by Penny Reid
I opened my eyes again. Better.
“Where? Down the hill?” Sienna’s footsteps on the stone porch soon became footsteps on the stone stairs, and then no sound I could hear, which meant she’d made it to the grass. “I see you,” she said, her voice now a normal volume. “What are you doing out here in the dark? We missed you at dinner.”
“Sorry, sorry—”
“Don’t apologize. This is your vacation, you can spend it however you like. I just wanted to let you know you were missed.” Sienna fussed about at the edge of the blanket, maybe taking her shoes off, and then in my peripheral vision I sorta saw her lie down next to me. “Holy crap, it’s gorgeous here. It’s gorgeous during the day, it’s gorgeous at night. Just look at those stars.”
“I wish I could.” I tried closing my eyes again, more spinning.
I sensed her turn her face toward me. “Why can’t you?”
I pointed to myself with both thumbs. “Drunk.”
Silence for a beat, and then she laughed.
I laughed.
We both laughed.
“No you’re not.” She gently smacked my shoulder.
“Yep.” I smacked the air since all the Siennas wouldn’t hold still.
After a while, she asked, “Are you really drunk?” and seemed to turn her face back to the stars.
“Yep.”
“You don’t sound drunk.”
“How do I sound?”
“All put together, like you always do.”
“Not all put together, not ever, not even close.” I laughed again. Put together? I was about as put together as one of those Jenga puzzle game things toward the end, when it was about to fall over if you removed any number of pieces.
She didn’t laugh with me. “What’s going on, old buddy, old pal? Why are you out here, drunk, all by your lonesome? The boys are already asleep, as unbelievable as that is. Jet and I would’ve—what does Cletus call it?—imbibed adjacent if we’d known you were in a drinking mood. You never drink.”
“‘Imbibed adjacent,’” I quoted, laughing again. “Cletus was always an awesome weirdo. Even when we were kids, he had a funny way of putting things.”
I heard her shift next to me. “You knew Cletus when you were kids?”
“Yep.”
“I did not know that, did I? I swear, pregnancy wiped my memory each time. I thought you and Jethro knew each other because of your husband, Ben.”
I felt none of the usual tension in my stomach or the oppressive fear whenever I thought about my childhood. Maybe because I’m drunk? “Nope. I knew Jethro before Ben. Our fathers were MC brothers in the Iron Wraiths.” Talking in complete sentences was taking a toll, my mouth felt full of used chewing gum.
“That’s right.” She snapped her fingers, or made a sound like it. “I did know that. But your father is Razor Dennings and is Darrell’s boss? I mean, was his boss. I keep forgetting that Razor Dennings is your father, even though it’s literally all over the news.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, ignoring the wave of melancholy pushing at the periphery of my mood, deciding a joke was in order. “Especially seeing as how he’s currently-currently-currently—” Closing my eyes, I worked to catch the tail of my thought. “He’s on trial! For what he did to Simone and Roscoe, and all those other people. I’d be happy for everyone to forget we’re related.”
That wasn’t a good joke. That wasn’t a joke at all. Just shut your drunk face.
A moment later, I felt Sienna’s hand close over mine and squeeze. “I am so sorry, Claire.”
“Why? You murder someone?” Still not a good joke.
She squeezed my hand harder. “I can’t imagine what you’re dealing with right now. I made the mistake of picking up a newspaper for the flight, and the things the press is saying about you, it makes me so angry.”
I shrugged, pulling my hand out of her grip, placing it behind my head, and sending a quick prayer of thanks upward for the numbing qualities of a good bottle of Italian wine. “I don’t think about it. Growing up with Razor Dennings as your daddy, thinking about him . . . and his evilness . . . that don’t do no good.” The world was moving back and forth, but then I realized it was me shaking my head. And so I stopped. “Folks wanna believe thinking about something does some good. Pshaw! Talking, ranting, bitching and moaning ain’t gunna make no difference.”
“Claire, is your accent thicker? I can barely understand you.”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat, swallowed, and endeavored to make my mouth move normally. “Is this better?”
