The Guilt of a Sparrow

by Jess B. Moore

  “I didn't stay long. That's why Dominic offered to drive me home.”

  That was true. Mostly. Sort of.

  “I want to meet him.”

  “Oh my God.” I settled my head into my hands, elbows braced on her spotless counter top. I could feel her eyes on me, and I knew she wouldn't tolerate me throwing a fit. Not that I ever dared. “I feel certain you have met him. Fox River is the size of a shopping mall and we've met every single shopper.”

  I heard her huff at my lame comparison. Fact was we were too small a town to have a shopping mall. It was ironic, what I said. No less true. There was no chance she hadn't met Dominic at some point. Our families had ties, even if they were mostly related to the days when Cotton and Luke would get into fights and the subsequent fall out.

  “I don't remember meeting him. If I did, it wasn't when he was taking my only child out.”

  I bit my tongue. Held it between my teeth to keep from saying something, anything, to her. I had to take three full breaths before I could get past the only child jab she threw my way and the immediate effect it had on me.

  “We're going out as friends. It's no big deal.”

  “I know your friends, Magnolia. I do not know this boy.”

  “Okay. Okay. You can meet him.”

  I mean, what was the big deal, right? I got up and walked away, leaving her there to think about having an only child, and to distract herself with her tomato plants. Somehow, no matter what, I always felt like a terrible daughter.

  When I checked my phone, I had a text from Dominic. More than one. I couldn't help smiling at my phone because he was adorable even in text.

  Dominic: Good morning, sunshine.

  First thing I noticed was that he texted without text speak. He wrote out words, and used a comma as well as a period. Nary an abbreviation. I was pleased by this discovery because I detested sifting through the gobbledygook that was meant to pass as words and sentences in some texts. Rather than an inner child, I had an inner old lady that liked her real words and (mostly) correct grammar.

  Dominic: Is it too early? I don't know what time you wake up. I was up late last night dealing with ... well, things. A particular thing. Rhymes with Rotten. Ahem.

  Dominic: So, tonight. Hmm. What shall we do pretty girl?

  Next thing I noticed was that he was cute and flirty even while texting. How was that possible? It made no sense to me that his short electronic snippets could color my cheeks pink.

  Me: Good morning, D.

  Me: I wake up early. It's my mama's fault. She has the coffee pot set to brew at 5:45 every morning, and if I don't go get some, she'll dump it by 6:30.

  That was true. She announced one day she would give me an hour. Turned out she could only last 45 minutes before giving in to the call to clean up the coffee pot and put things right. I would hear the coffee maker beep at 5:51, it's work complete, and I would spend the next few minutes convincing myself I wanted to get up if for no other reason than to secure my coffee. By the time I got up and moved around, I was up for the day.

  Dominic: Then it's a matter of life and death.

  He responded before I could tap out any suggestions for our friend-date. I laughed. He sent an emoji of a skull and crossbones.

  Me: You are so cute. How do you manage to be adorable in text? It's unfair to the rest of us.

  I hit send, then forgot how to breathe. The air in my lungs struggled to release or pull in something fresh, burning behind my rib cage. What was wrong with me? I was always saying the wrong thing, or too much, or something ridiculous in real life. I could blame any number of things: nerves, inexperience, whacky lack of thinking before speaking. I had no such excuses in texting. I was given the opportunity to think and compose. Ugh.

  Dominic: You think my text skills are adorable? I think it's wonderfully fair to you - perhaps unfair to my competition.

  Dominic: Not that I have competition. As you and I are friends. I do worry I'm setting you up to be disappointed by future text dialogue.

  I was giggling and blushing. A desire to fall for Dominic struck me so fully; I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching my phone. I should try to fall for him, to harbor a massive crush on this wonderful boy. But even as I tried to change my heart, I could only think of his brother. I knew that Dominic knew that I would be thinking of Cotton, and that it was precisely his brother he worried would fail to excite me via simple texting. I didn't worry about how Dominic knew I liked Cotton - I knew he knew. I suppose it was possible he was thinking about Vincent Berry. Assuming Alyssa could pull off the set up, I might be communicating with him soon. He struck me as a sweet texter, based on nothing but his generally sweet reputation.

