by Sydney Logan
It was a little of both, actually.
Monica had been my best friend for nearly a decade. We’d been inseparable throughout college and she’d stood by my side when my grandmother passed away. She’d been my life raft during the most traumatic experience of my adult life, and I would always be grateful for her friendship.
Despite all of that, it was obvious Monica and I were two very different people now.
Maybe we always had been.
“Were you always this negative?”
Monica laughed. “Good morning to you, too. Am I negative?”
“I think so.”
“I think I’m a realist. I don’t have that sensitive maternal gene most women are born with. I don’t have the ability to sugar coat. You’ve always known this about me. Nothing has changed, Sarah.”
“I’ve changed.”
Monica’s eyes swept over my face.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “You’re strong. You’re happy. You’re in love with a man who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet for you.”
I laughed softly.
“You yelled at me last night.” Her tone was quiet and proud.
“I’m not apologizing for that.”
“I don’t expect you to, but I need to apologize to you. I was out of line, but you have to know it came from a sincere place.”
“I do know that.”
“You love your students,” Monica murmured gently, “and it’s a wonderful thing. It’s amazing your students feel so comfortable with you. When I was a kid, I never would’ve gone to a teacher’s house for Halloween, and I certainly wouldn’t have shared my darkest secrets with one. Your connection to your students is something I’ve always admired about you.”
Monica sighed heavily and reached for my hand.
“I just know you so well, Sarah. If the shit hits the fan—and I really pray it doesn’t—you’re going to want to help this kid. That’s who you are. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
We shared a hug before she headed upstairs to grab her suitcase. I had no idea if Monica would ever come back to Sycamore Falls. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t. I wasn’t sure our friendship could survive another visit like this one.
Suddenly, Lucas opened the door and peeked inside.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. She just went to get her suitcase.”
Lucas glanced over his shoulder. “Umm . . . you need to come outside, Sarah.”
I was instantly suspicious. “Why?”
Monica reappeared then, and Lucas offered to carry her suitcase as he ushered us outside. The morning sun was blinding, but I barely noticed it.
“Holy crap,” Monica whispered.
Billowy streams of white hung from the branches of every tree in my yard.
“Someone rolled my house!”
Rolling houses was a Halloween tradition in Sycamore Falls. In our early teens, Aubrey and I used to save our allowances all summer just to stock up on toilet paper for the fall. We only got caught once, and that was because Tommy’s truck ran out of gas right in front of the preacher’s house.
Sunday’s church service had been awkward, to say the least.
“You’re happy about this?” Monica asked in disbelief.
My eyes roamed my front yard. Nothing had avoided the toilet paper attack. My shrubs, my mailbox . . . even the porch swing was intricately woven with white.
“I’m ecstatic! Didn’t they do a great job? They even wrapped the swing!”
Even Lucas was looking at me strangely.
“It’s a Halloween tradition,” I explained. “It’s . . . acceptance.”
Monica’s eyes were wide. “It’s a freaking mess.”
I shrugged and smiled like a lunatic. Sighing, Monica asked for her camera.
“Sarah, you should go get yours, too,” she said with a grin. “This is a Kodak moment.”
Chapter 19
“Where is it?”
Hundreds of cookbooks from a hundred different churches were tossed haphazardly around the room. On the table. Along the counters. In the floor. I think one had actually fallen into the sink.
I was dangerously close to tears.
To say Grandma Grace loved cookbooks was a colossal understatement. She especially loved church cookbooks, and every church within a fifty-mile radius was well aware of her obsession. They had always called once a year to ask if she’d like to purchase their latest edition.
She’d always said yes.
Baptist. Presbyterian. Methodist. Catholic. Episcopalian. Some I couldn’t even pronounce. They were all represented, and Grandma had been proud of the fact that her cookbook shelf was so non-denominational.
The cookbook from Saint Michael’s Catholic Church contained a recipe for cornbread stuffing she’d loved to make every Thanksgiving. I had no idea if the recipe differed from any others, but it was my grandma’s favorite, and I wanted to make it for Lucas’s parents.
Naturally, it was the one cookbook I couldn’t find.
I would be meeting my boyfriend’s parents in five days. I’d also be cooking Thanksgiving dinner and offering them my spare bedroom.
No pressure at all.
“This was your idea,” I reminded myself as I dug deeper behind the shelf, praying the book had somehow fallen behind it.
It hadn’t.
Defeated, I sat down in the middle of the cookbook chaos and buried my face in my hands.
“Sarah?”
Sighing softly, I lifted my head to find him standing in my doorway. The concern etched across his face only amplified when his eyes swept over my kitchen.
“What happened?”
“I can’t find a cookbook,” I answered timidly. Saying it aloud was a little embarrassing. It sounded ridiculous even to my own ears.
His brow furrowed in confusion as he examined the pile of books surrounding me.
