by Reid, Penny
“It doesn’t matter if you’re ten or fifty.”
For some reason, this comment frustrated me. “I know you want to help. But at some point, you need to stop taking on everyone else’s burdens. You’ve already given up too much.”
He was quiet for several seconds before asking gently, “What do you know about what I’ve given up?”
I still couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, because I knew enough. He’d taken beatings for all of us; he’d given up scholarships to college in order to stay and help our momma; he’d worked tirelessly to make a name for himself, build a reputation, and therefore change how the last name of Winston was regarded. He’d made it possible for each of us who came after to succeed.
But what happiness did he have for himself?
The swelling frustration increased, ballooned in my chest, and I grit my teeth. Maybe he was happy being a congressman, on his way to becoming a state senator, but I didn’t think so. Maybe he was happy to marry Daniella Payton, but as amazing and gorgeous as she was, I didn’t think so. Maybe he was happy to live vicariously through all of us, but I didn’t think so.
I didn’t answer his question, instead I asked a new one. “Don’t you think it’s time for me to handle things myself? Don’t you think it’s time we all did?”
He didn’t respond.
Giving him back my eyes, I leaned my elbows on the table and asked plainly, “Who are you living your life for, Billy? For us? Because, if that’s the case, you’re done. Look at this family you built.” I motioned to the house around us.
“You’re my responsibility. You all are.”
“No.” I huffed a laugh. “We’re not. We haven’t been for a while.”
His features grew stern. “Roscoe—”
“Jethro isn’t a worthless bastard anymore, in case you didn’t know. He hasn’t been for a long time. He’s a stay-at-home dad who freaking knits matching sweaters for his family and builds folks houses in his spare time. Cletus is crazy, but he’s happier than he’s ever been. Yeah, he’s had his rough patches, but the Winston Brothers Auto Shop is franchising this year, they can’t keep up with demand. Jennifer is the weirdo yin to his yang. One can’t live without the other.
“Speaking of soul mates, Ashley and Drew were made for each other, like they were carved from the same block of marble. They’re living their best, peaceful life with Bethany and talking about having another. Beau has Shelly and she has him, his work and her work, our family and her family. His cup runneth over with blessings. Duane and Jess are married, expecting, and they’re living in freaking Italy. He works on Maserati and Formula One racing cars. For fun.”
I stopped there and studied my brother, at the stubborn set of his mouth. But his eyes gave him away. He was listening, and he seemed conflicted.
Quieter, kinder, I said, “You are the reason. Never doubt that. You and Momma. She did the best she could. With seven of us she couldn’t do it on her own. She needed you. We all did, and you stepped up. Your sacrifices, and I’m sure there are a ton I don’t know about, made this family possible. But brother, it’s time for the sacrifices to end.”
“Roscoe—”
“Why are you avoiding living your own damn life? What are you so afraid of? Of failure? Of making painful memories you can’t forget? If that’s the case, I’ve tried that. I’m here to tell you that no matter what you do, shit is going to happen. You can’t avoid heartache without also leaving out the love.”
His frown intensified, the deep grooves on his forehead and between his eyebrows making an appearance, and he opened his mouth as though to speak.
But I wasn’t finished. “You deserve more than a life of work and nothing else. You deserve more than being a politician when I know you hate it, no matter how well-regarded you are, and marrying a woman you don’t love, no matter how much you respect her. You’ve lived your life for country, for work, for family. For Bethany, Jethro, Cletus, Ashley, Beau, Duane, and Roscoe. But your hiatus is at an end. Go take some risks, go find your purpose. The time has come to live your life for Billy Winston.”
I hit the surface of the table with my fist as I finished because . . . there. I said it. I didn’t regret it. It had been on my mind for a long time. Dammit, but someone had to let Billy off the hook.
“Are you finished?” he asked softly, a whisper of a smile behind his eyes. “Because I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say all at one time.”
I shrugged, my heart beating fast and continuing to accelerate as all the words I’d just said to my brother boomeranged, repeated, an echo in my head.
Why are you avoiding your own damn life?
No matter what you do, shit is going to happen.
“Do I get to speak now?” he asked.
Leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, I tried to focus on his words and not mine. I couldn’t. Not quite yet.
I was having an epiphany.
You can’t avoid heartache without also leaving out the love.
Well . . . shit.
I’d missed out.
I’d had my memories of Simone, of us, growing up. But I’d missed out on everything that came after. Taking a moment to look at my choices through the lens of who I was now, I wished I’d done things differently. As Beau had said in his drunken wisdom, if you love someone, you make them a priority. That meant you took risks, you made the bad memories trusting that you’d be making sublime ones in between.
“Roscoe?” Billy’s smile now encompassed his mouth, but he looked uncertain, as though he were a smidge concerned by my silence.
Standing from the table, I pointed at my brother and announced, “I know what I have to do.”
“About Darrell?”
“What? No. Were you even listening? I’d already decided what to do about Darrell last week.” I shook my head at my brother. “About Simone.” Obviously.
Billy also stood. “Wait, I thought we were talking about Darrell.”
