“Ella Keaton?” a voice calls out from the opposite side of the street.
I roll my eyes, searching for who’s ready to point fingers now.
I glance up to find Uncle Wally. He’s wearing his tie-dyed shirt and Birkenstocks, smoking a cigarette outside his store, Groovy Self. This is what happens when you have clout in a town. My paternal ancestors were the founders of Beltline, and that fact is a huge deal here. So, when Wally suggested opening a hippie-type store back in the sixties, no one objected. Here he is, fifty years later, still in his ratty, worn-in sandals and his signature chest-length beard, gray now, but everything else screams young and youthful.
“Uncle Wally!” I scream, looking both ways before crossing the street.
I rush into his arms, and he tosses the cigarette in his ashtray, holding me tight. Suddenly, all the emotions overtake me, and I start crying into his smoke and patchouli-scented shirt.
“Come in.” He guides me into the store, directing me to his rainbow-colored hammock chair. He sits down in one of his own, waiting for me to talk.
“Where’s Aunt Darla?”
“She’s out in Colorado.” He winks.
I laugh. They’ve been going out there to work at stores with their friends on the chance that Kentucky will legalize marijuana, so they can open a store. I doubt being from the founding family will be enough to warrant this town to agree to a pot store.
“So, how long are we going to make small talk? Why are you crying?”
He crisscrosses his legs, sitting up, showing his undivided attention. I love Uncle Wally. He’s the only one who told me to chase after Crosby when he left. The only one who said to never let him go because we had a rare love. Sadly, I was young and took the advice of my parents.
“Crosby’s returned.”
There’s no surprise on his face.
“Did you know?”
“No, but I always knew he’d come back for you.”
“Xavier Bishop announced it to the whole store, including Mom.” I cross my own legs, my finger picking at my skin.
“Loudmouth asshole. I swear, that kid is trouble. He’s still harboring the disappointment about not getting that football scholarship.” Uncle Wally shakes his head.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, nor do I care at this point. Xavier Bishop can go take a hike through the mountains, and come face-to-face with a black bear, for all I care.
“Mom’s not happy.” I look up at him. “I swear, Uncle Wally, why does this town put themselves on a pedestal? They’re all so damn high and mighty. It’s not fair—what they did to the Lynches.”
He shrugs. “Two families lost their children. They were sad, and when the grief turned to anger, they wanted to blame someone. It’s not right, but you can’t go knock down everyone’s door to convince them otherwise.”
“It could have been me.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“It could have been Noah.”
“Then, he would have been the murderer.”
With the word murderer, my skin crawls. Murderers are people who seek others out and do ungodly acts on them. Crosby was a teenager, who never wanted to hurt anyone.
“So frustrating.”
“We’ve hashed this out numerous times. You shouldn’t be surprised by these small-minded people. Now, tell me the good stuff.”
My eyebrows crinkle.
“Have you seen him?”
“I have.” The smile that transforms my face is undeniable.
“By the smile, I’ll take it, things are good?”
“I’m not with him or anything, yet.” Even though his hands were up my shirt. Actually, his lips were all over me.
My body heats with the remembrance.
“But you want to be.”
Uncle Wally is like talking to a woman. He’s not dismissive about chatting on with feelings, and he’s observant on nonverbal communication. He missed his calling for psychology.
“Yeah, but there’s too much baggage, you know?”
Uncle Wally stands up and saunters behind the counter, passing the same Jimi Hendrix signed album that’s been here ever since I can remember. Sometimes, I think the store is more of a museum for Wally than an occupation.
He grabs a vaporizer and holds it out to me. I shake my head.
“Sweet Ella, neither of you will ever be over it. It changed you both, and you’ll never be who you were before it happened. If you’re waiting for that, then you need to walk away because it will never happen.” He inhales and blows out a long stream of smoky breath.
He’s right. I’ve done everything by the book, and still, that guilt was enough to shred me back in Bishop’s.
“He’s playing for the Tigers,” I say.
“Nice. He’s a great ballplayer.”
“Want to know something else?” A conniving look crosses my face, and his even-leveled eyes rise up. “You remember Spencer, his brother? He’s dating Ariel.” I bite my lower lip and nod my head to confirm this unimaginable juicy piece of gossip.
“He was a good kid, too, but I feel for you girls. Telling your parents you’re each in love with a Lynch boy? Well, that’s a rougher road than I’d like for either of you.”
He’s right again. My parents will not only give me hell for Crosby, but they’ll do the same for Ariel because of Spencer. A weight lowers on my shoulders as I draw in doubt. Even if I admit the connection between Crosby and me, there’s too much against us.
“That doesn’t mean, you don’t go after what you want, Ella. Some things don’t come easy.”
“Everything comes easy for you. Stress doesn’t exist in Groovy Self.”
He laughs. “I choose to take things one at a time. You, my sweet Ella, like to dissect every problem, predict outcomes before you let yourself enjoy the good. Maybe that’s what will make you a kick-ass doctor.”
“I figured you’d be here.” My mom walks in. “Hi, Wally.” She rolls her eyes in disgust at his store.
“I’m going back to Ridgemont.” I stand, and I catch Uncle Wally’s lips turning up.
