Beautiful March

by Christy Pastore

  I bite into the cheesy greasy goodness and wash it down with the wine. “Mmm, this is so much better than the cereal I was about to eat for dinner.”

  Brant wipes his fingers and then takes a long pull from his beer. “So, why are you here moping?”

  “I’m not,” I argue. “My plan was to stay put, hoping Tyler would call or come by.”

  He eyes me over his beer bottle. “Listen, I know that some girls are made of sugar and spice, but you’re a Cardwell and you’re made of bourbon and ice. You need to start sleuthing.”

  I swallow. “I’m not really a Cardwell, that bourbon doesn’t run in my veins. Not like it does for you and Wes.”

  My brother stares at me for a long moment and then his head rolls back. “Haven,” he breathes out my name and shakes his head. “You are very much a Cardwell. You’ve got bourbon in your blood, baby girl. And if anyone says anything different, they’ll have to answer to me.”

  I smile. “The King of Wall Street, Brantley Cardwell. You don’t strike me as the fightin’ kind.”

  He slaps the table. “Did you not hear the story about when I punched my boss in the mouth?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.” I wink and bite into my second slice of pizza. “Speaking of that, did you make any decisions?”

  He polishes off his third slice. “Yeah, I’m gonna go meet up with Wes in Maui. He’s got a place out there for the summer.”

  My brows rise. “Wow, so you two are just gonna like surf and stuff?”

  He leans back in the chair. “That’s the plan. Figured I needed to be on a beach to cure my heartache.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah, you seem really heartbroken.”

  He spreads his arms wide, almost spanning the entire width of the kitchen. Okay, not really, but damn, Brant’s a big guy.

  “Heartbreak comes in many forms, darlin’, and when my brother says ‘hey, dude, you’re finally single let’s party’”—he laughs and does a little dance in his seat—“I’m going.”

  I nearly choke on my pizza. “So mature. I hope you and Wes have an amazing time. Meanwhile, I’ll be back in L.A. and chained to my desk for the rest of the summer.”

  I take a long swallow of wine. “Thanks for this,” I gesture around the table. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

  “Ah, food and booze are my specialties, sis.”

  Tyler’s too, I think to myself. My mind spins back to the night he walked into the restaurant. So handsome. So nice. The conversation, the food and the drinks, it was all good. Very good. My body warms and I shift in my seat, remembering the feel of his hands all over me.

  “Hey, where’d you go just now?” He dips his head to look at me.

  “Oh, uhm, I’m just thinking about how glad I am that you’re my brother.” I squeeze his hand three times.

  He squeezes back four times. “I’m glad you’re my sister.”

  I wipe the grease from my hands. “So, you wanna watch some TV or you gotta go?”

  “I’ve got a ten a.m. flight,” he says, through a yawn. “I should go, but remember I’m just a call away. So, don’t be a stranger—anymore.” He stands and scoops up the rest of his beers.

  “Safe travels, bro. Have a gnarly time, dude,” I say in my best Wes impression.

  He bobs his head. “Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.” He laughs and I swear he sounds like Burt Reynolds from Smokey and the Bandit.

  Brant walks out the door and down the steps. I watch as he climbs into his truck, the one he used to drive when he was a teenager. He flashes his lights and then pulls out of the driveway. When he’s out of view, I close and lock the door.

  My back rests against the door and I let out a deep breath. I check my phone for any messages. Nothing. Nothing at all. I decide to text him again.

  Me: Thinking of you. I hope you’re okay. If you want to talk, I’m here. Always.

  Me: Good night.

  My efforts are sincere, but I won’t push him especially if he’s mad at me. A heavy sadness settles in my chest. I start cleaning up the kitchen, I shove the pizza box into the fridge and then I wipe down the table.

  After I check Oliver’s water dish, I shuffle across the floor to the bedroom and crawl into bed. I lay there for about two hours just listening to the sounds of summer. Around three a.m. when my tongue feels fuzzy and my face feels like it’s covered in oil, I decide to actually get ready for bed.

  Again, I glance at my phone. Nothing. Sickness crashes over me and worry drops to the pit of my stomach.

