by S. E. Hall
“Then he’s right.”
My mother gapes at me, shocked I won one. I counter with a cunning, victorious smile.
“What about dinner, the dress?” Dad hollers.
“Shit, I’ll be right back,” Mom takes off down the hall.
How the hell did she manage such an easy escape?
“So, Horny,” Presley snaps her fingers right in my face to get my attention, “where’s your girlfriend?”
“Not my girlfriend, and Brynnapped,” I grouch.
“You better lock that shit down, J. She’s fucking hot. Someone’s gonna snatch her up right underneath your nose. Surprised she’s not taken already.”
“Presley Alexandra,” Aunt Em groans, “language, please.”
“Mother, am I wrong?”
“No, but you are a foul mouth. And don’t call me mother.”
While they bicker back and forth, a horrifying idea creeps in my mind and I’m speaking before I can stop myself. “Hand me a goddamn scrapbook. You hens wanna cackle, at least make it worth my time.”
Next thing I know, I’m gluing pictures of me at three, naked as a jaybird and taking a piss in the front yard, to a blue piece of paper…while getting advice from a shitload of women. All talking at the same time.
Except Aunt Em. She’s staying quiet, closely monitoring my sticker and glitter distribution on my pages. I mean seriously monitoring…are we going to be judged on this crap later?
“Okay, I have a question,” I raise my voice above all theirs.
“Yes, you now have a vagina!” my dad, equipped with the hearing of a hybrid bat-dolphin, yells from his office.
“Ignore him,” my mom flits a hand in the air. “He’s just grumpy I cancelled our dinner. What’s your question?”
“Being a girlfriend, like ‘don’t go near another guy’ official…is that an understood these days, or do you actually have to ask them to be your girlfriend, verbatim?” I ask, because how the hell would I know? I haven’t had one since what, ninth fucking grade?
“No talking old people. I’ve got this,” Presley, of course, pipes up.
“Hey,” Skylar whines.
“Sorry. No talking old, married and or boring people, I’ve got this,” P amends. “Better?”
“Not at all, bitch,” Sky reaches across the table to slap her on the arm, knocking over a bottle of glitter…apparently a “scrapbooking travesty” if judging by the round of gasps. “But take it away, Nicki Ménage.”
“Presley, you didn’t!” Emmett stops her frantic scramble of trying to salvage the spilled glitter and starts wheezing. “It was that Blaze character’s idea, wasn’t it? I knew he looked like trouble. Oh, God,” she drops her face in her hands, shaking all over.
“Mom,” P dashes around the table to her side. “Nicki Minaj, m-i-n-a-j, is a famous singer. Skylar,” Presley glares at the culprit, “was just making a play, joke, on the word. I’ve never, ever done that, I swear. And who the hell is Blaze?”
“I know,” Whitley, no shit, raises her hand.
Fuck it…I call on her. “Yes, Aunt Whitley?”
“Thank you.” Yep, she thanks me for calling on her. Can’t make this shit up. “Presley sweetie, Blaze is the ruffian looking fellow you snuck in at the last minute as your date to Skylar’s wedding.”
“Oh yeah!” P laughs, her eyes drifting off…because she still has no idea and is trying like hell to remember him. “Whatever,” she shrugs, obviously giving up any recall. “Mama, It. Was. A. Joke. Sky, tell her!”
“It was. I swear, Aunt Em,” Skylar’s eyes water with guilt.
“And I thought I’d be the first to cry! You know, from being forced to scrapbook! Suck it up, ladies. Here, everyone drink more wine.” Bennett passes one bottle left and another right…‘cause alcohol always helps them reel in their emotions. Except for never.
“Not to be callous, but are we past the ménage mix-up yet? I’m dying to hear what advice Princess P has for my son,” Mom oh-so-tactfully tries to get the subject back on what she wants to talk about.
“Yes, sorry,” Em wipes her cheeks and squares her shoulders. “I apologize baby, for doubting you.” She hugs Presley, who then returns to her seat across from me.
