True Divide

by Liora Blake

  An awkward cough leaves his gaping mouth. “I’ll be outside.”

  With that announcement, Cole disappears to the safety of his truck, the front door swooping shut behind him.

  If Cara knew what she was doing with the perfume, she’s oblivious to what just happened here. I vaguely want to give her a speech, tell her to enjoy this space in time, when she barely has to try and a sweet boy who adores her suddenly can’t figure out which end is up because she put some lip gloss on. Lord, it’s a beautiful thing, and there will come a time when she feels like trying is all she’s doing.

  Cara smacks her lips together, takes a look in the mirror on the display, and grins.

  “Oooohhh, I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  That right there is why I like my job. The Beauty Barn is a place where all the things I like, live. Pretty things, products with sparkle, the hope and answer to every beauty flaw in tiny frosted glass jars of creams and serums. On especially slow days, I imagine more here, maybe a full salon with a luxurious wash bar and dedicated space for colorists—even though Crowell probably can’t support a shop that fancy. Hidden in my office, tucked in a desk drawer, is a folder full of magazine clippings that inspire what this humble place might be, if the stars aligned with my astrological sign and gave me the bank account to make it real. It may be a near pipe dream, but it’s mine. But when I save someone from the atrocity of a violet lip gloss that might ruin their young love life, just that is enough.

  Cara pays and skips out the door to a waiting Cole, who opens her truck door and feigns disinterest in her purchases. The goofy smile on his face betrays him, though. If Cara asks him to paint her nails, apply her lip gloss, and spritz his truck with that perfume, he’ll do it.

  Reminiscing over my high school yearbook last night, lingering on the page with Jake Holt’s picture reminded me of what all that feels like. The sensation of wanting someone as much as they want you. The overwhelming feeling that accompanies the first everything.

  But the boy on that yearbook page looked light-years different from the man I saw yesterday, while I remain a carbon copy of my teenage self in so many ways. Then, he was a gangly kid wearing Doc Martens, sporting eyebrow and lip rings, and simmering up with quiet disdain and angst. He was listening to Bright Eyes and Elliott Smith, tossing in a NOFX record when feeling more subversive than usual. I was wearing cheerleading skirts, Ugg boots, and pink velour ensembles that didn’t have “Juicy” emblazoned on the ass, but I wished they did. I was playing a Shania Twain album on repeat.

  Together, we were the personification of every poorly acted teen romantic comedy ever made. Prom queen meets misfit. Good girl meets cynical outcast. For all the things our clothes and music said about who we supposedly were, alone we were so much more. Plus, after a certain point, we were naked with each other a lot, so our disparate taste in clothes didn’t matter much.

  Now, unfortunately, my body is different. My hair, fortunately, is also different. But everything else is the same. I more or less have the same job and live in the same house. Jake went off and got better hair and a suspiciously amazing-looking body, clearly lives someplace other than here, and has a job as a private pilot, for cripe’s sake.

  Most of the night, I was awake, lying in bed and wondering about Jake. Did he jet off already? If he didn’t, where was he staying? Was he in bed thinking about me? Most of all, was he naked or at least shirtless? Because that detail seemed incredibly important to know. A few pictures, undisputable photographic evidence of what lay beneath that starched white dress shirt he was wearing, would be even better.

  By closing time, I’ve busied the rest of the day away doing a new window display and reorganizing the hair products, letting the distraction dim my thoughts about Jake, deciding he must be multiple states away by now. If anything, I know Jake Holt wouldn’t stay in Crowell one second longer than he has to.

  Jake arrived in Crowell halfway through freshman year. When he was ushered into our second-period English class by the school guidance counselor, he was wearing a Flogging Molly ringer tee, some very filthy-looking jeans with a variety of tears, and a dirty black backpack slung over one shoulder with the top of a skateboard sticking out of it. After he was introduced to the class, he proceeded to look right through the entire room as if it were empty, then sat where he was told and said nothing. By lunch, we knew these semifacts about the new kid: he was from Minnesota, his flighty mother—possibly a drug addict, we weren’t sure—had dumped him off to live with his grandmother, and his father (whom Jake had never met) was rumored to be a roadie for a washed-up ’70s acid-rock band.