“No. This was never about Darrell. None of this has ever been about anyone or anything but Simone. All this shit happens, all these people get in the way. They’re clutter, they make a mess. We make things complicated that shouldn’t be, and we want things to be simple when they’re not. Sometimes we’ll disagree, but so what? It’s not about them, or her job, or my job, or our past. None of that matters. She doesn’t need my forgiveness. She needs—we need—each other. The only thing that matters is- is now, and . . .”
Simone. And me.
Billy’s eyes were wide as he stared at me, apparently at a loss for words, or waiting for me to finish my thought. No matter. Like I’d said, I knew what I had to do.
Before he could question me further, I was out of the kitchen, making a beeline for the front door.
“Wait, Roscoe,” he called, and I could tell he was following. “Where are you going?”
“To find Simone.” As an afterthought, I added, “And to get your jacket back.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.”
Guy de Maupassant
*Simone*
Rebecca, the diner’s longest serving employee, kept a monthly calendar behind the counter next to the cash register. She used a black Sharpie to X out each date as it passed. Not purple, not green, not blue. Black. The X was always drawn carefully, meticulously, two lines extending from one corner to the other of each date’s small box.
I’d asked Rebecca once why she did it, whether she was counting down to something good. I’d been twelve and I think I’d been drinking a milkshake or eating a hamburger. As far as I could remember, we were the only two left in the diner and my brother was on his way to pick me up, or maybe it was my dad.
Rebecca looked up briefly and said in her flat, matter-of-fact southern drawl, “Time passes and people don’t notice. I want to be sure I take note of every moment I’ll never live again.”
She promptly wen
t back to filling the salt containers.
I didn’t know what to make of Rebecca’s X-ing out habit at the time, or her grim philosophy, but now I think I finally understood. Things will happen in your life and they will make you question where all your time has gone.
All is well. Life is going swimmingly. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe you’re frustrated by the day-to-day doldrums, the infinite tasks, the seemingly endless list of shows to binge on Netflix.
How will you ever catch up?
How will you ever get it done?
But then something happens. Doldrums, tasks, and Netflix shows become—literally—nothing. In one single instant, POOF! They’re gone.
The only things left are what really matters. The bare essentials. The people you love.
I hadn’t tried calling Roscoe since he left the field office in Louisville, but I did text him when I made it home. He’d messaged me back, letting me know he’d also made it home—to the Winston house—safely.
I texted him once more this morning, that I was spending the day with my grandfather, but that I’d be at the diner later for a shift. That was it. He hadn’t responded. I still had all the sad.
Other than a short phone call with Nelson earlier, during which she’d given me more info on what Roscoe had seen at Churchill Downs prior to my arrival, I’d stuck to my plan for the day. I suggested that they review the security footage of the Derby for the past few years, to see if there was a trend. Was this the only year the MC members gathered to bet on races, or how long had they been doing it?
Nelson also mentioned two local police officers had been assigned to watch me for my safety, now that my cover was blown. Furthermore, tomorrow I’d be meeting via teleconference with our East Tennessee’s SAIC as well as my old boss in DC about my future on the case.
So much was up in the air. Not just with me and Roscoe, but with my job. Obviously, I was no longer viable as an undercover agent. Soon everyone in the Valley would know—including all the MC clubs—that I was FBI. Maybe they already knew. I assumed Isaac would need a new contact, but that was up in the air, too.
Was the case over? Roscoe had said he would donate bone marrow, but had he changed his mind since the last time we’d spoken? If he hadn’t changed his mind, did that mean Darrell would give us what we needed on Razor? And how would we capture Razor even if Darrell turned state’s evidence? Would the bureau send a team into the Dragon Biker Bar compound and try to extract him? Why had Razor said he would go to the Derby only to draw all agents away from it? Did he know Isaac was undercover?
That seemed unlikely. If Razor knew Isaac was undercover, Isaac would be dead.
And what the heck was with all the MC guys making bets at the Kentucky Derby?
This last one I had a hunch about at least. I had questions, but without knowing more than what Nelson had conveyed over the phone—i.e., the transcript of Roscoe’s interview with Lehey from last night—my preliminary theory was that the MC guys had been laundering money. If each person placed the same bet for each race, they would see a return of approximately the same amount.
But one thing in particular didn’t add up. The guys were all from different motorcycle clubs. So whose money were they laundering?
Maybe Darrell knows.
Regardless, we were running out of time. Things needed to be decided. June was approaching quickly.
Bethany Winston once told me that time was like a closet. No matter what you do or how good your intentions are, you will always fill your time and closets with things that don’t matter.
“That’s why funerals are so important,” she’d said. “They force you to clean out closets and reevaluate how you spend your time. Without death, we’d never have empty closets.”
I’d been thinking about Bethany all day, but I didn’t realize why until I caught sight of today’s date out of the corner of my eye on Rebecca’s calendar.
Today was the day Bethany discovered she had cancer, six years ago. She hadn’t told her family. Instead, she’d invited Drew Runous out for a margarita since it was Cinco De Mayo and told him about her diagnosis over a salted rim and nachos.