“Now that my mom’s blood pressure is back to normal and my family is clear on the fact that I’m not the DP Princess, we’ll take another caller. Hello,” she holds her pinky and thumb up to her ear like a fake phone, “thanks for calling in, ‘Horny and Helpless in Georgia.’ How can I help you?”
“Thanks for taking my call, ‘Amnesia and Asshole in my kitchen,’” I fire back and flip her off. “I already asked my question, that you insisted on being the one to answer. So, let’s hear it.”
When everyone’s laughter dies down—yeah, our parents probably take a little too much pleasure in our “friendly, verbal spars”—Presley clears her throat, resting both elbows on the table and leaning forward.
“I have a series of questions, all meant to best help you. Because, believe it or not, at the end of your douchey day, I love you dearly and want you to be happy. Will you answer honestly, in front of everyone?”
“Sure, why not?” I have nothing to hide. And even if I did, privacy is non-existent in this family.
“No one interrupts or adds commentary, understood?” She eyes the crowd, one at a time, ‘til they all nod their agreement.
“Have you slept with her?” She grins like the devil she is, cocking one brow.
“Way to jump right out there, in front of my mother!” I snarl at her.
“You said you’d answer, honestly. Already pulling out, Quick Nut?”
“Presley! I know what that means and I’m about to call your father!” Aunt Em may seriously fall the fuck out.
“No,” Bennett shakes her head rapidly. “No, no, no. Do not call Sawyer. He’d think it was funny and we’ll be here all night if you get him started. Presley, some tact maybe?”
“Fine,” she gives me her classic “Presley’s Calling You a Pussy” look of challenge. “Sorry JT, thought you could handle it. Never mind.”
Yeah, that’s gonna work. “Mom, plug your ears.” I wait until she does, then stare Presley dead in the eyes. “No, I haven’t.”
“Have you slept with anyone else since you started spending time with her?” She grins, loving that I’m playing along.
“No,” I answer immediately.
“Do you want to?” She hits it right back to me, and out of my periphery, I see every head snapping back and forth to watch our volley.
“Want to what? Sleep with her or someone else?” I ask.
“Answer both.”
“Of course to her, no to anyone else.”
“You can listen again,” Presley pulls on my mom’s arms and she unplugs her ears. “Hard part’s over. Next question.” She pins me with her hardest stare yet. “Are you positive that yours, hers and Brynn’s relationships will all be salvageable if things don’t work out?”
“Yes,” I nod. “We’ve all discussed it, up one side and down the other.”
She doesn’t so much as take a breath, next question locked and loaded. I’d expect nothing less. “When she’s gone, like right now, do you miss her? Think about her?”
I tug at my collar…is it hot in here? Feels hot. Scorching even.
“Constantly,” I finally mumble, immediately regretting it as multiple cooing noises explode around me.
“Just a few more, Romeo,” Pres laughs. “Has any other girl ever held your interest this long?”
“Never,” my reply pops out itself.
“Earmuffs again, Aunt Laney,” she warns and waits for Mom to comply. “What’s your plan if she never sleeps with you?”
Find a good Occupational Therapist for my Carpal Tunnel? But really, I think about it, while sensing the women closing in, scooting to the edge of their seats, salivating for my response, and find my honest answer. “Wait. For the end of never.”
Another round of female mewling. My mom must read their expression
s and unplugs her ears again. “What? What’d I miss?”
“I’ll tell ya later. Now sshhh,” Bennett orders.
“Last one.” Presley rolls her neck and cracks her knuckles for the final blow. This oughta be a doozie. “Suppose Bellamy went on a date with another guy, say, next week. How would you react?”
“Not. Well. I would kill him.”
“Then yes, JT, you need to ask her, outright, to be your girlfriend. Agree to only see you. And,” she beams, “promise her the same. Tit for tat, playboy cat.”
I don’t dust off the glitter covering me or give hugs—I fly toward the door—ready to find her and pounce.
“Atta boy, Son! I withdraw my earlier vagina comment!” My father’s shout from the back is the last thing I hear.
Twenty-Four
Bellamy
BRYNN AND I have just sat down with our plates of pizza and hit play on Steel Magnolias when my front door threatens to rattle off the hinges from a booming knock.