“Yes. I can understand you better. You were saying something about talking not helping?”
“Cor-rect! All talkin’ does is make you miserable. Like-like digging a hole. And then, wondering how you got to the bottom of it. That’s stupid. I don’t wanna be a miserable person. I want to be a . . . a—one of those—you know, a content person.”
“You want to be content?”
“Content and good. Imma be a content and good person, and so I will be.” I snapped at this for some reason, or tried to.
Sienna made a small sound. “You sound like Jethro, when he quotes his mother, except drunk.”
An image of Bethany Winston materialized in my mind’s eye, smiling at me, telling me I was going to be her forest fairy. But then that image was obscured by another, her face marred with extreme distress, her eyes flashing with disappointment. I swallowed around the sharp emotion, working to distance myself from the echo of shame.
“Claire? Are you okay?” Sienna’s concerned voice dispelled the unpleasant memory.
“His momma had some great sayings, that’s for sure.” I sniffed, working to arrange my mouth into a smile. “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t drunk all that wine.”
“I imagine if my father turned out to be a serial killer, I’d get drunk on a hill in Tuscany too.” I heard her shift on the blanket. “In fact, I think I’ll get drunk on a hill in Tuscany even though my father only kills with dad jokes.”
I grimaced, turning my head toward her as she turned toward me.
“Give me a break.” All the Siennas shrugged. “It’s hard to make murder funny.”
“We should probably stop trying.”
“You’re right. It’s just, I’d like to cheer you up and I can’t think of anything hilarious to say when the reason you’re sad is so freaking depressing.”
“My father ain’t the reason I’m sad,” I said, because: wine + wine + wine + wine = honesty. “I mean, I’ve known who he is my whole life. He’s the scariest person on this earth! If I never saw him again, I’d be grateful. Just thinking about him, it’s hard.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. We don’t have to—”
“No, no. If we’re going to have this conversation, we should do it now.” I smacked the ground with my hand way too hard. That was going to hurt later. “I’m drunk! And that helps a lot. Point is, I’m not surprised by what my daddy did. I don’t mourn for him. I’m so sad—so sad—for the families. I was scared for Simone and Roscoe when I heard what happened to them. Thank God they’re both out of the woods now. But Razor Dennings has nothing to do with my mood. If I let that bastard impact my mood, I’d be hiding half the time.” The world moved up and down, so I stopped nodding. “Maybe the whole time.”
“Really?” she asked, her tone telling me she didn’t believe me. “He doesn’t impact your mood?”
“Cor-rect.”
“Then why are you out here in the dark?”
“You said yourself, it’s pretty out here.” I threw my hand at the sky, it then came back and hit me in the stomach.
“Then why are you drunk?”
“This wine is good, and a surprising goat tattoo caught me unawares. I’d say you should have some, but I already drank it all.”
“Goat tattoo?” She chuckled, but said, “And yet, you are sad, Claire.”
My chest ached, cutting through the inebriation fog. My chest hadn’t stopped with the aching since I fo
und out Billy had arrived. Our interaction in his room had only intensified the ache, which was why I was presently drunk. I just wanted it to stop.
After he’d told me to keep my distance—which I understood, and accepted, and would 100 percent do—the ache had become alternately spiky and hot and then dull and painful. It was over. I’d waited too long. I’d been an idiot for too damn long and Billy had finally, finally moved on.
Well then. Good for him. He deserved all the happiness. He’d deserved all the happiness years ago and he’d always deserved better than me. So I’d toasted to his happiness four times, and now I was as drunk as Flo McClure had been the Christmas she’d told all of us she was a lesbian.
“I guess I am sad.” My chin wobbled. Dammit. I was happy for Billy, but that didn’t mean I was happy for myself.
“Why are you sad?” She turned, lying on her side to face me. “Talk to Sienna. Tell me everything. Maybe I can help. Is it about the news?”
“No.” I waved my hand through the air. “Don’t care what they call me. ‘Devil’s Daughter.’” I huffed a weak laugh. “Been called worse.”
