by Billie Dale
“What?” I respond, feeling the heat of Joey’s body hovering behind me.
Creeden glares over my shoulder. “Can we talk in private for a few minutes, Joey?”
“If I step one foot back inside, Thing One or Thing Two will happily take my place. So, no,” Joey answers.
“I can protect her for five fucking minutes,” Creeden snarks.
“I’ll walk over there.” He points to the end of the deck near the pool cabana. “Say what you need. Five minutes,” he grunts, stomping to the far edge of the wooden railing.
“Preslee,” Creeden grabs my hand, “we can’t let the town figure out we were trying to fool them. Negative public opinion could kill my parents’ diner and I don’t want to be the pariah they crinkle their nose at.”
I remind him how they were going to figure it out when Sam and Mazric were the actual ones who got married. His frown grows deeper as his eyes search mine. “I want more time with you,” he whispers so low I almost miss it. “A real shot to be more,” he half-asks, half-commands. I recoil pulling free of his hold.
A snorting snigger too low for Creeden’s ears sets my teeth on edge. “Oh,” I sigh, glowering at Joey. He leans on the thick oak with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet overlapped, watching the tree line behind the fence, pretending he didn’t hear the conversation. My heart climbs up my throat wanting him to kick up a fuss, but he remains a staunch wall.
Creeden is handsome in an “I love Dungeons and Dragons and live for Comic Con” way. He is fun and smart. In the words of Crosby, Stills and Nash, “If you can’t be with one you love, love the one you’re with…” Well, why the hell not?
I step into Creeden’s personal space, take both his big smooth hands in my small ones, and crank up my best fake smile. “Let’s do it.” His eyes grow saucer wide and a wicked smirk tugs one side of his mouth. “No, no. Not it. At least not yet,” I backpedal, realizing what I said. “Date. I meant we can go out.” Heat swallows my face as I correct my meaning.
His smirk grows to a full straight-toothed smile. He pulls me forward before planting a light kiss to my forehead. Under my ear his chest collapses, exhaling the breath he was holding. “Great. I’ll text you later and we’ll set something up,” he whispers into my hair before releasing me. With hurried spastic steps, he claims he’s needed back at work before rushing inside. He shoots a condescending side-eye to Joey as he goes.
Nervous fizz twists my stomach, filling me with jitters. I call out to Joey, signaling we’re done. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him, I chant, refusing to lose my I-gotta-date high. My hand pauses on the hooped knob and for a split second I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
Hot breath raises the baby hairs on the back of neck. The heat of him surrounds me and his clean scent swirls with the crisp air. Energy buzzes around us, so intense I swear I can hear it crackling.
If I rock on my heels, my back would meet his chest. His arms would ring my waist and with the barest of movement his lips could trace the column of my neck. My thighs tense as a twinge of want flickers through my core.
When we dated there were many young love arguments. Stupid tiffs fueled by inexperience and overzealous drama queen teenage girls. My go-to reaction during these spells of immaturity was to stomp away so Joey wouldn’t see my insecurities or tears. A defense mechanism to keep my mask in place. After enough spats, and I must admit there were a ton, Joey refused to let me flee. Before I’d bolt, he’d appear behind, keeping his hand on the door, preventing my escape. There were whispered apologies or pleas for my words spoken with softness along the shell of my ear, but he never touched me. Our feet stayed rooted in place for however it took for the anger to fade and logic to kick in.
Yes, I started most of our fights. Some girl batted her eyes at Joey or laughed while talking to him, a rumor floated how he flirted with someone else. Hell, at times I think my head created reasons. Looking back, I understand my self-doubt chipped away our bond. I couldn’t believe it then, but he was mine. Lock, stock, and barrel Josiah Carter Holmes, even at sixteen, wanted nothing more than me.
When my common sense picked apart the feud and I wanted us past the turmoil I’d yell, “Trust fall.” Without hesitation, I threw myself backward. The first time he stumbled, we slammed on the floor, but he used his body to soften mine. Whatever we were fighting over vanished in our laughter. From that point on when our tempers rose, words flew, and my feet fled, he stayed at my heels. The storm cooled and I fell. He caught me every time.