  So, I do the only thing I can think of I formulate another text to Tyler . . . no. I said I wouldn’t push. I slam my phone onto the nightstand.

  I brush my teeth and stare at my reflection. Oliver pops into the bathroom and jumps up onto the side of the tub.

  “If he thinks I did this, then why doesn’t he just ask me?”

  Ignoring my question, Oliver paces along the edge of the tub rubbing his cheek against the curtain and purring. I rinse my mouth and then exit the bathroom.

  This is absolutely agonizing. I crawl under the covers and try to push the thoughts away.

  “Meow,” Oliver squeaks out and jumps onto the bed. He nestles beside my hip and I reach to pet him.

  Sleep finally takes hold and my eyes close.

  Tyler

  I sip my coffee and stare at the text messages on the screen. Five unanswered texts and a call that I want to respond to, but I can’t think of the right words to say. Any way I slice it, I don’t know what to say that won’t come off accusatory or angry. I don’t want to feel this way.

  My mind is a restless haze of fog and confusion. According to Maria and Jace, there are a few news trucks lingering outside the restaurant. Some reporter tracked my parents down at their house and a few more showed up at Nichols Corp yesterday. And at three yesterday afternoon, the media paid a visit to my house.

  I spent the better part of the day trying to convince my parents to just get out of Dodge for a while until this whole thing blows over. They refuse to leave for obvious reasons.

  I need to talk to Haven, but I’m not having that conversation over the phone and definitely not over a text message.

  My eyes scan over the miles of land. The early morning fog drifts over the pasture and a faint yellow light filters through the clouds. One news truck sits at the end of my driveway.

  “I’m making a break for it,” I call out to Harley and set my cup in the sink. I grab the keys to my truck and make my way to the garage.

  I barely make it out of the garage before the news crew is behind me with their cameras. Backing over them isn’t an option.

  “Come on, man,” I yell out and step out of the truck. “Go on home. I got nothing to say.”

  “Our viewers want to know what it was like living in those conditions.” The reporter shoves a microphone in my face.

  My eyes narrow. “Do you think I want to relive that? I spend my days tryin’ to forget it.”

  “Do you have survivor’s guilt, Mister Nichols?”

  My jaw tightens and my fists curl at my sides. “Get the hell off my property.” I take a step forward and the reporter backs up. Rage coils in my veins.

  “If you could talk to your mom, the one who gave birth to you, what would you say to her?”

  “I’m going to say it again, get the hell outta here,” I roar and raise my fist.

  There’s a high-pitched whistle coming from my left. “Whoa there, Tyler,” Sawyer says, clasping his hand to my shoulder.

  “Mister Nichols, how do you feel about the house in Clinton Park being torn down?”

  I wrestle against the hold Sawyer has on me and surge forward. My whole body vibrates with anger and I want to punch the smug look off this guy’s face.

  “Stellar reporting there, Bradford,” Sawyer barks out.

  “I’m just doing my job,” he says, spreading his arms wide.

  Sawyer grabs my arm and attempts to direct me back to my house. “Come on, man. You don�
��t want this asshole to catch you on the wrong day.”

  “If you’re not off my property in the next five minutes, I will call the cops,” I warn.

  “Why don’t you go on back to Elliston,” Sawyer says firmly. “Don’t you have some college athletes to harass?”

  The guy grumbles under his breath. “Pack it in,” he yells. “Good seein’ you, Coach Collins.”

  “Can’t say the same, about you,” Sawyer scoffs and pats my shoulder.

  When I get back to my truck, I reach inside the cab to pull out my keys. I blow out a deep breath.

  “You okay, man?” Sawyer asks.

  “Yeah, I think so.” I unlock my front door. “You want some coffee?”

  “Irish coffee,” he suggests and waggles his brow.

  “Why the hell not.”

  I try and clear my mind of the bullshit as I make the two of us a couple of coffees and I add a half of shot of whiskey to each of our drinks.

  “How do you know that reporter, uh, Bradford?” I ask, handing him a mug.

