dining room, I slide onto the bench-style seat across from Grace. Granny sits at the head and we reach out, holding hands for prayer.
“Dearly beloved.” Granny always starts like we’re at a royal wedding.
I close my eyes. Not because I’m devout, but because it’s better than staring at the walls, which are painted in three different primary colors bright enough to hurt the eyes. The fourth wall is white, but it’s also hung with an abstract mural made up of tiny penises. Penii? Is there a plural? Whatever it is, I don’t want to stare at it.
“We are gathered here today to join in our love and appreciation for this fine meal. We thank you for keeping us safe from great heights, devil chickens, and whatever that child is watching on TikTok. Protect our souls from evil hellfire and young boys, especially those of us under twenty. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
“Amen,” Grace and I contribute.
“Will you pass the beans?” Grace asks and I hand her the bowl of green beans.
There’s a substantial amount of food in serving dishes set around the heavy mahogany table. Pulled pork, green beans, mashed potatoes, biscuits. One thing about eating in the South is you do a lot of it. Which is not a complaint. I love food almost as much as I love my fandoms.
“Are you going to Jude’s party?” Granny asks.
I finish chewing my biscuit and look pointedly at Grace. Then over at Granny. “No.”
“You should go,” she says, spearing a green bean with her fork. “You could take the Cadillac.”
“Really?”
That evil genius. It’s not just a regular old Caddy. It’s a 1956 Cadillac DeVille convertible. And it’s pink. It’s atrocious and I love it and she knows it.
When I first came to stay with Granny, I drove her around for her errands. Because of her fainting spells, she didn’t want to get behind the wheel, just in case. But she hates people driving her car, especially me. I never had to drive much in New York because of public transportation, and owning a car in the city is a nightmare. I can drive, but I’m a little . . . rusty. As evidenced by the fact that every time I drove her anywhere, Granny would pray for her life. Loudly. Now she’s conveniently had zero issues with light-headedness over the past couple of months and no longer requires being chauffeured around town.
Stay strong, Fred. “That’s kind of you, Granny, but it’s fine. I can hang out here.”
I don’t miss the glances darting between them.
“Unless I’m not wanted.” I try to ignore the sting of rejection. I know they mean well, and I know they’re right—I’ve spent enough time moping around—but it still hurts.
“Of course you’re wanted,” Granny says. “It’s just . . .” She side-eyes Grace before leaning in my direction and stage-whispering, “You know the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Granny!”
Grace is grinning. “Does this mean I can invite boys over?”
Granny points her fork at Grace. “Hell no, young lady, you aren’t dating until you’re thirty.”
“Not fair.”
Granny shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. “Fairness is to reality as horses are to pickles.”
Grace rolls her eyes with a sigh. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Exactly.” Granny turns back to me. “So? Are you going?”
I shrug and push at my food with my fork. “I don’t think so. I just don’t feel up to it.”
“Fine. If you’re staying here, you can help with . . . mowing the back lawn.”
“Okay. I can help you.” I’ve never actually seen anyone mow the back lawn. It’s ginormous and I swear Granny told me it was some kind of buffalo grass that didn’t need maintenance. But whatever. It’s nice to be needed.
“Fred, no!” She waves a hand at me. “That was supposed to scare you away.” She takes a breath and then fixes me with a stare. “Go live your life or I’m calling your momma.”
“Ugghhh,” I groan. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Or I’ll pretend to go. Various ways to get out of it buzz through my mind like anxious bees.
Anything to avoid a Granny/Mom tag team.
They couldn’t be more opposite. Granny owns guns, eats meat, and goes to church every Sunday. My parents are vegans, pacifists, and atheists. And yet Granny and Mom talk like two best friends at least once a week. And usually about me.
An hour later, we’ve finished dinner and cleanup. Grace has forced me to pull my long dark hair out of its ever-present braid, conned me into lip gloss and mascara, and maneuvered me behind the wheel of the pink Cadillac.
