by Macy Beckett
“Oh, I can see that.” Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Mom strode into the kitchen, making a shoo-fly motion at them with one hand. “My brownies are almost done.”
It was clear Mom wasn’t leaving any time soon, and as much as Trey wanted to, he couldn’t hoist Bobbi over his shoulder and carry her into the bedroom to pick up where they left off. Wrapping an arm around Bobbi’s shoulders, he pulled her to the end of the island, whispering, “This isn’t over. I’ll tell her I’m driving you home, then we’ll get a room somewhere.”
She nodded in agreement. “Let me use your restroom first.”
“Sure.” He pointed to the hallway. “First door on your left.”
As soon as Bobbi was out of earshot, Mom shook her head and chided, “Really, Trey.”
“Don’t start.”
She began rifling through the kitchen cabinets and drawers. “Where’re your oven mitts?”
“Drawer to the left of the stove.” He scrubbed his face with one hand, trying to will the blood flow away from his crotch.
“Another Gallagher,” Mom continued without missing a beat. “Why am I not surprised? You’re drawn to those people like a dog to garbage. How many are there, anyway?” From the inflection in her icy voice, you’d think she was discussing vermin with an exterminator.
“Just the two of ’em.” Or at least, that’s what he assumed. “And be nice. I like Bobbi.”
“Well, of course you do.” Quilted mitt in place, she opened the oven and bent to retrieve the square Pyrex brownie pan, filling the kitchen with dry warmth. “You’re just like your father, a magnet for easy women.”
Trey’s spine stiffened. He didn’t know which was worse, being compared to his father, or the implication that Bobbi was a slut. “Don’t go there, Mom—”
“Why can’t you find a nice girl for once? Like Mindy?”
“Sure, that’s just what I need. Someone to sleep around behind my back and dump me.”
Mom pressed two quick fingers against her dessert, seemingly satisfied with the results. “I’m sure it wasn’t like that.”
It was exactly like that, but Mom wouldn’t listen. Mindy had been Trey’s high school girlfriend, and more importantly, she hailed from one of Chicago’s wealthiest families, which made her star wife material in Mom’s eyes.
He tried changing the subject. “How long are you in town?”
Mom brushed a strand of silver hair away from her face, shoulders drooping as if offended by his question. “As long as you can stand having your mother around. I’m lucky if I get to see you twice a year.” Great, she’d embarked on another of her intercontinental guilt trips. “You know, one of these days when you have children of your own, you’re going to understand—”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Mom.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Tossing the hot pad onto the counter, Mom huffed a sigh. “Just do me a favor, and listen for once.”
He gave a mental eye roll. “I’m listening.”
“Life doesn’t usually give second chances, but you’ve got one—to clear your name and start from scratch. Don’t let another Gallagher ruin your future. Don’t be like your father and give up everything that matters for a few quick rolls in the hay.” Her voice thickened and her eyes welled with tears she wouldn’t allow to fall. She never did. “I promise she’s not worth it. They rarely are.”
Under any other circumstances, Trey would have shown her the door for her flagrant criticism of Bobbi, but he couldn’t kick Mom when she was already down. “She’s not like that. And besides, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about. I’m not changing my mind about Dubai.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
A minute later, Bobbi padded into the room without meeting his gaze. She raised one hand in an awkward good-bye to his mother. “Nice meeting you.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mom said, facing away. “Tell your brother hello. You remind me a lot of him.” She turned, flashing a smile that didn’t reach beyond her lips. “It’s the eyes, I think. Such a lovely green.”
The backhanded compliment wasn’t lost on Trey, but fortunately, Bobbi didn’t seem to catch on.
“Thanks.” Hooking one thumb toward the door, Bobbi told him, “I’m gonna go. I’ll have…um, Nathan…call you tomorrow.”
“Who’s Nathan?” he asked, following her into the garage. “And I want to see you home.” He’d said the last part extra loud for Mom’s benefit. What he really wanted to do was find a dark, private place to make love to Bobbi like the world was ending.