  By the end of the day, it was decided. Jake Holt was a freak and not be associated with, unless you liked that sort of thing. I, of course, was damn sure I did not.

  Then, all because of a chance late-night drive that ended at a secluded hot spring, Jake and I spent eight months together during our senior year. I wouldn’t even call it dating, because the whole thing was a clandestine matter, hidden away from all the prying eyes of Crowell. Keeping it that way was something unspoken between us, because we both knew that strolling into the school cafeteria holding hands one day would ruin everything. Small towns have a social construct that doesn’t yield easily, so if the prom queen hooks up with the school misfit, all the things that keep people in the right boxes would hail down until we both couldn’t take it.

  He left town the day after graduation, and even though we never talked about after—after school ends, after summer was over—I never thought he would just leave. If it hadn’t been for the twist of fate that Nic and his untimely arrival created, Jake wouldn’t be here.

  So, thank you, Nic? Darn you? I’m not sure yet.

  The front door to the shop tinkles and Sandi strides in, stomping snow off her faux-fur-lined Sorels and shoving the hood—also fur-lined—back on the pink-camo-patterned down coat she’s wearing.

  She shakes out her hair, the dark raven base color only serving to spotlight the cherry-red highlights that streak it. “Holy shit. Winter sucks ass.”

  Sandi just turned thirty-four, has two adolescent boys and a wonderful dimwitted redneck husband, but her perpetually crude language, fashion choices, and abiding love for boy bands mean I would swear she’s still holding court over the popular table in junior high. She works here one afternoon a week, just enough time for me to catch up on the busywork of paying vendors, taking inventory, and entering our sales into the obnoxious bookkeeping software the accountant insists we use.

  I grab her meager paycheck off the far side of the front counter and wave it in her direction. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  When she walks to the counter, she proceeds to swing up and sit on it, her boots thumping against the front. “Oh, I plan to blow all fifty dollars in one shot. At Lonigan’s. And you’re coming with me.”

  I look up suspiciously, and when her face slowly erupts into a stiff, wildly and awkwardly restrained grin, I answer emphatically. “Yeah. No. All those teeth showing means you’re feeling twitchy, and you twitchy at the bar means drunken darts and me telling Garrett not to serve you again.”

  Sandi offers a sly grin at my reference to the local watering hole’s bartender-cum-owner, whom she enjoys harmlessly toying with. “Garrett does whatever I say, you know that.” Another thump of her boots against the counter face. “Come on. Mack and the boys are off elk hunting, I’m a free woman. Don’t make me spend it on the couch watching reruns of Gossip Girl. One drink, I’m buying, and if you say no, I’ll cut the battery cables on your car in retaliation.”

  Going home alone, into a frigid house, and trying to find something calorie-conscious to eat doesn’t exactly sound like a killer way to spend the evening. I look out the front window and debate my options for a moment. Sandi whines another plea.

  All righty, then. Lonigan’s it is.

  Lonigan’s is a typical small-town bar. Known to
every local, yet so unassuming, anyone who didn’t live here would likely drive right past without taking a glance. Housed in a squat cinder-block building on the outskirts of town, it is currently painted bright magenta, and has no signage beyond the name stenciled in bold black letters on the side, with only one steel door to mark the entrance.

  When we walk in, the first person I see also happens to be the last person I want to see. Deputy Sheriff Dusty Frank—also known as my first boyfriend, my last boyfriend, and the most recent man I slept with—tips his chin in greeting to me; an I’ve seen you naked smirk on his face. I make a beeline for the only open spot and heave my purse down on the black Formica tabletop, slipping into the booth with a huff.

  Sandi peeks around the high back of the booth in Dusty’s direction. “I swear, if he weren’t like some kind of Crowell royalty, he’d be toothless by now. All that swagger plus all that beer belly means more than a few people would like a swing. Myself included.”