“I can’t find a specific cookbook.”
Nodding slowly, he navigated through the maze of books and joined me on the floor. Sliding his arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close to his side as I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“You’re stressing about this dinner, aren’t you?”
I considered lying, but what was the point? One look at my kitchen proved I was close to having a nervous breakdown.
“It has to be perfect,” I whispered.
Lucas laughed softly.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. My mother is terrible in the kitchen. You could serve ham sandwiches and it would be better than anything she could ever make.”
He grabbed one of the nearby cookbooks and glanced at the cover.
“Amish Cooking?”
I shrugged. “Grandma loved cookbooks. It didn’t matter the religion. It was all ‘fruit for the spirit,’ she used to say.”
He chuckled quietly and tossed the cookbook back into the pile.
“So, what’s so special about this particular cookbook you can’t find?”
Sheepishly, I told him about my grandma’s cornbread stuffing recipe. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete lunatic, but this was important to me.
“Sarah, my parents won’t know the difference between homemade stuffing and Stove Top straight out of the box.”
“It’s tradition. I can’t serve boxed stuffing in my grandma’s kitchen.”
Lucas smiled softly and kissed my forehead.
“All right, what does this cookbook look like?”
We spent the next half-hour rummaging through the cookbooks and putting them back on the shelf. I’d completely given up hope when Lucas said my name. My head snapped up, and he triumphantly pulled the cookbook from Saint Michael’s out of the sink.
Squealing, I raced toward him and leapt into his arms. We both laughed, and he gently placed me, and the cookbook, on top of the island. Stepping between my legs, he smiled up at me as I clutched his shoulders.
“Thank you, Lucas.�
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“You’re welcome, baby.” He nuzzled my neck before kissing me softly. My hands slid down his chest as a quiet moan escaped his throat.
“You should be rewarded,” I whispered against his lips.
I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth before he lifted me off the island and rushed me up the stairs.
“She would’ve loved you.”
Curled up in his arms, my back was pressed against his chest as he brushed kisses along my bare shoulder. We’d spent the entire afternoon in bed, which was becoming our favorite weekend activity.
“Who?”
“My grandma.”
Lucas’s arms tightened around me.
“And my mother . . . she and my dad had this fairytale marriage. He just adored her, and she’d always told me to never settle for anything less. You would have been my parents’ dream come true.”
Overcome with emotion and needing to see his handsome face, I twisted around in his arms. His expression was soft and sweet as he toyed with a strand of my hair.
“I really love you, Lucas.”
Smiling, he pushed the tendril behind my ear. “I really love you, too.”
I rested my head against his chest.
“I wish I could’ve met your family, Sarah.”
“Me too.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Are you nervous about meeting mine?”
“Nervous is a mild understatement.”
“You shouldn’t be.” His fingers drifted through my hair, soothing my anxiety. “My mother already thinks you walk on water.”
I looked up, surprised. “Why would she think that?”
“Because you make me happier than I’ve ever been,” he said, brushing his knuckles along my cheek. “Don’t stress, please. I want us to enjoy our first Thanksgiving together. And, maybe if it goes well, you won’t mind inviting them back for Christmas.”
“Or we could go to New York,” I suggested, and I was surprised how excited I was by the idea. “I bet the city is really beautiful at Christmastime.”
“Or New Year’s Eve. We could brave Times Square.”
It seemed so natural, the two of us making plans for the holidays. Plans for the future. I hadn’t had the courage to make plans in so long, but somehow, it didn’t feel strange.
It felt hopeful.
Was it okay to feel hopeful?
“Hey,” Lucas whispered gently. “Come back to me.”
He knew me so well. He could tell when I was overanalyzing and looking for trouble where there was none. It was a habit of a lifetime, and one I desperately wanted to break.
I wanted to enjoy these moments.
I wanted to trust these moments.
“I’m here,” I promised him.
To prove it, I crawled into his lap, pressing my chest to his as my arms encircled his neck. I whimpered softly when his hands settled along my hips, tugging me closer. Nose to nose, his warm breath washed over my face.
“I love making plans with you.”
His eyes brightened. “That’s very good to hear, because I have so many plans for us.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
I was just about to ask him to enlighten me, but his lips were suddenly on mine, effectively ending any need for conversation.
At school, the days leading up to Thanksgiving break were a living nightmare. First semester final exams were coming up after the holiday and the basketball season was just getting underway. With our football season ending on a dismal note, everyone was eager to focus on another sport, and Aubrey was glad to have her husband home at night.
Thanks to the comments on the newspaper’s website, Matt’s private life was now a constant topic of conversation among the students, and to my great disappointment, the members of the faculty. There had been multiple reports of harassment several times each day, but the administration seemed unable, and simply unwilling, to get involved.