Once they’d stepped outside the kitchen, she whispered, “That’s Bong’s real name.” Then, shaking her head, added, “Just stay. I’ll be fine.”
“Stay?” He walked Bobbi to the driver’s side door, but when he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her face to the side, pressing one firm hand against his chest.
Trey stroked her hair, noticing the barest sliver of blond beginning to grow along her part line. It was the first time he realized she wasn’t a natural redhead.
From out of nowhere, it occurred to him that if they had a son, he would likely be blond—a towheaded little boy with blue-green eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Trey’s lips twitched into a grin against his will, but he banished the image. The last thing he needed in his tumultuous life was a baby. He didn’t even like kids.
“C’mon.” He leaned in to nip Bobbi’s earlobe. “We’ll stop someplace along the way.”
“No.” Ducking from the circle of his arms, she nudged him aside and pulled open the car door. “Stay with your mom. She’s hurting. That’s why she came. Go be a good son.”
“I’d rather be bad…with you.”
“Your mom needs you.” Plunking into her seat behind the wheel, Bobbi delivered an abrupt, painful blow before slamming the door shut. “I don’t.”
While Trey stood there slack-jawed, Bobbi started the car and pulled out without so much as a glance in his direction. He watched the purple hatchback turn onto Main Street and fade away, wondering what the hell had just happened.
***
Bobbi gripped the steering wheel so hard the tendons in her wrists threatened to snap. The dark road ahead began to blur through a thick filter of tears, streetlights and yellow lines swirling together like abstract art, so she pulled onto the shoulder and threw the car in park, letting the engine idle and sputter as raindrops pelted the windshield.
Her breath hitched, sending one plump tear rolling down her cheek. I promise she’s not worth it. For the life of her, Bobbi couldn’t understand why those six little words had affected her so deeply, like a roundhouse kick to the gut. It wasn’t as if she really cared about Trey—she didn’t love him—so why did she give a damn what his uppity prune of a mother thought?
She shouldn’t have eavesdropped, because she hadn’t needed further proof that Trey’s mom hated her—the woman’s hostile glares had said it all. With a frosty sneer, Mrs. Lewis had raked her gaze over Bobbi’s fat thighs, shaking her head pitifully as if to say, Oh, honey, you should cover up those sausages.
“Garbage,” Bobbi whispered to herself, wiping away another tear. That’s how Mrs. Lewis had described her, and it hadn’t helped that she’d looked the part. Instead of her polished designer wardrobe, she’d stumbled into Trey’s kitchen clad in Daisy Dukes and an old T-shirt, her shoes dripping wet, hair snarled, mascara oozing down her face. Not to mention wrapped around Trey and moaning like a porn star. What mother wanted to see her son with a woman like that?
Bobbi’s insides felt raw, like she’d skinned her soul instead of her knees or elbows. She hadn’t felt this exposed since the seventh grade, when she’d experienced her very first kiss. One of the popular boys, a cute soccer player named Ian Price, had asked her to walk with him behind the gym. Holding her hand, he’d kissed her so sweetly it had made the backs of her eyes sting with unshed tears�
�because finally, someone had seen beyond the grubby clothes and the unkempt hair to the girl underneath. But he’d walked her back to class without another word and ignored her each day afterward. A week later, she’d overheard two girls talking in the restroom and learned Ian had only kissed her to win a triple-dog-dare. She’d hidden inside her toilet stall, hugged her knees to her chest, and sobbed in silence for what felt like hours, while half the school laughed behind her back.
Now she understood the connection—why Mrs. Lewis’s words had scraped her so bare. It was Trey. Bobbi’d opened herself to him, just like she’d done with Ian. The judgmental barbs that ordinarily wouldn’t have fazed her had penetrated her heart because she’d made it vulnerable. She’d left it unguarded.
God, she was an idiot. Had she really been willing to sacrifice everything for one night with Trey?
“Why?” she demanded of herself, right before letting her forehead thunk against the steering wheel. “Why can’t you just stay away from him?”