After Bethany’s death, he’d told my mother the story, and she’d told me.
I stopped what I’d been doing—which was closing the cash register and zipping the money bag—and for some reason, did the math in my head. Like both me and Roscoe, her birthday was in February. She would’ve been fifty-two this year.
I was twenty-six, which meant I was the same age she’d been when she had Roscoe. Staring forward, my eyes lost focus as I found myself adrift in the overwhelming nature of my thoughts. I couldn’t imagine having seven kids by the age of twenty-six. In so many ways, I was still a kid myself. Still fumbling and failing, still trying on thoughts and emotions to see if they fit, discarding those that weren’t right and hoarding those that had clicked seamlessly into place (and made my ass look good).
Until recently, trying on thoughts and emotions had been mostly a leisurely activity. Meaning, I’d done it at my leisure. If a situation made me uncomfortable or challenged me, I simply avoided it.
Falling in love had taught me more about myself in six weeks than I’d taken the time to learn in ten years. I discovered that I did want to fall in love; I would make someone a great partner and that person was Roscoe Winston; I was up to the challenge and responsibility, and I was ready to meet both head-on.
But I’d also learned that—in love—nothing makes sense. I didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand myself. Down is up and up is purple. The sky is drawer. The moon is goat.
In love, everything was nonsense.
But maybe that also means anything is possible.
Shaking myself out of my bizarre reflections, I finished zipping the money bag and turned to the kitchen. After I put the money in the safe, I could leave for the night and throw myself a pity party with my constant companions: all the sad.
The sound of someone aggressively knocking on the front door had me stopping and turning, frowning at the darkness outside. Setting the money just inside the kitchen entrance, I dragged my tired feet out from behind the counter and shuffled to the front, prepared to mime and shout, We’re closed.
But then I saw who it was, and my feet were no longer dragging.
Roscoe stood at the door, his hands cupped around his face, which was pressed to the glass, his eyes on me as I approached.
My heart leapt. To my throat. It remained there, unwilling to behave no matter how I chanted for it to calm down, because down is up and up is purple. The sky is drawer. The moon is goat.
With no hesitation, I speed-walked to the glass door and hastily unlocked it. He pushed inside the second the lock released. In the next second, his arms were around me. He walked me backwards, into the diner, his lips on mine. Kissing. Devouring. His tongue in my mouth. His hands roaming over my body, as though to convince himself that I was here and real.
I was . . . confused. Because so much was unsaid between us. But kissing him felt good. Too good. Great. Exceptional. Heavenly. But again, so much was unsaid.
What the heck?
If the moon was goat, then kissing Roscoe made sense, right?
I went with it. I kissed him back. I gave him my tongue, I sucked on his, I arched against him, I pulled his shirt from his jeans, lifting the offending garment so I could touch his bare skin, his back and sides and stomach.
I was hot and breathless in a matter of seconds, my mind frantically trying to figure out where we could go.
The kitchen?
No. Our food safety rating wasn’t anything to mess with.
The back office.
Yes!
I pulled my lips from his, specifically to communicate this extremely viable and brilliant plan, when Roscoe cupped my face and pressed his forehead against mine. He was breathing heavy and so was I. He laughed, more air than sound.
“Simone,” he said, leaning away so his eyes, both soft and ardent, ensnared mine. “Simone, I lo
ve you. And, yes, we need to talk about what happened. But I know you. I know you and I trust you. I carry you with me, I always have.” He pressed a quick kiss to my lips, whispering against them, “You are in my heart. You have shaped my soul. Nothing—nothing—will change that for me.”
Grinning like a doofus, I tried to find some worthy response, but what could I possibly say to that? Everything melted. Every corner and crevice warmed with happiness and relief and more happiness and . . .
And yet, I was a creature of reason. Even in this gift of a moment, I couldn’t turn off my misgivings. The logic-Sherpa told me there was too much left unsaid.
“This is very sudden.” I closed my eyes, breathing him in, and whispered what was in my heart. “I love you. But before we move forward, I need to know you forgive me.”
“If there’s anything to forgive, I forgive it.” His hands slid down my neck to my shoulders and he covered my mouth with an achingly tender kiss, withdrawing to say, “I can’t miss out on any more time with you. I want all your moments, I want every memory.”
“They won’t all be happy,” I warned, tilting my head back. “A lot of them will be boring.”
He grinned, his eyes conducting a cherishing sweep of my face. “I seriously doubt that.”
“It’s true. And I have questions,” so many questions, “about your memory.”
Roscoe blinked, his gaze flickering to my lips, then back to my eyes. “My memory?”
Gripping his shirt front, I blurted, “Do you have a photographic memory? I mean, how much do you remember? Do you remember everything? About me? About us? Even that one time you walked in on me going to the bathroom? Please tell me you don’t remember that.”
Roscoe rolled his lips between his teeth, his eyes shining brightly as his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
And I had my answer.
“Oh God.” My forehead fell to his chest and I groaned. “You should have knocked.”
“You should have locked the door.”
“I’ll never win an argument again,” I said with more dismay than I felt. Mostly, I felt wonder. I was curious. So, so curious.