No one was surprised when Patrick denied posting the derogatory comment to the Tribune’s website, but plenty of underclassmen were happy to take the credit. Patrick was considered a hero among many of the students, and his supporters were more than willing to take credit to keep him from having to defend himself. Of course, so many kids took the blame it was impossible for the real culprit to be punished.
Regardless, Matt came to school every day, and it was only in his creative writing assignments that I was able to get a true glimpse of the treatment he was receiving by his classmates. Writing was his way of keeping me informed—just as he’d promised—without having to snitch on anyone. Tattling would only make things harder on him, and he knew it.
I read his stories at night—when I was safe in Lucas’s arms—so that I could cry in the privacy of my home. The instances of verbal and emotional abuse he described were worse than any of the physical.
So far.
By the time Wednesday arrived, my nerves were completely shot, which wasn’t good at all considering I was meeting Lucas’s parents the next day. I had to get it together, at least for the long weekend. Their approval was far too important to me, and I refused to embarrass Lucas by being my usual emotional mess.
With only one class left for the day, I thought I was holding myself together pretty well. Then, during my planning period, I overheard Shellie gossiping at the copy machine, and my head nearly exploded.
“They say he has a boyfriend over in Bradley County,” Shellie whispered loudly to a couple of science teachers.
“His poor parents must be horrified,” Mr. Jennings said with a shake of his head.
“I hear they’re going to ask him to leave the church,” Mrs. Crosby muttered softly. “Can they do that?”
I’d heard enough.
“If the three of you are finished gossiping, please move aside so I can make copies for my next class.”
Three heads pivoted in my direction—all of them looking a little too smug for my liking. Only Mrs. Crosby’s eyes softened when she realized it was me.
“Oh, Sarah, this must be upsetting . . . what with everything that happened to you in Memphis.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of that,” Mr. Jennings grunted. “Our little town is supposed to be immune from . . .”
Rage flooded me. “Hatred? No, Mr. Jennings, I’m sorry to say you can find it just about anywhere. Even at the copy machine!”
“Is there a problem?”
Tommy and Principal Mullins were both standing at the door, looking between the three of us with shocked expressions. I’m sure they were surprised. I wasn’t normally a screamer.
Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath to control my voice.
“Yes, there is a problem,” I replied stiffly, looking him straight in the eye. “Our faculty and staff are quite capable of standing around the copier and gossiping about Matt Stuart, but no one seems to want to do anything to protect him.”
Principal Mullins glanced at Shellie and the other teachers who were standing there with their mouths agape.
“Miss Bray, why don’t we discuss this in my office?”
I was fuming.
“Gladly.”
The secretary watched us with wide eyes as we followed each other into the office. Tommy closed the door and the principal offered me a chair.
“Sarah, we’re doing everything we can,” Tommy said quietly.
I eyed him curiously. “Really? What are we doing?”
“Well, I’ve asked Howie to keep an eye on him while they’re at school.”
“It’s not Howie’s job to protect a student!”
“Miss Bray.” Principal Mullins looked bored and fiddled with the pen in his hand. “We are truly doing everything possible, but I’m afraid our hands are tied.”
That was such bullshit.
“Matt Stuart is being bullied every day in this school. Every single day! Either verbally or physically . . .”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because he tells
me.”
His smile was indulgent as he leaned back in his chair. “And you believe him?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Why would he lie?”
He shrugged. “Attention?”
“Do you think he asked someone to slash his tires?” My voice harsher than it should be when talking to the boss. “Did he beg the defensive line to knock his books out of his hands on the way to class every single day this week?” My eyes shot to Tommy. “Your players, by the way.”
“Sarah, we can’t prove any of those things have happened,” Tommy said resignedly. “Until we have evidence . . .”
My blood ran cold.
“What kind of evidence do you want? Does someone have to get killed before anything gets done? Tommy Bryant, do you even know who you’re talking to?”
“I know about Memphis . . .” he whispered.
“I know you do. Is that what you want to happen here?”
“You know I don’t.”
His voice was tired and hopeless, and it made my skin crawl.
“How many touchdowns has Matt Stuart scored for you?”
“Over the course of his career? One hundred twenty-five,” he answered automatically.
“Did he attend every practice?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love that kid?”
“You know I do, Sarah.”
“Then why the hell aren’t you doing more to protect him?”
Tommy bowed his head, and I knew he was ashamed.
Good.
“Miss Bray,” the principal said quietly, “Matthew Stuart is a gay, eighteen-year-old boy living in Sycamore Falls. If you expect this administration to protect him just because he wants to bring his boyfriend to the prom, then I’m afraid you and he are both going to be very disappointed.”
And that’s when I realized why the principal was doing nothing to protect this boy.
He simply didn’t care.
Tommy raised his head, and his eyes were tortured.
“How he’s living is wrong, Sarah,” he whispered.
“So this is what he deserves?”
“I didn’t say that!”
I closed my eyes and took a long, steadying breath.