  She’s right on all points. Dusty comes from Scobey money, in reference to the fertile soil of north central Montana, which means they’re land-rich. His people own thirty thousand acres in Stratton County alone, plus a few scattered parcels here and there in the rest of the state. Between cattle grazing and wheat farming, when he inherits—which he will—Dusty can then easily add “millionaire” to his list of attributes. Until then he’s riding the wave of the near mafia control his family also happens to have over the sherriff’s office. And, somehow, his beer belly only adds to the weight of his entire cocksure persona. Add in the badge, and his ego operates in its own solar system.

  I watch him lumber off his bar stool and amble toward the bathroom. Once he’s clear of the room, I slip out of the booth, intent on acquiring the drink Sandi promised before he makes it back. I flop my hand out, palm up.

  “You promised to buy, but I’m going up there to get our drinks. If I send you, Garrett will load up on the alcohol on the off chance he can finally turn all your innocent-married-woman flirting into something not so innocent, and I don’t want a hangover.”

  Sandi slaps a twenty in my hand, and when Garrett sees me approaching the bar, his face falls a bit. Thank God I’m not looking to ply any girl game on a man tonight, because that look would have killed my confidence. I order up the seven and seven Sandi requested and a skinny cocktail for myself—the one Garrett knows how to make so well. Because he’s entrepreneurial enough to know that if country star Miranda Lambert starts giving interviews talking about her own unique recipe for a rum-laden concoction involving Crystal Light, every woman in the county will want one.

  “Lacey, Lacey, Lacey. A Randa-rita? Smart. Just don’t let the rum convince you to spend the rest of the night gobbling up a bag of those frosted animal crackers you like so much.”

  Feeling Dusty’s warm breath on my neck and his body pushed against the back of mine, I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut, because it is thick enough to protect him from any defensive move on my part. Furthermore, he is the last person alive who should comment on anyone’s eating habits. This is a man who spends nearly every Sunday on the couch, single-handedly polishing off two frozen pizzas, a dozen hot wings, and a slab of cheesecake while hollering at the NASCAR race on television. I spent three long years listening to him complain that everything good about racing died with number three and how green-white checkers means wreckers, all in between his telling me to grab him another Busch Light.

  “Thank you for your concern, Dusty. But I’m guessing your weekend wasn’t exactly full of baby carrots and hummus dip. Did you go with the extra-hot buffalo or the super-spicy BBQ wings? Or both?”

  I can practically feel the atmosphere cooling around us. His hand shoots out to slip across one of my hips, low enough I could also claim he’s grabbing my ass. When his lips touch my ear, I instantly reevaluate my decision not to elbow him.

  “Maybe you should worry about how you’re filling out these hips, Lace. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up busting a zipper.”

  Of course. Dusty would go straight for the part of me that worries about every curve being an inch away from chubby. It’s fantastic how being with someone for long enough exposes your every vulnerability. How we let people in, whisper the things that make us fragile, hoping they might remember how tender those things are, and never use them against us. How we ask them to say we’re beautiful because we need them to. How much we want them to look at us when we’re undressed and insist that we should be naked as much as possible, because it’s that fine of a sight. Instead, they wait. Wait until we hate ourselves enough that those weaknesses define us. Then they poke the fat bear with a stick.

  Dusty relaxes after he notes I haven’t offered a snappy comeback. His hand disappears from my hip and he pushes a fifty-dollar bill across the bar top.

  “Let me buy you a drink, Lace. No fighting.”

  Oh God. Absolutely not. The last time Dusty bought me a drink at Lonigan’s it did not end well. On a dark evening five months ago, I was feeling mope-tastically lonely, unmoved by any of my typical empowered girl talk about self-reliance, and that night Dusty was the best version of himself. Cocky. Engaging. Convincing. One glass of white zinfandel and my rational brain fuzzed and bloomed into oblivion until I was convinced that one night between two people who formally broke up over three years ago wouldn’t really matter.