  Me: You are setting the bar unfairly high. It's true. I will compare all future texting with boys to this.

  Me: (I'd recommend you scale it back, but I am too selfish, and I won't deny myself your full abilities).

  Again. I did it again. I hit send. Then two seconds later I realized what I said, and I cringed. I lay on my back and held my phone over my face. Holy hell. I won't deny myself your full abilities? What was that?

  Me: Ignore that. What are we doing tonight?

  Dominic: No chance. I'm basking in your praise.

  Dominic: Tonight. Yes. I say we go traditional. Dinner and movie.

  Me: Where? I'll meet you.

  Last ditch effort to thwart my mama meeting Dominic. It would stir up trouble in my house, but I could deal with it. I could deal with her disappointment better than I could deal with living through the moments of her speaking to him.

  Dominic: What? No way, no how. This is a “date.” I will pick you up. Six.

  I groaned and dropped the phone to my bed. It was twin size, covered with an old quilt we'd gotten at a craft fair when I was a kid. I'd seen the quilt across the room and fell madly in love with it. Crisp white, butter yellow, and sky blue, in a wedding ring pattern; and I needed it. I coveted it. Luke was being terrible that day, using a loud voice to announce his disdain of homemade things to the building. He stalked around acting like he was better than the people there displaying their carefully crafted goods. I didn't ask for the quilt, knowing better. I swiped at tears as we walked away and kept my mouth shut. Two months later, at Christmas, I woke up with the quilt over me. My hands gathered the worn soft fabric and held tight, a solid good memory, proof that sometimes good things could come my way.

  Me. Nice use of air quotes for our “date.” See you later, D.

  Chapter Eight

  Magnolia

  I stuffed my phone under my pillow and refused to look at it again. Instead, I went outside and helped my mama repot her tomatoes. We fell into fits of laughter as we tried to secure the bendy stalks to the bamboo stakes. I loved gardening and yard work, the sun hot on my skin, dirt beneath my nails. With my mama, there was always to be some mishaps and resulting laughter.

  After we cleaned up and ate a simple lunch, we went shopping in the neighboring towns, hitting up thrift shops as well as boutiques. I found a couple light summer dresses that I liked, and was pleased to buy them. We came home feeling accomplished and it went a long way to distracting me from being nervous about my upcoming friend-date.

  Back home, there was only time to get ready, then Dominic would be arriving to pick me up.

  “You'll wear one of your dresses tonight?” Mama asked, likely anticipating my answer.

  “Um, yeah. I was thinking I'd wear the boho one.”

  “I agree. The seersucker is nice, but perhaps too nice for a casual evening with a friend.”

  When she said friend, it sounded like she meant date. But not just date, more like why the hell isn't it a date. I sighed and finished pinning my hair back. We were both in my bathroom, while I tried to secure my hair up off my neck, and to do it in a manner that looked pretty. It involved a lot of tiny braids and a lot of Bobby pins. On the one hand, my mama wanted me to date, to find love and happiness, to get married and give her loads of grandchildren. On the o
ther hand, the one most often seen, she wanted to protect me from getting hurt, and she wanted to keep me at home as long as possible. Drawing out the years and our time together, holding tighter the older I got, knowing it wouldn't be long before the future was now.

  She smiled at my reflection. I used to watch her get ready. In the mornings, when I was little, I would go into her bathroom in the mornings and watch her do her hair and makeup. I would sometimes read storybooks to her. Other times we would talk back and forth. There were days we were silent, just together. It was a strange reversal to be an adult, to be the one getting ready to go out, and for her to watch me.

  “I'll let you get dressed.”