We both jolt and shriek, my pizza now in my lap.
“Shit, hot, hot!” I whisper-hiss and jump up, more concerned with the second degree burns to my thighs than the possible serial killer trying to beat his way into my apartment.
Brynn runs back in from the kitchen, handing me some ice wrapped in a towel then stares at the door. “Were you expecting someone?” She too whispers.
“No. Especially not the Cartel or a very unbalanced hitman.”
“Neither of those would knock first, just for future reference,” she covers her mouth before laughing—silence, as if no one’s here, is our friend right now. Unless, of course, they take the silence as a sign that the “coast is clear” to break in and rob me.
“You put the ice on your legs and get 9-1-1 punched in, ready to hit call. I’ll check the peephole,” she says so quietly, I almost can’t hear her.
I nod and sit, one hand on the ice pack, the other gripping my phone.
She rises up on her tiptoes and looks, then—and I’ve never been hunting in my life— makes a gnarled, angry noise that I, for some reason, immediately imagine is exactly what a grizzly bear caught in a trap would sound like. I don’t know why…being absolutely petrified makes me think of random shit I guess.
“What is it?” I shush-ask.
“It,” she flips the bottom lock so hard it may now be broken, “is,” next is the deadbolt, also possibly damaged, “my brother.”
She throws open the door…okay, definitely gonna have to fix that knob-sized hole in the wall, and blocks the entrance.
“What the hell are you doing here, JT? And could you have knocked any louder? Scared the crap outta both of us! Only landlords owed money and the police pound on a door like that!”
“Also the Cartel or very unbalanced hitmen,” I add in a mumble.
“No, Bellamy, keep up! I told you neither of those would knock first,” Brynn schools me with an exasperated sigh.
Unconcerned with our debate, Jefferson peers around his sister, still blocking his entrance, and his brows dip as he frowns. “Baby, why and how are you hurt?”
“Because of you, Goliath!” Brynn sidesteps, obscuring his view once more. “You banging like a lunatic scared her and she dropped steaming hot pizza on her legs.”
“And the police, Cartel, or a landlord, who technically works for us, seemed more likely than a visit from her boyfriend?” he asks Brynn in bitter ridicule.
I should point out the Cartel was all me, but Brynn’s already on her tiptoes, screaming back at him.
“Yes, when I specifically told you to leave us alone it does! And now she’s hurt. Just another reason you should listen to me, JT!”
“Damn,” I hear him mutter right before he easily moves Brynn aside, rushing over to me and dropping to his knees at my feet. “I’m so sorry, Bellamy. Is it bad? Let me see.”
“I’ll live,” I assure him, lifting the bag so he can assess for himself. “Feels better already.”
He gazes up at me, his eyes the darkest shade of cocoa brown I’ve ever seen them. “You want me to run and get you some aloe? Shit, I really am sorry.”
“Relax,” I gently push his shoulder. “No big deal. You can get me a new piece of pizza though, it’s on the kitchen counter. Help yourself, too.”
“Nooo,” Brynn’s hot on his heels, “no helping yourself. You’re not staying. Dammit JT, I asked for one day. One!”
“And I gave it to you. It’s after seven o’clock at night, day’s over. My turn.”
I clear my throat, twice, then a third time, starting to sound like I’m choking on a hairball…and finally get their attention. “Brynn, if he wants to stay and watch the movie with us, there’s no harm in letting him, is there?” I put emphasis on the word “movie” and stare in her eyes, channeling unspoken girl code.
A deviant grin lights up her face and I know she’s caught what I was throwing. “Okay,” she fakes pouty surrender, “you can stay for the movie. It’s Bellamy’s place, her call.”
“That’s what I thought.” He’s so proud and cute…I feel bad for tricking him. “Thank you, baby. What are we watching?” He sits down beside me, handing me my pizza.
“Steel Magnolias,” I miraculously say without any hint of amusement.
“Cool, what’s it about?”
“A group of women, friends, who live in the same small town. All their different lives, troubles, worries-”
“You girls enjoy, I’ve had enough ovary overload tonight. I’m out,” he springs to his feet. “Text me later, Bellamy.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I send Brynn a secret grin of victory.