The words sit heavy on the tip of my tongue. His closeness so reminiscent of those innocent days. I wonder if this time he will let me crash to the ground.
“Don’t say it,” whispers with stone coldness in my ear. His hand engulfs mine, twists the knob, and flips open the door.
Before my head alerts my heart how we lost our safety net, the sound of fast-moving feet and the shouted word Daddy slams the present into place.
Twenty-Four
Preslee
Jasmina promises Sammy Lee’s dress can be ready in three weeks. Ready, set, shift my bestie into Bridezilla. No, not really. There isn’t an haute pretentious bone in Samantha Gentry’s body… now Mazric’s momma, Carrie Lynn, is a whole different animal. After hours spent trolling Google on perfect places to exchange vows, I found one who specializes in destination weddings.
For days she arrived at my house fuming over specifics. At my wits’ end, I fed her to my aunt and grandmother. Even they needed reinforcements bringing in Joey’s mom, Amanda. Sammy floated on cloud nine, while my job was to keep her future mother-in-law off the ledge.
Carrie hated feeling obsolete. Sammy wasn’t exaggerating when she said Carrie went crazy with the preparations. When her son announced the change in plans, he stuck dynamite in his mother’s craw and lit the fuse.
My reprieve came in the form of texts from Creeden and full-on bitch sessions as I hid in my brother’s room. Hendrix is the only person who kept me from throwing up my hands and screaming for Carrie Lynn to suck it.
Creeden is understanding, but he’s growing tired of my cancelling our date because of another fire started by Carrie. She’s a one-woman Category 5 waiting to destroy.
First, she raged over Jasmina making the dress until I showed her pictures of how gorgeous it is. Next, she complained about our decision to purchase a cake instead of using her homemade one. I calmed her with assurances the hotel would cook up whatever Sam wanted. If I remind her one more time how this is about Sam and Mazric, I swear I’ll pull out my hair.
Mazric chartered two jets instead of the discussed one. We decided the wedding party should arrive a week before the actual ceremony. I made sure Carrie Lynn was on the latter.
Spring had indeed sprung, but in true Kentucky fashion the mild temperature lasted a few days before climbing to boiling hot along with my temper. Stress eating became my favorite pastime. I swear the only thing spreading in the plantation is the size of my ass. We fly out in a week. Which is far too many more hours spent with Mazric’s mother.
She’s pacing behind me, complaining how the flowers are all wrong and the atrocious combination of rose petals and orchids will stink of death and funeral homes. Plus, the ocean will pollute it all with its salty fish stench.
We are on a freaking beach for fuck’s sake. Outside, where the wind blows and if it reeks, no one will notice. The hotel planner promises these fragrances are popular on the island and balance each other.
With the tight timeline, she grows more neurotic daily. I don’t understand. Call it PMS or a psychotic break, but I’m done. All my tongue biting and teeth grinding boil to a head and as I’m seconds from going all atom bomb on her, the door bangs open.
Cash Holmes races through the foyer, colliding with my legs. The force of his small body unbalances me. His arms ring my hips and my hand lands on the top of his head to steady my feet. His floppy strands tangle around his flushed face. “Elvis!” he cheers, peering up at me with big bright eyes. “You
gotta go with us.”
Joey’s slow steps clomp on the floor until he stands in the opening between rooms. His hair, longer on top than it was a month ago, sticks out in a windblown mess. A black tee stretches across his chest, the color broken by the gold badge embroidered over his left pec and the leather straps of his shoulder holster. Dark denim dips low on his hips, defying gravity by the sheer will of a brown belt. Faded swaths cut through the blue, accentuating the strength of his thighs with each step forward and the bottoms bunch around thick-soled black work boots. The sunbeams streaming from the far bank of windows highlight the blond and bronze streaking his hair. The same haloing light shines on Cash.