I’ll just go to the diner on Main Street, get a milkshake, and hang out for a bit. Then I’ll head back to Granny’s. She’ll be none the wiser.
There is no way I’m going to this party.
Chapter Two
Love hates that game of words!
It is a crime to fence with life—I tell you,
There comes one moment, once—and God help those
Who pass that moment by!—when Beauty stands
Looking into the soul with grave, sweet eyes
That sicken at pretty words!
–Cyrano de Bergerac
* * *
“Welcome to the party of the century!” A nude man, liberally striped with blue body paint, streaks past me.
I jump out of the way of his quivering butt cheeks and land in some bushes next to the sidewalk.
People waiting in front of Jude’s house clap and yell their approval of the naked man’s pronouncement while I untangle myself from the violent foliage.
The street is lined with cars and the front walk of the house is jam-packed with people laughing, talking, have a grand ol’ time, and waiting to get in. Why am I here?
You should turn around and go home. No one wants to see you anyway, Delores Umbridge insists.
I had the best of intentions to avoid the party. I drove the opposite way down Main Street, passed the Frostee Freeze, waved to Ol’ Roy—who’s eternally chilling outside the H-E-B—and parked at the Finer Diner. Then I sat there and stared through the windows for ten full minutes.
There were—I shit you not—three different couples sitting in booths, sharing milkshakes and fries and gazing into each other’s eyes like annoying love zombies.
And that’s when my thoughts struck me like physical blows.
First, it’s a Friday night and I’m alone, sitting in a car that’s not mine, outside a diner I don’t want to be at.
Second, Granny is right. I need to move on. And perhaps under someone else.
Third, to actually get under someone else, I need a drink. Something stronger than a milkshake.
I get that making out with some random dude isn’t going to fix anything wrong with my life, but maybe it’ll be like . . . when they brought Buffy back from the dead and she was all weird and depressed but then she made out with Spike and everything got better. Except for the hellmouth opening and releasing all the uber vampires, and the nineteenth episode of season six where Spike attacked Buffy as an impetus for him to get his soul back and that was not cool, Joss Whedon.
But still.
I’ve seen enough therapists to know I need to challenge my own assumptions and negative self-talk, and I should go to this party. It’s good for my mental health in general to be around people.
And the most important thought hits me like Thor’s hammer upside the head: I’m sick of myself. My own insecurities. My own thoughts of worthlessness.
I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life, I don’t have control over every aspect of my future, but there is something I can control.
Jack doesn’t have to be my only. Not anymore. The awareness bursts through me, exploding out of my skin like a glitter bomb that settles in a fine sheen of dust. I need to wipe it away. I need
to wipe Jack away. I need new memories.
Which is why I’m here.
If this were New York, I could disappear into a hundred different bars or nightclubs to find a random hookup and then never see them again. But in Blue Falls, options are more than limited.
The house sits back from the street, facing a meticulously groomed lawn that’s now being trampled by coeds. It’s small and innocuous—at least it is when it isn’t stuffed with people and thumping with music. There’s a bay window, flower boxes, bright white shutters, and a cheery red door.
During the daylight hours, you wouldn’t imagine a Van Wilder type lives there with a bookworm and a giant, but that’s the truth. It’s like God being a writer named Chuck or Captain America saying, “Hail Hydra!” in Secret Empire. You just don’t expect it.
I crane my neck to see around the line. Normally, Beast mans the entry, taking money and letting people in and out, but he’s not there and the front door is shut.
The crowd around me is restless and excited, people chatting with each other, hooting and laughing. Someone yells out a plea to open the door and let them in.
Maybe it’s full, maxed out, and we’re all gonna be sent away. Then I can leave, with the perfect excuse.
A sigh of relief whispers through me.
Taking a slow step back, I run into a wall. A warm wall. I spin around and look up. And up. And up.
Beast.