“I know what it’s like when they all gang up, it can be exhausting.”
“Not the newspapers, don’t care.”
“If anyone can help you not care about what the media is saying, it’s me. I’m a pro.”
“Sienna. It’s not the media. It’s—” I stopped myself, my face crumpling, so I covered it with my hand.
She was quiet for a few seconds and I felt her attention on me. “I know you think talking about things won’t help, but sometimes it does. Sometimes, you just need a person who you can trust to listen, who you can be open with and not have to worry about their feelings, or whether they’re judging you.”
I nodded, pressing my lips together. Talking to someone like that actually sounded nice. It sounded so nice, it seemed like a fairy tale. Pretend. Make believe.
“I worry about you,” she went on. “Jethro worries about you. He said Ben used to be that person for you, but now he’s—”
“Ben was never that person for me,” I blurted, and then drew in a deep breath, feeling . . . fine.
Eh, let me clarify that. By fine, I mean, not worse.
Sienna was quiet again, but this time the silence felt different. “Claire—”
“It’s the truth. Ben loved me, took care of me, kept me safe. I owed him a debt I could never repay. But I was never honest with him about how I felt, what I wanted, or who I was. And when I tried to be honest, I just hurt him. I hurt him so bad. He didn’t want honesty, he wanted me to love him, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
Aaaaaand, now I was crying.
Damn tears. Stupid sobbing, messy, waterworks. Man, I hated crying. I hated it, and if there’d been a way to surgically modify my tear ducts from activating when sad, I would’ve had that surgery.
I sensed Sienna’s hesitation—probably due to astonishment—before she reached out, turned me toward her, and pulled me into her arms. Curling into her warm body, I cried.
“Oh, Claire. Honey. Are you okay? What can I do?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to sort through things, things from my past, things I’m not proud of.”
“You’re an angel.”
I swiped at my dumb tears. “No. I’m no angel,” I said, and then I hiccupped.
She ignored the hiccup. “It’s complicated when people die, it’s easy to feel guilty for imaginary transgressions. I’m sure—”
“I cheated on him,” I blurted, and then felt like a dummy, because cheating wasn’t precisely what Billy and I had done.
Her hand rubbing circles on my back paused. “Uh, say what?”
“In my heart, I cheated,” I tried to clarify.
“Did you say . . . you cheated at hearts? Like the card game?”
“No, not cards. I mean—” No longer feeling the need to cry, I skootched back. I was slurring my words, and having my face pressed against her neck likely made me hard to hear. “Here’s what happened, okay? I was in love with this man the whoooooole time”—I flung my arm through the air—“I was married to Ben. But it’s complicated because Ben married me at fifteen, saying it was—”
“Fifteen?!”
“Wait, lemme finish. He did it to help keep me safe from my father, okay? And we weren’t married married. Whatever, it’s a long story. But the important part, while I was secretly married to Ben, but everyone thought we were just engaged, this man I loved—let’s call him B—Barney—and I met at a hotel and talked, and kissed, and—just the one time, but that wasn’t at the hotel—we made out.”
“Holy macaroni!”
“I know! And so Barney wanted me to leave Ben. But then I wouldn’t—I was scared, my father is one scary sonofabitch and if I didn’t have the protection of Ben’s family, well, badness. And I owed Ben. I owed him, I owed him, I owed him and I was going to what? And plus, in a way, did I love Ben? So stable, saying I could be better despite him also just doing whatever he wanted without regard to my feelings”—I flung my hand in the air again—“just assuming and feeling entitled all the time. What an ass, right? I was confused and dumb and nineteen. Nineteen!”
“Uh—”
“And Barney, the man I met in secret, he got really angry and gave me the cold shoulder treatment and now it turns out he had a goat on that shoulder. And did I blame him? I wasn’t angry at him. I knew I was to blame. I was the problem. I’m always the problem!”
“Claire, are you sure you want to talk about this? This seems very personal. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you’re sober?”