If I weren’t transfixed watching his entrance, I would miss his gaze climbing my body. The warm weather means finally wearing one of the few strapless sundresses I brought with me. In Cali, these were my standard wardrobe the few times I hung out with friends. The temperature in the Golden State ranges from chilled to scorching in a matter of hours. These dresses with a cardigan coverup work best. Anyone who spends time in California learns you dress in layers, easily peeled off through the day.
Thus far my big boobs flip off sagging gravity, might as well wear the shit out of them while they still point up. Right? Right.
Two weeks ago, Asia Demarco helped me take back my natural hair color. Trusting the woman who plagued my teen years with bullying to touch me took a lot of convincing on Sammy and Mazzy’s part. She added shaggy layers to frame my face and warned me to never dye my hair dark again.
Since my days consist of dealing with drama, which leads to episodes of rubbing my fist in my eyes to keep from punching out a certain monster-in-law to-be, I took to wearing my glasses to keep from scratching my irises with a cracked contact. Today my navy dress with tiny white flowers matches the thick ivory frames of my glasses.
His perusal pauses on my chest, imperceptibly his tongue wets his lips. Higher he climbs until he reaches my hair. “Sunflower,” he groans under his breath, but in a flash he’s back to brooding. The hint of lust is enough to start a tango dance off between the rush of my heart and butterflies in my stomach.
Pat on the back for my outfit choice. Thank you ample cleavage, small waist, and flared cellulite hiding skirt.
Glancing between father and son, I ask, “Where is it I need to go?”
“It’s new bike gettin’ day. I need a…” he scratches his head, “…what did you say to tell her, Daddy?” Joey’s eyebrows draw to a severe V. His mouth scrunches and pink sweeps his cheekbones.
He scratches the back of his neck, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Cash,” he grumbles.
Cash does the kid snap—no sound, only air—with an emphatic arm swing. “Oh right. I need a woman’s opinion. Yeah, Dad?” His tiny feet shuffle with hyperactivity, as he blinks pride fills bright eyes and he aims a wide cherubic smile waiting for his father to praise his words. The innocence of his age shines in his missing front teeth and ruddy round cheeks.
“Shit,” Joey groans and the curse melts Cash’s grin. I can’t say why Joey used his son as a ploy, but watching the red overtake his face proves it’s true. No way will I let this sedate Cash’s excitement.
“Yes!” I clap my hands. “My opinion is crucial in all things bike buying.” I grip his sticky hand in mine and we skip to where my purse sits. With the strap slung on my shoulder, I flip a pointed look back at Joey. “Come on, old man. There is a BMX out there with Cash Holmes’s name on it.” Carrie stands in the doorway aghast, because I’m leaving when there is so much still undecided—her words. A litany of responses huddle behind my lips, none nice.
“Miss Carrie, I gotta have Elvis with me. Dad says so,” Cash says, throwing Joey under the bus.
Carrie huffs, “Fine,” pushing past us out the door.
Joey shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, looking all kinds of guilty. I don’t call him out on it; instead I release Cash, readying my arms at my hips. “Race ya,” I shout, lunging for the door. My nonexistent legs burn and despite his being shorter, the kid is quick. He blows me a raspberry when he breezes by. The sound of his high giggle echoes in the wind. Too focused on beating the six-year-old I don’t see my destination, instead I zero in on the red lights blinking on Cash’s shoes. Breathless and panting, my hands drop to my knees. Cash chides my slowness. When I stand, I falter at the sight in front of me.
Joey’s white Jeep Wrangler with a huge sunflower painted on the back.
A chunk of my heart rips. He skimped and saved for this vehicle. It was a giant piece of junk we spent more time sitting in with top off than driving. I learned how to replace an alternator, radiator, and starter that summer. While Joey rebuilt the engine and transmission, I painted his nickname for me on the back. We shared our last summer with the hardtop off, speeding down the winding country roads around Seven Mile Forge.