  “Guy was a sports reporter for the local station in Elliston.” Sawyer leans back onto the barstool at my table. “When I played ball, he used every interview as an opportunity to goad me. I knew that I was playin’ terrible, plus with Ma’s cancer scare. I just wasn’t holding it all together very well. I couldn’t keep my emotions in check. He got off on pushing my buttons. Can’t let the fans see ya when you have a bad attitude or anger issues.”

  “Sounds like a great guy.” I take a drink. My tongue feels pleasantly numb for the moment. If only my head and heart could take the same direction.

  He laughs a sad laugh into his mug. Silence hangs in the air for a few moments then Sawyer clears his throat.

  “Look, I know that we don’t know each other that well, but if you need to talk, well, ya know, I’m here.” He stumbles over his last two words and now I’m the one chuckling the pitiful laugh.

  “You want a cigar?” I offer.

  He lifts a shoulder and stands. “Why the hell not.”

  We walk out to the back porch and light up a couple cigars. I take giant puffs and Sawyer blows a perfect smoke ring into the air.

  “So, the article, is it true?”

  I spear a hand through my hair and nod. “Yeah, it’s true.”

  Sawyer’s brows jump. “Wow, I’m really sorry to hear all that ugly shit happened to you when you were a kid, and I’m even sorrier to hear about your little sister.”

  Pain radiates in my chest. This shit storm coming days after the anniversary of Ava’s birthday feels like a knife twisting in my gut over and over. “Thanks, man. She was a good kid and I miss her all the time.”

  “Rumor has it that Haven went to the paper and gave Jenna Rae the exclusive.”

  “Rumor has it that Jenna Rae says lots of things.”

  “Yeah, that she does. It’s one of the reasons she got the job at the paper. Well, that and her daddy’s the owner.” He chuckles and takes a long puff. “Jenna Rae says that Haven’s always been drama. I tried to tell you, man.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t see that about Haven.”

  “I didn’t really remember it all until a couple weeks ago at the bar. Everyone was yammering on about how Benson dumped her and that led to people sharin’ memories.”

  “You mean gossiping,” I correct and take a long drag from my cigar.

  He shoots me a pointed stare. “Haven didn’t go to high school with any of us, but she’d come back every summer. I guess she started a rumor about me back in the day, I’ll spare you the details . . . me and her in the hayloft at my parents’ place—you get the idea. We didn’t . . . nothing happened. I was a jerk and she called me on it. That’s all I remember, but as Jenna Rae points out that’s what rich kids do for amusement. Toy with people’s lives.”

  I swallow down some coffee. “These are rumors, though.”

  Sawyer leans up to tap his ashes into the empty beer can. “Listen, I know you think you care about this girl, but I can tell ya from experience, this isn’t the first time she came back, set off a few little drama bombs and then jetted back to her fancy life, leaving the rest of us to figure out what’s true and what’s not.”

  I can’t wrap my mind around any of this. “So, you’re telling me that Haven did this just for fun? You’re actually suggesting that she blew up my life to get off on . . . some kind of emotional high?” My fingers rub my forehead.

  “Think about how the two of ya met.” He eyes me. “Sad girl who’s just been dumped, and you ride in to make her feel a little less sad and lonely. It’s all George could talk about over at Ballard’s bar the night it happened. Gave us the entire play by play.”

  My thumb scratches along my jawline. I’m starting to feel dizzy from the cigar and whiskey. And to make matters worse, I haven’t eaten in a while.

  Sawyer slaps my shoulder. “Dude, face the hard truth—she played you, like a fiddle. Not trying to be cruel, but the chick is toxic.”

  I shove my cigar into the ashtray on the end table and then press my palms to my eyes. I just can’t imagine her doing that, not Haven.

  “Small towns, man.” He shakes his head before polishing off the coffee.

  I think the world has completely turned upside down in the last twenty-four hours. My faith in humanity has taken a punch straight to the heart.

  He stands and stretches his arms over his head. “You wanna hit up the festival tonight? A few of us are going to bourbon row and then over to the Rebel Desire concert.”

  “Thanks for the offer.” I slump down into my chair. “But I think I’m gonna lay low, plus I won’t be any fun. Don’t want to be the gloomy grump.”