My heart rate triples. I mean, anyone would panic a little. It’s like a biological instinct. I can’t control the lizard brain. He’s huge. Rugged. His eyes and hair are dark, matching his dark T-shirt and jeans. His lips are relaxed, unsmiling against his scruffy jaw.
“For a big guy, you sure do move like a ninja.”
He stares at me for a full beat before his head jerks to one side in the universal motion for “come on.” Then he stalks away, toward the house.
Bossy.
Commanding without words. Who knew that was possible? I follow. It’s not like I have anything better to do, and waiting in line alone isn’t exactly an enticing prospect.
“Are you gonna let us in?” someone whines as we breeze past.
Another calls, “Hurry up, we’re gonna miss all the games!”
And finally, a third heckler, “Hey, why’s she getting in?” And then louder, “Who are you?”
My response is a reflex born of being raised in a family where incorporating literary references into casual conversation is considered an art form. “I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?”
An awkward pause ensues and then a confused, “What?”
I don’t bother looking back. This is why I don’t have friends. No one understands my witty references to dead poets.
I trail after Beast up the steps of the narrow porch. He unlocks the door and motions me in ahead of him.
It’s not as crowded as I thought it would be. A few stragglers are in line at the bathroom down the hallway, and a couple is making out on the love seat in the living room. A sliding glass door at the back of the house yawns open to the backyard, where the crowd is congregating. I follow Beast through an open doorway on our right, into the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and hands me a can of something, his giant fingers obscuring the lettering.
I take it, reading the label out loud. “Delirium.” Surprised, I meet his gaze. “How did you . . .” He can’t answer an open-ended question, so I cut myself off. I’m forever regurgitating nonsense around Beast. “I like these. And you happen to have them.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Beast is like this. Always watching, always handing people what they need without question. He’s always so observant. The first couple weeks after I came to Blue Falls, tissue and cookies would appear on my nightstand, but only on nights that Beast stayed over.
It’s unnerving. How much does he see? His dark eyes skitter from mine, and after a tripping heartbeat, he strides past, stirring up a small breeze in his wake and disappearing through the doorway.
“Thank you,” I call out, but he’s already gone.
I exit to the backyard right as Jude’s voice cuts through the air. “Babies! Let the games begin!”
Cheering and clapping meet his pronouncement. From the corner of the expansive patio, Jude lifts an air horn and squeezes. Tonight he’s wearing some kind of smoking jacket, per usual. His hair is longish and brown, his posture relaxed. He’s in his midtwenties, not much older than the college students he’s mingling with, but his aura is larger than life, which gives him the feel of an old soul.
Unlike Jude, Beast is actually a student at Blue Falls University, so I’d wager he’s around twenty. But it’s hard to tell since he’s physically bigger than anyone I’ve ever met.
Off the edge of the patio, a lawn stretches beyond the light and into the darkness. The yard is encapsulated by a tall fence and a smattering of large bushes and trees.
Clumps of people swarm the grass, running back and forth, competing in some kind of . . . blind-folded, three-legged race. They also have cups on their heads. One couple trips and face-plants into the grass, much to the amusement of the crowd.
There’s a tap at my elbow. “Hey, you came.”
“Annabel.” I give her a quick hug and then we face the competition together, standing side by side.
She links my arm in hers, a red Solo cup in her opposite hand. “I wasn’t sure you would drop by.” Annabel is a curvy blonde with a wide mouth that’s usually got something sarcastic popping out of it.
“I almost didn’t,” I tell her.
“I don’t blame you.” She laughs and tugs me toward a table set up near the house. “But since you’re here, you have to try one of these appetizers Beast made. I don’t even know what they are, but they’re awesome.”
“Oh.” I examine the finger foods on the table—what’s left of them. “Looks like a caprese skewer with a balsamic reduction.” I pick up one of the sticks and pop it in my mouth. The mozzarella is fresh, as is the basil. I wonder if he got it from Granny’s garden. “Did he make the reduction himself?”
