Imperfect Love Story

by Rachael Brownell

  “We have to head back home, Chloe. Your mother’s started to make arrangements for Carmen. She’ll be here within a few weeks to help you with anything you need. In the meantime, you have a doctor’s appointment next week. Your mother will be back to take you.

  “While she’s here, she’s going to help you get set up for classes. Carmen will bring your car when she comes down. If you need anything in the meantime, all you have to do is call.”

  “Right. Sounds great, Joseph.”

  “What have I told you about calling me that?”

  Rolling my eyes, I don’t bother to answer him. He pulls me in for a hug, promising that everything is going to be okay. What the hell does he know about it? He’s not the one being abandoned right now.

  “We’ll call you when we get home.”

  Watching out the window, I count to ten before I rush to my new phone and dial the first number that comes to mind. It took all night, but I was finally able to remember the last four digits.

  Garrett’s Auto.

  My phone makes a strange beeping noise.

  “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

  Okay, maybe I dialed wrong. Ten attempts later tell me that I haven’t dialed wrong.

  A quick Google search gives me the number for Fairview Tavern. The beeping noise continues to haunt me as I try to call any place in Fairview that I can find a number to.

  This has to be my parent’s handy work. Can they actually block me from being able to call an entire town?

  Sliding to the floor, I count the number of people that I can talk to on one hand.

  The number of people who know about my situation, that are privy to be a part of it. These are the only people that are in my circle. For now.

  They’re also the only numbers programmed into my new phone.

  Mom, Dad, and Carmen.

  I will tell someone. Someday.

  Someone I trust. Someone who will listen to me vent.

  My goal is to make that number four. I need at least one person on my side.

  Taking the same seat I use to occupy at family dinner, I place my napkin in my lap and wait for my parents to be served. No one speaks until after my father says grace. There are some things I’ll never forget.

  “Amen,” my father breathes heavily. That was the longest prayer I’ve ever hear him speak. He thanked God for everyone in his life, for bringing me home safely, and asked for clear skies for the party.

  I really doubt God is going to go out of his way to grant him good weather, but whatever.

  “So, Chloe. When are Lola and Carmen going to be arriving?” my mother asks as she delicately cuts her chicken breast.

  “They should be here tomorrow, early afternoon probably. Carmen is planning on leaving after breakfast.”

  “That’s perfect,” she chimes. “We have brunch plans with the Hanson’s tomorrow, so we should be home when they arrive. Did you bring the dress I sent you?”

  The soft pink sundress that looks like it was meant for a teenager? No, I didn’t bring the dress she sent me. I even told her that I didn’t like it and was planning on returning it.

  “I took it back to the store last week, Mother.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. I thought it would look fantastic on you. What did you bring that would be acceptable for brunch tomorrow?”

  “I didn’t realize I was invited. Why don’t you go without me and I’ll make sure to say hello to the Hanson’s at the party? That way, if Lola gets here early, I’ll be waiting.”

  “She’s with Carmen, dear. That won’t be necessary. Plus, I know Josh would love to see you and catch up. You know, he’s starting medical school this fall.”

  Josh Hanson.

  My ex-boyfriend.

  The one who left me in the dark parking lot. The guy who let a skank into his truck that night all because I wouldn’t open my legs for him. I guess I should say thank you. If he hadn’t been such a jackass, I never would have met Wyatt.

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “I don’t think your mother was asking, Chloe.” My father’s voice echoes through the room, the deep boom of his voice catching me off guard.

  “Josh was asking about you last time he was home,” my mother continues. “He’s going to be in Denver for school. I was thinking you two might be able to see each other every now and then.”

  Nodding like a good child would when they have nothing nice to say, I shove a bite of food in my mouth while my mother rambles on about how amazing my ex is. He’s successful. He’s handsome. He’s smart and funny.

  Does she also know he’s a chauvinistic pig? That he treated me like shit for most of our relationship? That I would never let him touch me again?

  No, she knows nothing about any of that and even if I told her, I have a feeling she wouldn’t believe a word I said. As I listen to her tell me about how perfect he is, her true intentions come to light.

  Me being allowed to come home after all these years.

  The fact that she wanted Lola to come but not with me, later. Tomorrow.

  Josh being in town and conveniently living in Denver now.

  “Is this a setup?” I ask, interrupting my mother’s raving.

  “No, dear. Of course not. It’s not like you two don’t know each other.”

  “Mom, tell me the truth. Did you plan the brunch just to get me in the same room as Josh?”

  My mother looks to my father and when he nods, she turns her smile up a notch before meeting my eyes.

  “We just thought that a little nudge in the right direction would help.”

  “Help? Help what?”

  “You know, you aren’t dating anyone. I don’t think you have since you started college so—”

  “I was pregnant!” I scream. “What was I supposed to do? Leave Lola with Carmen and go out and party like a normal twenty-one-year-old? Join a sorority and ignore my responsibilities as a mother? That’s not who I am. You should know that,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers as I stand and toss my napkin on my plate. This will be the first time I’ve ever left the dinner table without permission. At the moment, I don’t care. “You raised me better.”

