by Reid, Penny
“Roscoe is just like Jethro, when Jethro was that age.” Dani pressed her lips together, giving me her you-know-what-I’m-talking-about glare. “Careless, thoughtless. Just look at how he treated you.”
Again, I wanted to defend him, to tell her she was wrong, that he hadn’t treated me poorly.
But I couldn’t. Because she was right.
Since I had no thoughtful response to offer, I set my PJs on the bed and pulled off my shirt. Those earlier unknowns that I’d skipped over resurfaced as I dressed for bed.
What I knew about Roscoe Winston, what I’d experienced tonight, and what my sister suspected to be true—about him being a shameless flirt and player—weren’t adding up. My Simone-senses told me there was more to him than that, and I refuse to believe it was just wishful thinking.
“I just wish . . .” Dani started, the wistful unfinished thought drawing my attention.
She was gazing at me with affection and concern, and that combination always made me apprehensive. It was the I-want-to-give-you-a-makeover look, and I couldn’t handle another makeover from my sister. I just couldn’t. My eyebrows still hadn’t recovered from last time, and neither had my—sorry if this is TMI—my furry lady closet, which hadn’t been furry after the last makeover day was done.
“What?” I asked, the word infused with caution.
“I see you,” Dani said softly, gently, and with a slathering of sympathy.
“I can see me, too. There’s a mirror right there.” I gestured to the mirror over my desk.
“No, I mean, I see you, Simone.” She drifted closer, the slathering of sympathy had now saturated her features and she whispered, “I know you have these . . . worth issues, about how you look. But you shouldn’t. If you would see yourself how I see you, then you’d never give someone like Roscoe Winston the time of day.”
Oh dear Lord. Not this again.
“No. I don’t have ‘worth issues.’” I couldn’t help the hard edge in my voice as I turned from her, deciding that leftovers sounded like a splendid idea.
“Fine. You don’t.” She followed me out of my room and I could almost hear her roll her eyes.
“That’s right, I don’t. My self-worth isn’t based on what I look like.”
My sister and I only seemed to fundamentally disagree on three things in life: how potato salad should be made, the best method to bring about positive change in the world (I said roll up your sleeves and dig in, she said power and influence meant no sleeve-rolling was necessary), and whether or not lack of attention to my appearance meant that I had self-worth issues.
Dani made a soft noise with her tongue from behind me. “You have no idea how beautiful you are. I just wish you could see how gorgeous and—”
“Or maybe I don’t care,” I harsh whispered as I opened the refrigerator door.
“Come on,” she whispered as well, since our parents were asleep down the hall. “Everybody cares.”
Frustrated, I shut the fridge and spun on my sister, loud-whispering, “No. Everybody doesn’t. I honestly do not care. Why is this such a difficult concept for people to grasp? I don’t go around saying, ‘Dani, you clearly have self-worth issues because you have no idea how good you are at word searches and jigsaw puzzles. If you knew how great you are at puzzles, a magical world of opportunity and self-confidence would open up to you!’”
She crossed her arms as her gaze grew hooded. “It’s not the same, the world we live in doesn’t put the same focus on word searches and jigsaw puzzles, and you know it. Why do you think you like Roscoe? He’s not good enough for you. If you would just see that you’re one of the most stunning—”
“Then maybe society should stop judging people for their DNA and start judging them for their inability to solve logic-based, combinatorial number-placement puzzles.”
She blinked, her forehead wrinkling. “What?”
“Sudoku!”
Throwing my hands in the air, I marched out of the kitchen and back to my room, shutting the door firmly—but quietly—behind me, and making a point to turn the lock.
I understood, on a theoretical level, why she continued to bring this up, I did. How she looked, how others looked, was important to my sister. She placed value on taking great care with her exterior. It mattered to her on a fundamental level. I estimated at least half of her self-worth was based on her appearance.
Therefore, it must’ve been disorienting that appearance didn’t matter much to me. Just like, it was disorienting for me when people didn’t base most of their self-worth on the abilities of their brain.
Liking Roscoe, caring about Roscoe, wanting Roscoe had nothing to do with how I viewed myself, or a supposed lack of worth or lack of confidence, and everything to do with . . . him.
Dammit.
My mother used to tell me that (most) people value what they have in abundance and what they lack in abundance. If a person didn’t value the strengths and interests they had in abundance, then they would have no self-worth. My strengths and interests were book and brain related.
Conversely, if a person didn’t place value on what they lacked, then they would never strive to be better. I lacked—among other things—the ability to make friends easily. Therefore, when I made a good friend, I poured a good deal of energy into maintaining that friendship.
Everything else, all that stuff in the middle—including how I looked—which was neither a strength nor a weakness nor an interest, didn’t occupy my thoughts or take up self-worth shelf space.
For some reason, this topic had me thinking about Roscoe again and our kiss. I had a hunch my thoughts would be boomeranging back to this topic often over the coming weeks. It would be difficult, but that was okay. The memory would fade.
In the meantime, I would just have to ignore these messy feelings.
Fact: I would always care about Roscoe Winston. I accepted this. Nothing I could do about it, as frustrating as it was.