Then it seemed held together by rust, but what I see in my drive is pristine. “She’s still gorgeous, right?” Joey’s voice hums in my ear. I twist gaping up at him, prepared to agree but he’s not focused on the truck, he’s staring at me.
Too close. Too real. ABORT! my mind screams, but my body refuses to move.
I remember when I painted the large golden flower with brown accents on the back, lovingly naming this new-to-him hunk of scrap Sunny Boy. Joey hated the stretching bloom, claiming it challenged his man-card. I clocked too many hours helping fix the damn thing so the tailgate corner belonged to me. Art of any kind was forever my passion. From the time I could hold a crayon, I created. But the life of a starving artist never appealed and stood in the way of my lofty ambitions to help the children of the world.
Coloring inside the lines became clothing design. Sketchbooks lined my bookshelf at the plantation. Each filled with ideas and dreams.
If I could talk to my sixteen-year-old self, I’d warn becoming a painter isn’t the goal that will fail. Makeup and hair were my passion, sitting at my vanity teasing Sammy Lee about her plain face. But it was never how I envisioned my life. I may be great at what I do and the anti-aging cream could fill my bank account, but my endgame is still rolling out my line of clothes.
When you learn children you loved, ones you called friends, froze to death in deplorable conditions or succumb to violent disease from bug bites; you’re driven to want. You want to save them. You want to help them. You want to keep other children from suffering their fate.
No, stitching resistant fabric into something wearable won’t place food in the belly of a starving kid, but it might let them live long enough to find a better way.
In this spot with my history colliding with my present, I hate how I gave up but this Jeep or one identical to it was our freedom, our proof how with hard work and heart the old saying is true; anything is possible.
“Josiah Holmes, you hated my damn flower why in Hades did you repaint it?” I admonish, fighting to keep my words steady.
He slays me with a lopsided grin. “Didn’t want to paint over it. Figured it’d be worth a mint someday when you struck it big.”
It takes more than a minute for his words to bounce around my brain. While my cranial bits work it out, I meander mindlessly to the back of the vehicle. Parts of the large petals shine a brighter yellow as though someone took care to touch up where stray rocks chipped it away. The once vibrant neon faded to a more muted tone from sun, washing, and time.
Adjusting my glasses on my nose, I bend to study the mahogany brown center. There it is, circling the edge of the petals.
PMC
+
JCH
FOREVER
My teenage declaration of always is hidden in secret within the multiple disc flowers which make up the seeded core.
The air becomes too thick to breathe and I can’t pull in enough to fill my lungs. After a billion short pants, I find my words. “How? Why? How?” Okay, so declaring I found my words is a bit of an exaggeration. Rust and duct tape held this thing together and it was not worth the money i
t would take to make it this pretty.
“I had a lot of time on my hands while I fought addiction. Sunny Boy helped.” He shrugs, but when he meets my eyes, I see want edged with torment. I move forward, needing to erase the hurt and feed the heat. Toe to toe with a hairsbreadth separating our chests, the horn blares.
“Let’s go,” Cash yells, bouncing out of the front seat.
The curtain closes over Joey’s softness and his stone mask slips in place. His lips thin and he shakes his head before nodding for me to climb in.
Our dance continues. Two steps forward and three steps back.
Twenty-Five
Joey
Ebony pools with a shock of electric blue near the pupil reflect the color of her dress. Vibrant as the deepest part of the ocean. I’m drowning in their depth. I hated the auburn hair but now the honey wheat, gold, butterscotch, and pale strands stop my damn heart.
“Sunflower.” The word rolls silent off my tongue, socking me in the chest with the power of a hammer.
Take away the random color she dyed the ends and the minute she stepped in our classroom, all those years ago, her multicolored head reminded me of the sunflowers my mom loved to grow. Later it became her nickname and part of how I made her mine.
The heat of the sun and whispering wind carries sweet peppermint and the decadent temptation of chocolate in swirls around my head. What would she do if I yanked her over the stick shift to my lap? Would she soften like she used to when my lips touch her collarbone? My hands under her dress, holding her grinding hips, while I overdose on her scent.