“No, you’re not. We’re going home. Your father is expecting you.” She crosses her arms. Her purse is perfectly placed on her shoulder, the watch my father gave her for their twenty-fifth anniversary adorning her wrist. Her round golden earrings pierce through her hair tucked behind her ears.
She’s perfect.
“You two, have fun. Sweet Ella, come back and see me sometime. Maybe Aunt Darla will be back by then.” He winks.
“Thanks for the talk, Uncle Wally.” I stand and move over to him wrapping my arms around his neck. “Tell Aunt Darla I love her.”
He nods, slipping back into his Birkenstocks.
“Katie,” he acknowledges my mom. Then, he ventures to the back of the store.
“Let’s go. Your father has been waiting on us.” She swivels on her flats and beelines it out of the shop.
I follow more because I won’t disappoint my father.
“I don’t like you in that store. You know, he and Darla do illegal activities in there,” she whispers, as though the cardinal to our right could dare repeat her words to someone else.
“I love Uncle Wally, and he gives sound advice.”
Okay, I’m purposely trying to piss her off. The anger from her not sticking up for the Lynches in Bishop’s still lingers even though Uncle Wally did spout out some great things for me to think of, words I’m debating in my head.
“That man is crazy and lives like he’s sixteen and following the Grateful Dead. He’s an embarrassment to the Keaton name.”
I choose to ignore her as I climb into the van. This time, I take the front seat because my mom gave Holland a chew toy from the store, and I don’t want slobber all over my jeans.
She drives for a few minutes before she brings up the topic I figured she’d wait to discuss until my father was present. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ella?”
There’s hurt in her voice, and although I hold resentment
toward her for not sticking up for us two years ago and for letting our town railroad my future, I haven’t had to lie.
“So that you could convince me to switch colleges or maybe move in with me to lock me in an attic?”
She remains silent for a few uncomfortable beats of a minute, and I assume the conversation is over. She’ll wait for my dad to handle the issue.
“I just worry. The two of you…”
I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t.
“He’s there for baseball. He made the team, and I think it’s great.”
She releases a long breath, her knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel. “Are the two of you…you know?”
“Dating?”
She nods.
“Not yet.”
Her shoulders relax, and her hands loosen.
“But I love him, Mom.”
She sits up, stiff as an ironing board, her knuckles going back to white. “It was childhood love, Ella, not grown-up love. You love the fantasy.”
I huff, glaring over at her.
Has she ever felt love like I have with Crosby? If she did, she’d know that I’d rather not attend medical school than be away from him for one more day. Being a doctor has been my dream since I was eight, and being Crosby’s wife was a dream I had when I was fifteen, so our level of love is clear.
“It’s not, Mom, but I won’t argue with you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glance out of the window in time to pass Cherry Blossom Cemetery where Noah and Kedsey lie. My hand touches the glass of the window, and the engine of the van revs with her acceleration.
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
We reach my parents’ farm fifteen minutes later. My mom pulls up the driveway, and I spot my dad working in the cow barn, shuffling in and out with hay.
“I’m going to go see Dad,” I say, opening the door and leaving before she can stop me.
“Our conversation isn’t over, Ella,” she calls out.
I ignore her, calling for Holland to follow me.
My dad’s already gotten the soil ready for winter, but there’s more that needs to be done around the farm. Farming is an everyday life. An everyday life that has slowly aged him over the years. Sure, he keeps a healthy body, but I swear, every time I visit, he’s limping or icing his elbow. The daily chores wear on a body. It killed my grandfather early and my father’s grandfather, too. It only brings me worry that it will have the same effect on my father.
He looks up from milking Cassandra when I step through the barn doors.
“Sweet Ella.” A wide smile crosses his lips, but he continues squeezing those nipples at a rapid pace.
I used to find the nickname Sweet Ella annoying when I was younger. It embarrassed me, but over the years, it brings a warmth to my heart. The reference will probably stop with my uncle and my dad.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, grabbing a bucket and moving over to Violet, Cassandra’s sister.
The one thing about farm life is, you don’t stand around and chitchat. Talking is done during baling hay, milking cows, feeding the chickens, or running the plow.
I use the method my dad taught me at age six, and I start milking Violet.
“What brings you home?” he asks.
“Just needed a break.”
Swish, swish.
“How’s Liam?” He peers past Cassandra’s ass. “When you brought him down, I know I was hard, but your mama says he’s a good guy.”
“We broke up.”
Swish, swish.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” His head ducks under Cassandra again to get a glimpse of me.
“It’s fine.”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
Swish, swish.
Rip the Band-Aid off, Ella. Tell him. He always loved Crosby. His love for him is probably lying under the surface, like mine.
“I wasn’t his only girlfriend.”
“Bastard.” He stands abruptly, grabbing the hoses to hook up to Cassandra. My dad swears that a little foreplay is good, so he makes us hand squeeze the cows first before hooking them up to the machine. “I’m half-tempted to drive up to Ridgemont and beat that snotty kid’s ass. I told your mother he was turning his nose down to us. Saying your mother’s cooking was nice down-home cooking.”
“In truth, he comes from a small farming town, too. He meant no offense.”