  “Okay, well, if you change your mind, just let me know.” Sawyer slaps my shoulder. “Take it easy. Thanks again for the cigar and coffee.”

  I nod and watch him walk outside across the lawn toward his place. I pick up the mugs and drop them into the dishwasher.

  My mind replays the last weeks with her and I begin to realize that it was all me, I let her charm me. I let myself be vulnerable with Haven and she never offered me a damn thing. Not of substance. Not really. The lyrics to Hall & Oates “Maneater” barrels back at hyper speed.

  Can Haven really be the complete opposite of the girl I thought she was?

  Fuck, this hurts so bad. It sucks.

  Haven

  My phone buzzes atop the nightstand and I blink through the brightness in the room. It’s almost ten o’clock in the morning.

  Scott: Heard you blew up Tyler’s life cuz I broke things off with you.

  Scott: That’s cold hearted.

  Me: That’s a lie. And my “revenge” was on you. Remember your donation to the shelter?

  Me: Don’t text or call me unless it has something to do with your publicity needs.

  My head falls back into the pillows and I pull up my text messages again. I’m hoping to see a text from Tyler, anything. It hurts that he hasn’t reached out to me.

  “Meooooowww,” echoes around the room.

  “Oh no, Oliver,” I say and leap out of bed scurrying toward the kitchen.

  My phone buzzes again when I dump Oliver’s food into his bowl. I glance at the screen, this time a picture of Brant shows up.

  Brant: Off to Maui. Ignore the rumors, sis. Fuck ‘em all.

  Me: Have fun! Hug Weston for me.

  Me: Fuck ‘em all.

  I walk over to the coffee maker, fill it up with four cups of water, dump in the coffee and press brew.

  Despite the sounds of the coffee maker brewing and Oliver pacing around the kitchen, the quiet is gnawing at my brain. Scott’s text irritates me and Brant is just being supportive in his own way, but his advice to ignore the rumors—the curiosity—is eating up my soul.

  Danger. Danger.

  I know it’s best to stay away from social media when there’s a situation with rumors. So, I take the same advice I give my clients and I ignore the drama.

  I’m angry. I’m h
urt. I’m confused. And I probably have no right to be any of those things. At least not the first two. Standing at the window, my gaze flicks to the duck pond. Happy little bastards, not a care in the world. Then I see two ducks sailing across the top of the pond together side by side. Probably a couple.

  I’m dying to call Tyler. I miss his voice. Miss his touch.

  He probably hates me, and rightly so. I had no business telling Maybelle about his past. It was his story to tell and not mine. But if I didn’t tell the paper and Maybelle didn’t either, then who did?

  The coffee maker signals that it’s ready and I hop off the barstool. I have only one more week and then I can get back to my life away from Mayfield.

  I spend most of Saturday curled up on the sofa watching Netflix and devouring junk food. Mason jars line the coffee table because I’ve inhaled way too many of Sage’s dessert jars.

  My phone buzzes, my heart pings in my chest and I close my eyes before looking at the screen.

  Grady: Should I get married to gaslight the premiere of the show?

  Me: No! You don’t need to pull a publicity stunt to get people to watch your show.

  Grady: I’m frustrated. Are you sure this show is going to do well?

  Me: Early screenings with focus groups are VERY encouraging. You’re going to KILL it.

  Grady: Thanks. You’re the best. Harlow wants to have dinner, the three of us soon.

  Grady: Or four if you’re finally seeing someone.

  My heart sinks. Tyler would love those two. Harlow has a lifestyle blog—food, cocktails and fashion. I can picture her and Tyler concocting recipes together over dinner.

  Me: I’m still single. I’d love to. I’ll be back in L.A. soon.

  Flopping back onto the sofa, I tear open a bag of Cheetos. My gaze shifts to the kitchen for any sign of Oliver. Nothing.

  This is what completely alone feels like. Tears drip onto my white t-shirt. I don’t even know why I’m crying.

  Just as I’m swiping the tears away, leaving trails of orange dust on my cheeks, the kitchen door flings open with Sage breezing through. “Home, it’s so good to be home,” she yells, dragging her luggage across the hardwood.