She waves a hand. “Probably. I can’t keep up with him. They used to rotate who cooked dinner throughout the week, but Beast has basically taken over.” She picks up her own skewer. “I don’t know why I’m eating this. I’m so full but it’s so good. It’s like I can’t stop myself. So what made you decide to show up?” She throws away the toothpick and holds up a finger. “Wait, let me guess. Granny?”
“Partially,” I concede.
Annabel snorts. “I’m surprised she didn’t force you here at gunpoint.”
“It was close. Where’s Reese and Fitz?”
“They’re back at the apartment. Making use of their time alone.” She grimaces and takes a sip out of her cup. “Let’s not discuss my brother and his girlfriend and what they might be doing in our apartment. I’ve thought about moving in here with Jude, and then Reese could move in with Fitz, but my parents would freak. I caught them making out in the kitchen yesterday when I got home.” She shudders. “I eat there. Quick. Change the subject. You want to get in on some game action?” she asks, tipping her cup to her mouth.
I shrug. “Not really. I would rather make out with someone.”
It’s a bad time to reveal my intentions because the contents of her cup stream out of her mouth, hitting some guy in a football jersey as he’s sauntering by.
“Hey!”
She coughs and sputters. “Sorry.”
He throws up a hand and stalks off.
Annabel eyes me. “You wanna repeat that, Fred?”
“I’ve decided that I don’t want Jack to be the last man I kissed.” The only man. But I can’t admit that embarrassment out loud.
Annabel considers me for a second, then nods. “I support that. And I can help. I’ll be your wing woman. Come on.”
She tows me over to the corner where Jude is surrounded by a small group. Without looking, he reaches back and tugs Annabel closer, turning his face to kiss her once
on the mouth before continuing his conversation.
Since my arm is still linked with Annabel’s, I get a front row seat to the PDA and the brief but heated glance that passes between them. Jude looks at Annabel like K-pop stans look at Kim Nanjoon.
I avert my eyes and take a few long drinks of my beer.
Jack was never affectionate in public. He said it was vulgar.
“We’ll get Jude to help,” Annabel tells me. “But first.” Her eyes brighten and then sharpen, scanning the crowd around us. “What are we looking for? Man? Woman? Tall? Short? What’s your type?”
My gaze moves over the crowd. The three-legged race is over and people are unwrapping their ropes and blindfolds and putting them in a bucket. “Umm . . . man. Not too big, but not too small. Someone good looking. But not too good looking.”
“Okay so someone who looks like a serial killer, got it.”
I nudge her with my shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really. If I were you, I’d be going for the hottest guy I could find. I mean, why not? Although you can’t have the actual hottest guy, because he’s mine.”
Jude turns into our conversation and kisses her on the side of the neck. “Why thank you, my dear.”
“Hot guys are usually dicks,” I say. “Present company excluded. And—” I cut myself off, flushing, not wanting to continue that train of thought. Hot guys don’t notice me. They definitely don’t want to make out with me, not when they could have someone better, hotter, less likely to bust out obscure movie quotes during intimate moments. I’m not exactly a catch. I’m perhaps better than average looking, but I don’t have a real job, and I’m only smart if you need someone for a trivia night.
Self-conscious, I shrug and turn away, examining the crowd. “I need someone like . . .” I tap a finger to my lips.
There are a few shirtless jocks standing in a cluster, but an equally impressive group of ladies surrounds them, all dressed in short shorts and barely-there tanks with silky hair and tanned skin. I’m like a pale ET in comparison.
Next to them, Beast hands one of the jocks a . . . is that a banana? My eyes roam over Beast’s impressive figure. Not happening. He’s too big and handsome and he doesn’t talk and it makes me nervous. Maybe because I can’t help filling the silence with pointless chatter, and I have nothing to talk about except fandoms and comics and random factoids passed down by my professor parents.