Also fact: Caring about someone didn’t mean I had to let that someone keep hurting me.
He wanted to shut me out? So be it. Fine. Following him, tracking his movements didn’t mean I had to interact with him. Caring about him from a distance, without getting involved, was entirely possible. I could keep him safe from the Iron Wraiths without speaking to him.
So that’s what I decided to do.
Simple, right?
Right?
. . . Right.
Chapter Eleven
“Do not let the memories of your past limit the potential of your future. There are no limits to what you can achieve on your journey through life, except in your mind.”
Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart
*Roscoe*
Simone Payton was following me.
She was either terrible at it if her goal was stealth, or tremendous at it if her goal was being conspicuous.
I first caught sight of her Friday morning. She was sitting in her car in the parking lot outside the Starbucks in Maryville, the one on Lamar Alexander Parkway, near Target. She’d backed into the spot and had her head down as though she was reading something on her lap.
After what had transpired between us the night before, I wasn’t sure what to do.
On the one hand, we’d promised to interact, be friendly and polite if we happened to run into each other.
On the other hand, she didn’t seem to notice me. And I hadn’t moved on from that kiss. I didn’t know if I’d ever move on from that kiss. Everything about it—and about being with her last night—was branded on my brain. Concentrating on anything else would be a labor for the rest of the day, which was why I’d left the house early this morning and driven all the way to Maryville for decent coffee.
Plus, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about things between us, the reality of what it had been like to hold her in my arms.
I’d been open to spending time with her, making new memories of us together in the hopes that she’d matter less. But now the opposite had happ
ened. Problem was, I couldn’t seem to bring myself to care.
I want . . .
I wanted to see her again.
I wanted to talk to her, to touch her, kiss her, more. The pull toward her was irresistible, and so I made excuses, reasoning that if she did notice me in the Starbucks parking lot, if she caught sight of me now and thought I was avoiding her again, then that would make me a liar.
After all, I did promise to be friendly. My momma taught us never to break a promise.
My heart in my throat—where it seemed to have taken up permanent residence—I strolled up to her car. While crossing the lot, I realized a startling fact. Her rejection hadn’t been the first memory (and accompanying time machine of emotions) to surface when I’d spotted her just now. The first memory to come forward was of us kissing last night.
Basically, I’d traded one unwieldy memory for another, but at least this new one included me grabbing her ass and her unbuckling my belt.
Simone glanced up when I was a few feet away. She did a double take, setting whatever was on her lap to one side. Her features seemed carefully stoic as she opened the door and stepped out of her car, watching my approach.
I stopped at the hood of her car, my gaze moving over her from behind my sunglasses. Last night she’d been in jeans and a sweater. This morning she wore different jeans and a different sweater. Her clothes last night had been baggy. Her outfit today fit considerably better, showing off her shape in a way that was difficult to ignore.
So I didn’t ignore it.
I appreciated it.
“’Morning,” she said evenly. But her hands fisted at her sides. She then crossed her arms, paused, and then dropped her arms again and stuffed her fingers in her pockets.
“Good morning.” I gave her a single head nod, knowing I sounded more formal than the situation merited. But—damn—the feel of her body arching and rubbing against mine, the heat of her mouth, the soft sounds she made were all on repeat in my mind.
Not that I was complaining, far from it. But keeping things formal was a good idea if she didn’t want me mauling her in the parking lot.
“What are you—what are you doing here?” she asked, promptly grimaced, and gestured to the coffee in my hand. “I mean, obviously you’re getting coffee. But what are you doing here, in this parking space, at the place where my car is parked? Do you need something?”
I gave her a tight smile so I wouldn’t lick my lips and try to taste her there again. “I promised you last week at Genie’s that if I saw you I’d be polite.” I motioned behind me to the Starbucks. “I saw you as I was coming out. So here I am, being polite.”
It wasn’t even a half-truth. It was a lie I’d told myself to justify seeking her out. But I couldn’t seem to care about that either.
Simone frowned in response.
No. Scratch that.
Simone scowled.
But her angry expression was soon replaced with a sarcastic one. “Well, goodness gracious me.” She adopted a saccharine sweet southern drawl, her voice light and breathy, and pressed one set of fingers to her chest. “I don’t know how I’ll recover from this gentlemanly kindness.”
I held in my laugh, barely.
“Thank you, good sir, for condescending to come over here and bequeathing your politeness upon me.”
Sliding my jaw to one side, I took a step forward. “Simone—”
“Oh no, no.” She fluttered her hands before her. “I won’t keep you another moment from your busy schedule of chivalry and valiant deeds, certainly you have maidens aplenty waiting in rapturous verisimilitude.”
“Verisimilitude?”
She shrugged and switched to her real voice. “I know, it’s the wrong word and it doesn’t fit in the sentence. But it’s fun to say and I couldn’t think of anything else. Speaking like that is exhausting, but I was determined to use it. That and bequeathing.”
I laughed.
She did too, but it sounded reluctant.
Looking toward the Target, she crossed her arms. “All right, well . . .”