“Don’t stick up for him, Ella. You always did that with…” He allows his words to trail off because God forbid we mention Crosby’s name.
For two years, we’ve dodged any subject on the matter while my fragmented heart sat, lodged in my chest.
Did they ever once think that talking would have helped? That a hug from my mother on the long nights of crying would have helped?
Ignoring the topic was their method.
“You can say his name,” I murmur.
My dad’s eyes shoot up to mine, cutting me with silence. He places the hoses on Violet and then double-checks to make sure the milk is coming out.
We only have Violet and Cassandra because the milk is used for our consumption and for the small cheese company down the street.
“Crosby,” I bait.
He backs up, his eyes glaring with a look of warning.
“Crosby Lynch.” I test him further.
Why am I being defiant today? This isn’t me. I’m the good one, the girl who never crosses her parents. The one who held a B-plus average and abided by the rules, other than sneaking Crosby in on late nights.
“Don’t say his name,” he warns and heads out of the barn.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I want them to forgive him or the fact that I’m looking for forgiveness, but I keep pushing.
“Why not?” I challenge.
I follow him outside, not allowing him to escape this conversation. I’m determined to find out why my dad doesn’t like Crosby.
“When is this town going to get a clue and grasp the fact that it was an accident? He wasn’t drinking or on drugs. He wasn’t driving fast. It was simply an accident.”
My dad flips around, anger fuming in his eyes. “We aren’t getting into this, Ella. Go back to the house, and help your mother with dinner.” He extends his arm, pointing to the kitchen, like I’m sixteen again.
“Why not?”
“Go, Ella.” There’s a tinge of annoyance hanging in his words.
I stomp my foot on the dirt. “No.”
“What is this about?” my dad screams.
The chickens scurry into a corner of the corral.
“He’s in Ridgemont,” my mother’s judging low voice says, revealing herself from the chicken coop.
My dad looks over at her, his anger turning to shock. “When? How?”
“He’s playing for the Tigers. Third base.” I’m thankful the tone of this conversation has gone down, but I’m on defense for the next fight.
“You’ve seen him,” my dad asks. It’s not a question, more of a statement.
I nod.
He glances to my mom, who only moves her shoulders up and down in a nothing-we-can-do attitude.
“I forbid it, Ella. Don’t think the two of you are going to conjure up some romance again.” He storms off and shrugs off my mom’s hand when she reaches out.
I could scream, but I won’t because that good girl is still present in my body. I needed time to process Crosby’s reappearance, and so do my parents.
Instead, I walk directly into the house and go up to my bedroom, slamming the door in true teenage fashion.
Plopping down on my twin-size bed with the frilly pink comforter, I stare at the ceiling. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket.
Ariel: Told you not to go home without me.
Me: I swear, Mom’s name should be Western Union.
Ariel: She’s worried.
Me: Whatever. She just wants to save face in this POS town.
Ariel: Give her a break.
Me: Did you tell
her about Spencer?
Ariel: We’re talking about you.
Me: Tell her and see whose side you’re on then.
Ariel: Crosby and Spencer were over here earlier.
Me: Yeah? Crosby hitting on Brooke?
Ariel: As if. That picture wasn’t real.
Me: She photoshopped him in?
Ariel: No, but she pushed her way in.
Me: I gotta go.
Ariel: Hold on. He loves you, El.
Me: Thanks.
Ariel: He’s not interested in anyone else. We both know that. Make Mom and Dad see it.
Me: Hard thing to accomplish.
Ariel: I’ll be there in thirty.
Me: Hurry.
My phone drops off my bed. I bend over and pick it up, but I lose my balance and fall to the floor. I search for my phone, catching a glimpse of the pink and purple striped box. Crawling army style, I dig under my bed for the box wedged between yearbooks and memory boxes.
I pull it out and lift the lid more hastily than usual. In the last two years, I normally take a few deep breaths before gaining the nerve to travel down memory lane.
My fingers brush along the stack of T-shirts—My Boyfriend Can Hit More Strikes Than Yours, I Love Number Twenty-Two, My Heart Belongs to a Baseball Player. Each T-shirt looks worn with the printing cracked and faded.
The white jewelry box sits on the bottom, and my eyes acknowledge its presence, but I don’t reach for it. Not yet anyway. They were surprises for the boys winning state. Kedsey and I had scoured Pinterest and stayed up the whole night before making sure the boys would love them. Cheap and probably tarnished now, just like us.
A picture of Crosby and I at senior prom lies under my dried up corsage. In the photo, I’m trying to pin on his flower, but I’m laughing too hard to concentrate on the task. His parents are in the background, smiling on. I look closer, seeing Spencer and Ariel sitting on the rock in front of my parents’ house, talking. I must have been too preoccupied with my own life that I missed the signs of their budding relationship.
My heart aches for Ariel. Her last two years of high school weren’t carefree and filled with good times. It took time for this town to heal, and they haven’t completely finished grieving. If being at Bishop’s was any indication of the progress this town had made, I’d say they were still pointing the finger at one person. That includes my father, who I’ve always looked up to. He was someone who stood on his own and didn’t follow the pack.
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