  I detected sadness in her tone. Unsure if it was because I was grown up, and she was remembering the same things I was from when I was a little girl. Or if she had reservations about my non-date, sending me out with a boy and trusting I would behave. My heart ached in a way that was dull and familiar, as I thought about Luke. She was possibly thinking about my brother, and that he would never date again, that he wasn't here with us, and how I was all she had. I took all those gloomy thoughts and shoved them into a box in the back of my head. The one I kept under lock and key and stuff full of all things Lucian Ezra Porter.

  The doorbell rang only a second after I had pulled my dress on. I hurried to the front door to intercept, only to be too late.

  “Nice to meet you. Please come inside.”

  I rounded the corner from the hallway that led to my bedroom in time to see my mama step back and usher my “date” inside our house. The house was okay. I had always liked that it was small and that my mama was weird. Art hung on every wall, paintings and photographs, hung with frames that matched nothing. Pottery sculptures and bowls, glass orbs and figurines, wood carved creatures and abstract nothings, settled along every flat surface. There were books everywhere, trinkets collected over my mama's lifetime tucked into every nook, and people said it was like being in a museum. It was warm and real and very true to Stella Mae Porter.

  Dominic came in with an open smile on his face, his gaze promptly landing on me. His dark blue eyes were rich with good humor, and they stayed on me rather than examine the room around us. He wore jeans and a salmon colored t-shirt that looked amazing with his skin and clashed horribly with his strawberry blonde hair.

  I did notice the way his size impacted his clothing. It wasn't something you could look at him and not notice. Jeans that hung low on his trim waist, shirt that stretched across his broad chest with fabric taut around his enormous arms. Boy clearly worked out on the regular. I also noticed that there was no skip in my heartbeat and no clenching in my gut. I could appreciate the beauty of him, but it wasn't for me. I found, once again, I was disappointed.

  There was nothing I could do to prevent the immediate longing I had for Cotton. How it obliterated any chance of attraction to another guy. Dominic, here to take me out. The idea of Vincent asking me out. Cotton's kiss. It was all too much, a toxic mix of stress in my stomach, swirling and threatening to make me sick.

  Still, I recognized that the reason for my relative calm with Dominic had everything to do with not being attracted to him. I would take it. It wasn't a bad thing to have friendly feelings for this particular MacKenna.

  “Hi.”

  “Evening, Maggie. You look good enough to eat.” He pulled me closer to him, grabbing my hands and tugging until I was at his side. He smelled like cinnamon and sugar with a touch of coffee. He smelled good enough to eat.

  “That is hardly polite. What would your mama think?”

  I went red, embarrassed she would bring up his mother, who had died five or six years ago. The town had taken it hard, Molly MacKenna having been highly respected and an active supporter of the festivals that took over downtown on the weekends. The boys had taken it harder, their mama having been their only parent as long as anyone could remember. Every one of those boys worshipped their mama. She was strict, kind, patient, expected her boys to be gentlemen, and loved by all. With the notable exception of my own mother; to be fair she didn't like much of anyone.

  “She'd agree with my assessment, I'm sure.” Dominic had an innocent expression on his face as he responded to my mama. Not a trace of concern marred his features, like he wasn't bothered by my mama's words. “We'll bake her into a Maggie Pie.”

  He winked. My mama scoffed and made a point to not respond to that line of talk.

  “What are your plans for the night?”

  Now, my mama was always polite to people. Without fail. Sometimes it was passive aggressive polite, with a bless your heart tacked onto the end. Or it was said in a tone that painted a picture different than her words. The sugary syrupy consistency of her words were too much when she was displeased with a person. She stood there, head cocked gently to one side, looking up at Dominic MacKenna, and her words were politely inquiring. Yet, you couldn't miss the undertone of warning and skepticism. I stiffened and held my tongue.

  “Dinner and a movie, Ma'am.” With a sympathetic squeeze to my hand, Dominic gave his obliging answers to her mock-pleasant inquiry.

  “That sounds lovely. What time will you have Magnolia home?”

  “Okay.” I stepped up, putting myself between the two of them. Enough was enough. “I don't have a curfew. I'll be home when I'm home.”

  For one second her eyes went wide, and her lips went thin. I held my breath and waited.