“Well?” I prompted when she didn’t continue, hopeful that maybe she’d suggest we grab coffee together, or maybe breakfast.
Her stoic expression was back when she returned her gaze to mine. “Enjoy your coffee.”
Staring at her, I did my best to ignore the disappointment of her dismissal and considered asking her to come with me to breakfast. As I considered, her glare grew even more remote.
Even so, I found I wasn’t ready to leave, not if she wasn’t coming with me somewhere.
“You got any questions for me today?” I asked, hopeful.
She shook her head. “Nope.”
We stared at each other and I decided to take a chance. “Are you hungry?”
Her standoffish expression didn’t alter, but she said, “I’m always hungry, you know that.”
I smiled, just a little. “You want to go get breakfast? With me?”
Some of the frost behind her eyes thawed, but not much. “No, Roscoe. I don’t.”
Swallowing what felt like rocks, I nodded, my eyes and my stomach dropping to the ground. Instinct told me to push, to coax, to win her over, to fight for her affections, to ask until she relented. But my momma and my sister always told me that when a lady says no, a gentleman listens and believes her the first time.
If Simone wanted to see me, she knew where I lived. If she didn’t want to see me, I would respect that.
“All right then,” I said to my shoes before lifting my eyes. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
I didn’t expect to see her again, not for a while, so I allowed myself another lingering look from behind my sunglasses before turning and strolling to my truck.
The rest of the morning was spent in a distracted and depressed haze, endeavoring to settle into the idea of letting her go again, distracting myself by reciting more of the dictionary, and swallowing around the persistent rocks in my throat.
I’d avoided her once. I’d moved on reasonably well. I could do it again.
Therefore, imagine my surprise when I spotted her car later that afternoon when I accompanied Cletus to Big Ben’s dulcimer shop after running errands with him in Knoxville.
Once again, she was sitting in her car, in the parking lot, staring at her lap. This time, based on her frosty reception this morning, I made no attempt to intercept her or make polite conversation. Instead, I left with Cletus and his new book of music.
“Hey,” he said, lifting his chin toward her car once we were back in my truck. “Isn’t that Simone Payton?”
I nodded, grinding my teeth and putting the truck in gear. “Yep.”
My brother stared at my profile as I pulled out of the lot. I ignored his stare. I could always tell when Cletus was looking at me because his stares carried a certain weight and were heavily fortified with either disappointment or insinuation.
“You should ask that woman out on a date,” he said, speaking his mind.
“Oh? You think so?” I didn’t roll my eyes because, if I did, he’d likely exact some small revenge. Cletus despised few things more than an eye-roll.
“No. I know so.” He turned his attention to the passenger side mirror. “And do you want to know what else I know?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Fine, surly britches”—he sniffed—“I won’t tell you.”
We drove in silence all the way to the Piggly Wiggly, completed our grocery shopping with as few words as possible passing between us, and when we left the store he insisted on pushing the cart because I pushed it too loudly over the asphalt.
I wasn’t three steps out of the store when I spotted Simone’s car again, and my feet slowed to a stop.
“What the hell?”
“That’s what I was going to share in the car, but you were too busy sassing me.” Cletus had stopped at my side and he was looking where I was looking. “She’s been following us all day.”
A small sound of confusion escaped
my throat. “What is she up to?”
“She’s tailing you.”
I gave my brother a flat look. “Yeah, thanks so much, Sherlock. I figured that out.”
He huffed. “Then why did you ask?”
“It’s called a rhetorical question, Cletus.”
“Well then, it was a gross abuse of the English language, Roscoe. You only use a rhetorical question in order to produce an effect or to make a statement. It’s a question asked to further a point, to persuade, or for literary effect, none of which were required or relevant in this situation.”
A deep, frustrated growl erupted from my chest. “You are so freaking frustrating.”
“Because I’m correct? Or because you’re incorrect?”
“Just—just let’s get to the car.” I stomped away from my brother, tired of his company, while he trailed after pushing the cart ostensibly much quieter than I would have.
When we arrived at the house, I helped unload the groceries and put things away, but left through the back door at the earliest possible opportunity, needing quiet and space and time away before dinner with my family.
I walked for miles, through paths I’d traversed as a kid, usually with Simone close by. I visited memories I’d sought to abandon years ago, many of which involved my mother.
Why in the world would Simone be following me? She’d made it clear this morning even my politeness was unwelcomed. Then why spend the morning making a point to show up everywhere I went?
By the time I made it home I was tired, brain tired and bone tired, and I still had no idea why Simone would be tracking me all day. After the poor sleep from the night before, I was ready for bed.
But Ashley, Drew, and Beth had arrived while I was out walking, as had Beau and Shelly, and Jenn. So I ate with my family and I made an effort.
After dinner, while I was in the kitchen helping Beau with the dishes and discussing the plans for the family’s trip to Italy this summer, Cletus walked in.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands on his hips, and asked, “Why is she still tailing you?” Then, giving me a meaningful look, he promptly left. But not before calling over his shoulder, “Let the record show, that was proper application of a rhetorical question.”