  I was wrong. It mattered.

  It mattered because in the morning Dusty acted like it didn’t. Utter frosty detachment when he chooses is the man’s greatest strength, and seeing it in his eyes works to my frailty. Every. Single. Time.

  The first time we dated it was because I was a sophomore, he was a junior, and he had a Dodge diesel with stacks and decided I was worth taking for a ride in it. The teenage Dusty was fun in the way a kegger is fun—when you’re fifteen. Loud, boisterous, exciting, and good at making you forget why having another drink isn’t a smart idea. Unfortunately, the aftereffects of both can be eerily similar. Usually you’re left wondering where your bra is, while praying for a magic wand that rustles up do-overs.

  The second time we dated it was because he was back from Kansas State with a degree in criminal justice and I liked the way that sounded. Seeing him at Deaton’s Café again seemed like fate and a future presenting itself. He felt like home.

  From a distance, on paper, in theory, we should have been perfect together. The cheerleader and the quarterback. Nearly matching shades of blond hair and blue eyes between us. Me, perched in the passenger seat of his redneck wet dream of a truck, wearing a flirty dress with cowgirl boots and flipping my hair around. But sometimes things that look good on paper fall flat when you try to stand them up and see how they withstand real life.

  We broke up for good a few years ago because I realized I was unhappy way more often than I was happy. It might have been easier if there were a more dramatic reason than that—he cheated, I cheated, or something else worthy of a soap opera story line—but instead, it was just the end. Plus, over time, the fun Dusty from my teen years has taken on a bitter edge, the result of always wanting more than what he already has.

  I may have also completed a women’s magazine quiz entitled “Is It Over?” only to find that my results were a near perfect score. “Perfect” meaning my score fell squarely into the “Don’t Bother with CPR Because This One’s DOA” category on the answer page. That helped put things in perspective.

  I cover Dusty’s hand with mine and then pat it, gently, because I’m not in the mood to fight with him, either.

  “No way, Deputy. Keep your fifty for the next blonde through the door.”

  At that moment, like a stage cue to a melodrama starring me as the ditzy woman who will likely end up tied to railroad tracks at some point, the door to Lonigan’s opens and in walks Jake. Turns out my other high school ex-boyfriend happens to be the next blond through the door. Oh, life and all its zingy little sucker punches. If I weren’t
struggling to take my next breath, I’d probably be knocking back the Randa-rita that Garrett just set on the bar and slamming down my empty while demanding another. But I’d put the entire fifty on Dusty not buying Jake a drink.

  Dressed down from yesterday, Jake’s in twill workpants and a well-worn unbuttoned red flannel over a heavy dark sweater. His hair is slightly askew, like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. When his eyes connect with mine, they brighten only long enough for him to register Dusty, the pose of our bodies, my hand over his. Then Jake turns away to scan the room, and before I can shut my slackened jaw to avoid any flies getting in there, he’s raising one hand in greeting to someone across the room.

  Dusty doesn’t seem to have noticed Jake, or if he did, there isn’t any recognition on his part. Because Dusty was a year ahead of us in school and their paths rarely crossed in a good way, Dusty certainly wouldn’t recognize Jake now, unless he really bothered to look. When Dusty pulls his hand back from under mine and makes his way back to his bar stool, I can’t decide whether I want to stomp over to Jake’s table and demand to know what he is still doing here or just leave these drinks on the bar top and scuttle out the door.

  You know what? Hell, no. My scurrying away is not happening. He’s the one who left without a word. He’s the one who showed up here and had the audacity to call me “Shoelace” like he used to, as if it hasn’t been ten freaking years since we last spoke. This is my town. I still live here and he doesn’t. If anything, I might rather enjoy the opportunity to let Jake Holt see exactly what he left behind. Not the heartbroken seventeen-year-old me—but the grown-up, has-her-act-together, and wearing-a-cute-outfit-with-wellies version of me. And, if he happens to fall all over himself with regret at the sight? Well, that would just be a bonus.