  “Have fun.” Her voice was schooled. But she couldn't stop talking, couldn't let us go with that. As Dominic held the door open for me and I stepped through, she called, “Be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

  “Oh God. Go, just go.” I pushed Dominic with both hands and closed the door behind myself.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “She's had her share of drunken one-night stands. She expects better of me.”

  The look on Dom's face was priceless. Truly worth seeing. I wish I had thought to pull out my phone and snap a picture. I ignored the punch of guilt that followed my words.

  “I am not going to comment on that.”

  “Good idea.”

  I shouldn't have said it. That was a terrible thing to say. Thing was, my mama was single from the time I was ten. She wasted no time going out, usually outside of Fox River, looking for a good time. Other than a couple semi-long term relationships with impressively repulsive jerks, most of the years since my daddy took off, she slept around no strings attached. Not that I blamed her. Maybe I had judged her when I was younger, but as an adult, I could understand her reasons. Single mom, working multiple jobs, struggling with a particularly challenging child, of course she needed an escape from those parts of her life.

  Trouble was she was unrelenting in her strict standards for her daughter. Me? I was not to date certain types of boys. There were places she would never want me to go because of the way it would tarnish my reputation. Mostly she didn't have to say these things to me, it all came wrapped up in the tidy box of expectations of my being a Good Girl.

  Every so often she felt the need to drop reminders. Things like never letting a man give me a hickey, because it's tacky and announces to the world a girl is easy. No public displays of affection, showing off what should be private, because it was nasty. My mama considered it a joke to remind me when I did go out, not to be her. She could be wild, reckless, and without consequence. I was afforded no such liberties.

  Chapter Nine

  Cotton

  Not like I was going to obsess about it. (Any longer than I already had done). Grown man, with a life, moving on.

  Dominic could take Maggie Porter out all he wanted. He was a good guy, and they were friends, or “friends,” whatever. She should have someone taking her out. As far as guys go, my brother was a damn good one. That was that.

  Trouble was, I didn't believe my own good advice.

  I went to the studio to work. I was about six photo shoots backlogged on editing. That was the way of it. The wedding I shot on Sun
day had to sit and wait until I finished editing all the other photos that came before it.

  Three years earlier I had found a space downtown Fox River and set up shop. Before that, working from home was, well, not working. I lived at the homestead because it was big enough to have space for all of us without feeling crowded, it afforded us time together, and let us help out our mama when that had been a necessity. Joseph was the only one that had moved out, and he had done so for college and never come back. He lived on the other side of town with his prissy no good wife and his beautiful squishy children. The rest of us stayed at home. Denver would never leave - he inherited the house when Mama passed. It was his. But he had no interest in living in the place alone, and I couldn't blame him. It couldn't be said Denver was much into having people around, but he loved us and he would be swallowed up in that big old house all on his own. If he ever settled down to start a family, the rest of us would find other places. Until then, Beau, Dominic, and I, we enjoyed being a big rambunctious family.

  That being said, home wasn't an ideal work environment.

  The space I leased was in the oldest building downtown. The Fox River Hardware Store resided below me. The building was originally bank slash mayor's office slash government official offices. They all split and went their separate ways a century ago, at which time the Lawson's set up shop and have since run the hardware store. Brian Lawson had taken over for his daddy back when I was a kid, and he brought life back to the shop and to downtown. He was a go-getter and organizer. Once a month we did a Third Thursday event, all the downtown shops staying open late, and the townspeople all coming out. I wasn't much into the events, and left business cards on the doorstep for anyone interested. My space was reached by an ancient wrought iron set of stairs on the outside wall of the building, topped with the smallest balcony space ever conceived that threatened to pitch you off, and was likely never meant to be usable space. I loved it. Once inside, there were walls where there shouldn't be, with archways carved too low for my height. There was a loft reachable by a wooden ladder I had made myself. It was all bricks, the walls and the flooring, and they were all uneven and a tripping hazard. It had become my sanctuary. I had a little office to work. I had a room set up for clients to come in and see their prints.