“No, stay put, you’re hurt.”
“Jefferson, please,” I huff, standing and walking his way. “The entire pizza restaurant didn’t collapse on my legs, just a slice. I’ll walk you out. Be right back, Brynn.”
“By all means, take your time,” she plops down and kicks up her feet, happy as a lark.
Once we’re on the other side of the closed door, I wrap my arms around Jefferson’s neck. “I work tomorrow until three. You?”
His hands find and squeeze my hips, pulling me unfeasibly close against him. “Same, now. Pick you up at three?”
“Mhmm,” I hum, soaking up his scent and the feel of his body. “I kinda tricked you tonight, for Brynn’s sake. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he murmurs on my hair, placing a kiss there. “It’s all right. I love my sister, I’ll let her have this one.”
“I was thinking though,” I lay my head on his chest. “Wonder how much different things would be if Ryder asked for more of her time?”
“Only one way to find out,” he grunts, deep and gravely, before lifting my chin so I’ll gaze up at him. “My brilliant, kind girl. I’m on it. Now kiss me goodnight like you can’t fucking live without it.”
And I do.
IF A WATCHED pot never boils, then a constantly checked clock never ticks. Swear to my time, good one, it seems like three o’clock will never get here.
And guess what happens between one and three at the diner?
Not a damn thing.
The lunch rush is over, everyone back at work, and I gotta say…refilling ketchup bottles and rolling silverware is doing little to make time go by faster. Maybe even having the opposite effect.
“Bellamy!” my manager hollers from the kitchen, so I get up and go back there.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go ahead and take off. No sense paying you to sit around and do busy work.”
“Thank you,” I smile and hustle to grab my things before he changes his mind, all the while tamping down the wave of trepidation cresting in my gut.
If trouble really does have a smell—it’s currently singeing my nose hairs.
I pull the bus schedule out of my purse, only to find I’m out of luck on that front.
Brynn? Pitching practice.
Jefferson? At work, and already taking off too much time because of me lately. But I have to at least update him so he does
n’t show up here at three and fly into a panic.
Me: Hey you, hope you’re having a good day. Wanted to let you know I got let off work early so meet me at my place instead.
I’ll give him ten minutes to respond before doing anything, hoping he serendipitously got the afternoon off too.
Twelve minutes later…no reply.
Okay, what now? I don’t have the extra money to get a cab or Uber (not that I would anyway because I find that whole system suspect), so walking it is. To…somewhere, just until the bus comes.
I say goodbye to the two warm bodies in the diner then take off down the sidewalk, thinking of it as a spontaneous adventure. And across the street, a consignment boutique catches my eye.
The moment I step inside, a bubbly older woman is right in front of me, with a beaming smile and an eagerness radiating off her.
“My, aren’t you a pretty one? I’m Kelly Kerr, owner of Another Lady’s Treasure.” She spreads her arms open and spins, obviously, and rightfully so, proud of her store. “Have you been in before?”
“No, but I’m glad I found it today. Your shop is lovely.” My eyes roam over the organized plethora of high-end merchandise.
“Thank you. Anything particular I can help you find today, uh…”
“Bellamy,” I smile.
“And a pretty name. So, you work at The Pit Stop?” She eyes my uniform.
“Yes, but only part-time. I take a pretty full load at college, when it starts back up.” I traipse deeper into the shop and start looking through a rack of clothing I could never afford.
Or could I…
“Is this really only eleven dollars?” I hold up the cutest, distressed-washed jean skirt (maybe a wee bit short) I’ve ever seen.
“It is,” she has a wonderful, kind laugh. “I think it’d look absolutely perfect on you, too. Those legs? That skirt.” She nods decisively. “Now, what to go with it?”
“Um…” I chew my lip, mentally inventorying my current wardrobe. “No idea. I’m going to a concert Friday night, kinda country, so-”
“So boots and a cute vest!” She may be more excited than I am…and overestimating my budget. She runs around from rack, to shelf, to me. “Here,” she piles my arms full, “go try it all on together and let me see.”