Enough, she decided. No more brooding. It was time to get her shit together and return home, where she could lose it again in the privacy of her guest bedroom.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headrest and practiced the mental exercise her child psychologist had taught her more than a decade ago, after her third suspension for fighting. Focusing on her negative emotions, she imagined piling them like stones into a bulletproof box and locking them down tight.
At first, this was no different from all the other times, but when she imagined slamming the lid down, it wouldn’t latch. All those horrible feelings started bucking inside, rattling the hinges like a deranged convict demanding freedom. Balling her fists with extra effort, she was eventually able to close and lock the box, but she didn’t know how much longer the lock would hold. She didn’t want to know what would happen if nearly two dozen years of sick memories and neglected emotions escaped their prison. For good measure, she imagined locking her box inside a larger one, then wrapping it in chains and dumping it into the ocean. Not even Houdini could escape that.
She sucked a deep breath in through her nose and released it in a loud puff. There, that was better. Satisfied that she could drive safely, she checked over her shoulder for oncoming traffic—what little of it existed in this town—before pulling onto the road and heading for Luke’s.
Fifteen minutes later, she turned onto his gravel driveway and parked beside June’s new car, a glossy Accord the color of grape cough syrup. June really had a thing for purple.
Tucking her leather handbag beneath her shirt to protect it from the rain, Bobbi jogged across the lawn and up the steps to the front porch. She’d just begun fishing for her house key when a sudden movement to her right tore a gasp from her throat.
“Sorry,” said June’s voice from the darkness. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Bobbi bent a few inches and squinted, barely making out her brother and sister-in-law, who sat cuddled on the porch swing, wineglasses in hand.
Luke checked his watch. “It’s a holiday. Shouldn’t you be out partying? Only boring married couples come home this early.”
Boring or not, Bobbi couldn’t think of a better way to spend a stormy night than snuggled up with a man who loved her, sipping wine and watching the rain from the warmth and safety of his embrace. Feigning indifference, she shrugged one shoulder. “I’m tired.”
Even in the darkness she noticed Luke’s posture change, hardening in alarm. He handed his wineglass to June. “Something’s wrong. What happened?”
“Nothing,” she lied, following up with a trifling laugh. “I was up with the sun this morning, and I’m just—”
“Have you been crying?” he demanded.
How on earth could he know that? He couldn’t possibly see her puffy eyes from all the way over there.
“Your voice is all scratchy,” he explained, “and you sound like someone ran over your dog.” With the greatest of care, he took June’s shoulders and pushed her forward so he could stand. “Just tell me who I need to kill.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. And by the way, I’m allergic to dogs.” Changing the subject didn’t deter him.
Muscled arms folded over his chest, he stalked closer. “This is what big brothers are for, to kick the teeth outta guys who screw with their kin.” When he stepped near enough to study her face in the moonlight’s faded glow, his brows lowered, forming a slash over his dark eyes. “You have been crying. Damn it, Bo, what happened? Did someone hurt you? Where was Trey? He’s supposed to be handling stuff like this for me.”
Bobbi’s face heated. Her insides were still too raw, and for some backward reason, Luke’s brotherly concern only served to provoke her anger. Now he wanted to protect her? Where was he a dozen years ago, when she really needed him? Where was Luke when Ian Price told the whole soccer team Bobbi was a lousy kisser who tasted like welfare cheese? Or when she’d started ninth grade at a new school and felt terrified the other teens would see through her designer clothes and trendy haircut to the poseur underneath? She could have used a big brother then. Where was Luke when Bobbi’d found their mother dead, slumped over the toilet like Elvis? Here in Mayberry, that’s where, with June and Pru and a whole community of people who loved and supported him. He was going to church, feasting on fried chicken and buttered grits, getting everything out of life she’d been denied.
“I don’t need Trey or anyone else watching out for me,” she snapped. “While you were fishing and skinny-dipping and shit, I was learning how to throw a right hook.”
With a deep, slow sigh, he patted her arm in a condescending gesture. “I know, hon.”