“If I wait until I’m sober, then I’ll be too chickenshit—not wanting to be a burden—to say anything, and now you know, so please ask me about it when I’m sober so I’ll be forced to tell a coherent version of the story.”
“I’m having trouble following the story.”
I barely heard her. “Plus, I haven’t even gotten to the worst parts yet, which is his momma found out and asked me to stay away, and she was right. She was so right. I’d made her sad, disappointed her. I stayed away. And then Billy—wait, I mean Barney—shows up at my house the night before my ‘official’ wedding to Ben and—after kissing the hell outta me—demands I leave with him, totally caveman style, which caused our first big blowout, rip-roaring fight, which we’ve been having basically every single time we see each other since. The end.”
“Uh, I—”
“Wait, no. That’s not the end. I forgot to say, Ben died and I felt so guilty and ashamed—like, legit hated myself, deep, unhealthy, illogical, brainwashed BS—that I avoided Billy for years.” I pointed at the sky and had no idea why I pointed at the sky. “But then he got engaged and I avoided him because of that too. And then it turns out he’s not really engaged, but he is, or he sorta is, but it’s fake—or is it? And he still wants to be with me as of Christmas, except he lied to me about Duane and Beau being my brothers—he knew the whole damn time!—and I don’t know if I can trust him. And the only person I’ve slept with in my entire life is my husband who I have very conflicted feelings about because I wasn’t ready to have sex but I felt obligated, and that’s a giant mess. Now, this is the end. The end.”
The Siennas were quiet, seemingly requiring several seconds to process this landfill of information. Or maybe my words had been so garbled she thought I was having a seizure. Or maybe I was dreaming all this and I was still back at home in Nashville, asleep.
But then I sensed and sorta saw her gather a deep breath before saying, “Please tell me you’re in therapy.”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Claire?”
I blinked around the table, shaking myself, discovering several sets of eyes on me. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The chicken.” Jethro motioned to the vicinity of my arm and I glanced down, the platter of chicken at my elbow.
“Uncle Duane wants you to please pass the chicken, Miss Claire,” l
ittle Benjamin said, stitching everything together for me.
“Oh, yes, sorry.” I grabbed the platter and lifted, setting it in Jethro’s outstretched hands. “Here you go.”
He frowned-smiled, this was the face Jethro made when he was concerned, and passed the chicken down the table to Duane. My attention shifted to Jess and Duane; they were both giving me soft looks. I doubted Sienna had told Jethro, Duane, or Jess about my drunken confession session. Yet clearly, my introspective mood had been noticed.
At the far end of the table, Jess’s parents and Maya paid me no mind, concentrating on Andrew—Sienna and Jet’s second son, who was sitting on Maya’s lap—and Liam, who Janet James held in her arms.
Sensing someone’s lingering attention, I glanced at Sienna. She pointed her warm, compassionate smile at me, and so I dropped my eyes to my plate, sinking a smidge lower in my seat.
Drunk on a hill in Tuscany, I’d spilled my guts to my shero (she + hero) last night. I was pretty sure I remembered her saying something about me spouting brainwashed BS. Or maybe I’d said that? Thank goodness I hadn’t told her the man I’d cheated with was none other than Billy Winston. That would’ve made dinner—when he was finally able to come downstairs—super awkward.
I hadn’t talked to her since the confession session. It’s not that I’d been lazing about, avoiding her. More like I’d been incredibly busy cooking and holding my nephew and avoiding her.
Most folks considered me an especially easygoing person, and this was true. I had trouble taking myself too seriously. When you believe your own opinion is suspect, there’s not much point in putting a lot of time or energy into it. As such, after leaving Billy’s room yesterday morning and having a good cry in the wine cellar, I told myself to get over it.
I’d made my house of guilt, I’d built it, if I didn’t like the termites and rats and crumbling foundation, then that was what therapy was for. I was working on dismantling my house of guilt and that’s all I could do.
But yesterday, my options were staying in the wine cellar and weeping or baking something yummy, like cookies. Baking cookies would contribute to the happiness and well-being of everyone in the household, whereas I was fairly certain no one wanted to taste my tears.