  “Chloe Grace,” my father calls after me, but I’m done talking.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I snag my purse off the dresser and lift my window. I’m not as limber as I use to be. What used to be a small jump off the roof to the ground feels like a million feet below.

  Before I can change my mind, I grip my purse and take the leap.

  “Ouch,” I grumble as I push myself to my feet.

  Yep, not as limber. Definitely not as young.

  Next time, I use the front door. I’m sure slamming the door on my parents would feel much better than the pain in my shoulder right now. I need a drink.

  6

  Jones

  Backtracking into town, I pull into the only open spot in front of Fairview Tavern. Shutting off my car, I stare up at the old building. I love the architecture. It’s unique. It has character. The buildings in Denver don’t have any of the charm you find in small towns like Fairview. They’re modern and new, flashy. I prefer the classics.

  Slowly making my way to the front door, my hands begin to shake when I reach for the handle.

  I can do this. I’m strong enough.

  It’s not like he’s going to be standing on the other side of the door when I open it. I can’t imagine he still spends his afternoons here. We’re not kids anymore.

  Opening the door, I’m met with a wave of nostalgia as I step over the threshold. At eighteen, the Tavern use to be our hangout after school. Wyatt and I would come down here, work on homework, grab dinner and visit with his mom and sister, both of whom worked here back then. I sure as hell hope they don’t work here anymore.

  The door opens behind me, forcing me further into the bar. As if on auto-pilot, I head towards “our” table in the back corner. Stopping myself before I reach it, I look around, admiring t
he changes that have been made in my absence.

  Fresh paint. New wood flooring. The bar has been relocated, creating a better flow through the small space. There’s even a line of booths along the front windows that weren’t there before. That’s when I notice the table next to me.

  New.

  Chairs.

  New.

  Glancing at our table, I realize now how much it stands out from the rest. It’s worn and has a slight tilt to it. The chairs appear just as worn as the table. The one facing me is missing a wooden rung across the bottom.

  My chair.

  Our table.

  The rest of the bar has been updated, improved. Everything except this table. It’s the only thing in the room that can tie me to the bar, to my childhood spent playing footsie with Wyatt as I tried to concentrate on my homework.

  I want to sit in my chair, to see if it still rocks slightly, but I’m not brave enough. Instead, I turn away, the memories causing me to tear up a little, and head toward the bar.

  Sliding onto a vacant stool, the cushion hissing slightly as I get fully seated, I reach for a menu when a hand grabs my wrist, stopping me. Looking up, my fears dissolve away and a smile quickly spreads across my face.

  “Jones!”

  “Chloe, I’d like you to meet Adam Jones.”

  The guy standing next to Wyatt could be his twin. Same height, same build, and same heart-stopping hazel eyes. The only difference I see is the hair. It makes me wonder if he had hair, would it be the same color as Wyatt’s.

  “Call me Jones, everyone else does.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Jones,” I reply. “How do you know Wyatt?”

  The guys share a look and begin laughing at my question. “Isn’t it obvious?” Jones asks.

  “He’s my cousin,” Wyatt offers, sliding up next to me.

  “Willy’s son?” I ask in awe.

  Willy’s a big man. Tall and muscular but also big. He has a presence to him that’s hard to ignore. When you see him in comparison to Kent, they look like exact opposites. You would never guess they were brothers. The fact that Wyatt doesn’t look like either of them led me to believe he looked like his mother.

  Nope.

  After meeting her the first time, I asked him if he was adopted. His sister, Willow, is the spitting image of her mother, right down to the slope of her nose. Wyatt looks like the black sheep of the family. A sexy black sheep, but still a black sheep.

  “Yep.”

  “So you look like your grandpa too,” I state, my eyes connecting with Wyatt’s.

  “It’s funny, I don’t see it, but that’s what they tell me. If you look at pictures of him from when he was younger, you would think you were looking at pictures of Wyatt.” Jones’s explanation causes me to giggle.

  “You do realize that you and Wyatt look like twins, right?” Rubbing his bald head, Jones shrugs his shoulders. “So what’s with the last name if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Oh, my mom was being a bitch when I was born, or so I’m told. My sister Sarah is from her first husband who decided to be an asshole hours after she was born, leaving her to raise Sarah on her own. My mom was worried my dad would pull the same shit, so she refused to give me his last name.”

  Jones directs the conversation away from heavy topics to stories of Wyatt as a child. Up until this point, I was certain you could say anything to him and he was immune to teasing. Not when it comes to Jones. The blush that creeps in his cheeks brings a smile to my face, and Wyatt defends his actions over and over again.

  He really thought burying his plastic army men was necessary when they lost the battle. That goes for his sister’s stuffed animals and Barbie dolls when their heads were somehow ripped off.

  “Enough about me,” Wyatt finally says, standing from the table. “Why don’t we get some food and show Chloe the spot we found the other day. If there’s time, we could catch the matinee at the theater.”

  “Hell yes!” Jones hollers in delight.

  “Watch your mouth, young man,” Wyatt’s mother says as she drops two baskets of fried goodies on the table.

  Becky’s an amazing mom from what I can tell. She doesn’t take shit from either of her children or, apparently, her nephew.