“Don’t do that!” She shoved his hand away. “Don’t pretend to know what it was like for me. Not when you were living on some redneck version of Easy Street!”
“What?” Luke gripped his hips. “Is that what you think? That I had some Leave it to Beaver experience here when Mama left?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“Then you’re delusional!”
June set both glasses on the wooden porch and hurried to her husband’s side. Linking their arms, she began stroking his chest, almost petting him. He responded to her gentle touch immediately, shoulders sinking as his muscles unclenched.
“Let’s not do this,” June said softly. “It’s not a contest. There’s no prize for whoever had the worst childhood. We all had a rough time growing up, but we’re together now, and we’re happy. That’s what matters, right?”
We’re happy? Speak for yourself.
Damn it, Bobbi was brooding again, and she didn’t want to turn into that girl—the bitter buzz kill who wound up living with a dozen cats. She silently counted to ten and tried to rein in her misplaced anger. “Yeah.” None of her problems were Luke’s fault. He’d provided free room and board—even a vehicle for the summer—without asking for anything in return, and she had no right to tear him down. “I’m sorry.”
She opened the screen door, staring into the foyer, grappling with the right words to complete her apology, but nothing came. Instead of loitering in the dark, she decided to reorganize the kitchen pantry. Maybe the coat closet after that. And if that didn’t make her feel better, there was always the toolshed.
Chapter 12
Bobbi was beginning to think she’d missed her calling in life, because hot diggety damn, she stocked a mean grocery shelf. Using a damp dishrag, she wiped down a can of peas, removing the sticky residue from the sugar Luke had spilled inside the pantry last week, then lovingly placed the peas alphabetically in front of the pears and peppers. She rotated it ten degrees to the left so the label faced outward in perfect alignment with the others, then sat back to admire her work. Using the food pyramid as inspiration, she’d filled the top shelf with oils, sugars, and baking goods, followed by proteins like canned tuna and legumes, then fruits and vegetables on the shelf below, and ending w
ith grains at the very bottom—bread, pretzels, crackers, and pasta noodles. The flawless symmetry with which she’d arranged these products gave Bobbi a soothing sense of accomplishment. She sighed in relief.
Funny, she hadn’t thought of it in years, but this was exactly what she’d done her first night living with Papa and Daddy. Her dads had tucked her into bed, blissfully unaware of her scheme to whip the place into shape, and they’d awoken the next morning to a gleaming, meticulously reorganized kitchen. They’d vowed right then and there to make her “lighten up and enjoy life’s little messes.” Bobbi snickered. They’d failed miserably. She didn’t do messy.
Standing, she brushed her hands together and grabbed a bag of M&Ms from the top shelf, figuring she’d earned a break. She sat at the kitchen table, sprinkled a few dozen candies onto the polished oak, and sorted them according to color. Then she proceeded to eat them one at a time in order from darkest to lightest. The sweet, crunchy chocolates lifted her spirits for an instant, until the scent reminded her of Mrs. Lewis’s brownies.
Leave it to Trey’s mom to taint a smell as comforting at cocoa.
“Hey,” June said, taking the seat across from Bobbi at the table, “I eat mine like that too. Except I put them in seasonal color combinations first, like red and green for Christmas, and orange and brown for fall.”
Bobbi shook another pile of M&Ms onto the oak and pushed them in June’s direction. “Glad to hear I’m not the only one with OCD candy habits. I do it with Smarties too.”
“Oh, I love Smarties.” June pursed her lips a moment. “I wonder if anyone’s invented a Smartie-flavored martini yet.”
“If they have, I’ll bet you can do it better.”
“Aw, thanks.” Flushing beneath ivory skin, June averted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable with accepting a compliment. Bobbi understood—she’d always had the same problem. “You’re sweet.”
Propping her elbow on the table, Bobbi rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “That’s not the word most people would use to describe me.” Tenacious? Sure. Assertive? You bet. Ballbuster? Sometimes. But sweet? No, that adjective was reserved for soft-spoken, natural caregivers like June.