  “Sorry, Aunt Becky,” Jones quickly apologizes as he shoves fries into his mouth, causing his words to be muffled.

  “Where are you three headed to this afternoon?” she inquires, taking the empty chair next to me and reaching for a fried pickle.

  “The guys want to show me some place they found, I guess.” Shrugging my shoulders, I reach for the basket of fries, but Wyatt pulls it away, grinning in triumph until his mom’s words catch him off guard.

  “The kissing hole?” she asks, her question directed at Wyatt.

  “They don’t really call it that, Mom.” Wyatt avoids eye contact with me as his cheeks flush again in embarrassment.

  “My ass they don’t. It’s been called that since I was a kid. Who do you think they named it after?”

  “Ew!” both guys say in unison while Becky and I laugh at the look of disgust on their faces.

  “Keep it PG-13, boys. And Chloe, don’t let them talk you into any funny business. I know they’re cute but they’re not that cute.”

  “Jeez, Mom,” Wyatt whispers as Becky leaves us to finish the food she brought over.

  “So,” I start, waiting for both of them to shove food in their mouth before I continue. “If you two wanted to make out with each other, all you had to do was say so.”

  Wyatt chokes on his food a little as laughter erupts from his chest. Jones on the other hand groans at my comment.

  “I see why you like her now,” he says to Wyatt. “She’s funny, smart, and easy on the eyes. Don’t screw it up or I’ll be behind you to pick up the pieces.”

  As the guys lead me down the path, I get an overwhelming sense of familiarity. Not only have I been here before, but I’ve been here a lot. I normally come through the meadow and walk along the banks of the pond. This way seems to take longer.

  I never knew it was called the kissing hole. When I come down here, I come alone. This is my spot, my special place to escape when shit is on my mind. I’ve never kissed anyone here and until today, I didn’t realize anyone else even knew about this place.

  “What do you think?” Wyatt asks, spreading his arms wide. The pond is crystal clear today, the sun’s rays reflecting across the water.

  “It’s beautiful,” I reply. “Did you know you’re trespassing?”

  “Of course we are, but the nearest house is almost a mile from here. No one will ever know we were here,” Jones dismisses my statement, but when he sees my grin, it’s like a light bulb comes on. “Wait.”

  “Yep,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “No way.”

  “This is my property. In fact, this is my special spot. I’ve been coming here for years. Alone,” I say for emphasis when I see Wyatt’s left eyebrow shoot up.

  “So then we’re not really trespassing,” Jones says, taking a seat on the stump closest to the pond. It took me hours to move that bastard to where it sits now. It weighs ten times as much as I do.

  “Your parents own this property?” Wyatt whispers in my ear as he wraps his arms around me, cradling my back to his chest.

  “Yeah. They own a lot of property.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  This conversation is one that I’ve been trying to avoid having with him. I know his parents work very hard for everything they have. So does Wyatt. Becky manages the Tavern and Kent is a mechanic at Garrett’s with Wyatt. My parents, or rather my father, work hard “managing” his ranch.

  The only difference is the financial aspect.

  It’s a sticky subject for me because when people know your parents have money, they assume you have money. I don’t. Not yet. I have a trust fund like every other kid I know in my “situation.” I can’t touch it and I’m not sure I ever want to.

  “Chloe
, it’s not a big deal. I know your parents do very well for themselves. That’s not why I’m dating you. That’s not why I spend time with you. I like you, not your parents’ money. I hope you see that.”

  Those simple words, the fact that he gets it, makes my heart soar.

  The money’s not mine. It’s not who I am. It doesn’t define me.

  “Okay, lovebirds, knock it off. I’m starting to feel like the third wheel over here,” Jones hollers at us.

  “You?” Wyatt says, feigning offense. “Never.”

  “Shut your trap, asshole. I thought we were going to show her the spot, one she apparently already knew about, and then hit the movies.”

  “Let me kiss my girl first, and then we can go,” Wyatt says, turning me around to face him.

  My cheeks heat instantly, and I wonder if Wyatt can tell I’m nervous. This isn’t our first kiss, far from it. It’s our favorite thing to do. When we’re alone, normally. He’s never kissed me in front of anyone else.

  “It’s just Jones, Chloe. He could care less if we were standing here naked,” Wyatt says as his lips brush against mine. “Well, he could care less if I were naked.”

  Wyatt’s mouth captures my reply and all thoughts of Jones, and being naked, fade away. I get lost in Wyatt, the way his lips, his tongue, know exactly what they’re doing. I feel like I’m still learning the art of kissing, but my teacher is amazing so I’m willing to practice any chance I can get.

  Even if Jones is watching us.

  “Damn, girl. You look amazing!” Jones says.

  “I see you finally grew your hair out,” I reply, reaching over and running my hand across his buzz cut. It looks good on him.

  “And still not funny,” he teases, walking around the bar and pulling me in for a hug.

  When he stiffens in my arms, pulling back quickly, I glance over my shoulder, expecting to find “him” standing there. The only thing I see is a long, dark hallway, the shadow of a man exiting out the back door moments later.