by Liz Talley
The old saying “Want in one hand and spit in the other” came to mind. “We don’t always get what we want.”
He stared out at the wilted flowers. “Are you doing this to punish me?”
Jess didn’t even have to think about that. “No. I’m not. There was a time I wanted to hurt you, but I’m over that. I want you to be happy, Benton.” She picked up his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Don’t,” he said, trying to pull away.
She held fast. “Benton, you don’t want me. If you had, you would have never left me. I understand that you’ve had a year of dating, and I’m pretty sure you found some toads. But that’s no reason to want me back.”
“I wasn’t doing that,” he said like a petulant boy.
“You remember that Christmas when you wanted a new shotgun.”
He nodded. “A Benelli Super Black Eagle.”
“And you loved it, but then—”
“I lost it in Reelfoot Lake.”
“You came home mad but said you didn’t care because you could use your old gun. That you liked it better anyway. But thing was, you didn’t. You convinced yourself it was good enough because you’d killed a lot of ducks with it. This situation is sort of like that.”
“Are you comparing yourself to a Remington 870?”
“I guess.”
Benton laughed and gave her hand a squeeze. “See? This is what I miss.”
“But this isn’t being in love. This is me doing what I always do—making it better for you. But you never thought about making it better for me. And here’s the thing, Ben—I’m worth someone wanting to make things better for me, and that’s what Ryan does.”
Benton nodded, and for a moment they sat quietly, hands still linked. After a minute of silence, her ex-husband gave her hand another squeeze. “I hope he’ll make you happy. You’re right. You deserve that, and I’m sorry if I made things harder on you.”
She nodded. “Thank you for saying that.”
And as she looked up, she saw Ryan standing across the courtyard, his expression going from confusion to disbelief to disgust. Jess shook her hand from Benton’s right as Ryan yanked open the courtyard door and bolted back inside.
“Ryan,” she yelled, hiking up her hot-pink bridesmaid dress.
But he was gone.
“A real man doesn’t run. He stays and fights for a woman,” Benton said, standing and crossing his arms.
Jess whirled and jabbed a finger at her ex. “No, a real man doesn’t screw our florist.”
Then she turned and ran after Ryan. But she hadn’t been able to stop him from driving away, hurt evident in his posture, anger flaring in his stormy eyes.
“Cheer up. All this can be fixed,” Eden said, jarring Jess from going over the events of the last few minutes in her mind. “I think.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Today has been such a colossal disaster. From the moment I woke up until this.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “And it’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s not. You’re entitled to be messed up when it comes to love,” Eden said, giving her a smile. “Now let’s go fix your hair and put on some lipstick. Rosemary needs us there with her. And I hope you weren’t depending on the Elvis impersonator to pull off the grand gesture. Patsy fired him. Rosemary’s pissed.”
“What a mess,” Jess said.
“Nah, this is life, right? Rosemary will be right as rain as soon as she’s standing beside Sal, and you’ll be okay, too. Because Ryan loves you.”
Jess pressed her lips together before saying, “Grand gesture?”
Eden smiled and shrugged. “It was just a suggestion. But I have no clue what you can do.”
Jess glanced over at the limo waiting out in front of the church. “I have an idea.”
The Smart car ran out of juice right outside Morning Glory on Highway 121. Ryan unfurled from the depths of the bright-blue clown car and slammed the door. For good measure he kicked the tire, which didn’t even register any pain in his foot, because the tires were so damn small. “Shit.”
He didn’t know what to do. Did he have to plug the car in or would it take gas? He thought his father had said something about it being dual but needing gas. He circled the car, spying a gas tank.
Thank God for something going right today.
Shielding his eyes, he looked up the road and spied a sign for a gas station about a mile or so away. He got out his phone and called his parents’ house. But, of course, no one answered.
“Perfect,” he said to the roadside grasses waving in the late-afternoon breeze. The September sun pressed down on his suit jacket, making sweat run down his back. He shrugged out of the navy jacket, folded it and placed it on the passenger’s seat. Then he unknotted the stupid bow tie and tossed it inside, too. It fell on the floorboard. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to leave it there. Rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning the top buttons on the shirt, he locked the car and set off toward the gas station. Hopefully, he could buy a gas can there and figure out how to get gasoline into the small car.
As he walked, he cursed himself for even attempting to come back to Morning Glory. For buying a suit he’d never wear again. For choosing a pansy-assed pink bow tie to try to please Jess’s vision of a southern preppy gentleman. For falling in love with a woman he knew … KNEW … didn’t belong with him.
He should have left that dumb pink-and-green beach towel folded up on her porch and forgotten about his former chemistry partner. She and that asshole Benton deserved each other. He hoped they made each other miserable. Maybe they’d have ugly kids. Stupid kids. Kids that ate their boogers. They deserved kids like that.
A truck roared by and honked.
Ryan raised a hand and flipped whoever it was off.
He hoped the bastard who drove the truck was offended and turned the big Tundra around. Ryan wanted a fight. He wanted to pound someone until the highway ran red with blood. He felt dangerous. Wild. Hurt. A wounded buffalo ready to charge.
The truck turned around and headed back his way.
Good.
The Tundra slowed as it reached him, and the tinted window rolled down. Ryan stopped and stared at … Elvis?
Ryan blinked once. Twice. And then he pinched his thigh for good measure. Just in case the heat had made him loopy.
“Did you flip me off?” Elvis asked, his mouth tight and the rhinestones on the white polyester bell sleeve catching in the afternoon sun. A pissed-off Elvis. Great.
Ryan nodded. “Sorry, King. It’s been a shitty day. I ran out of gas in that joke of a car back there, and I caught my girlfriend cozied up with her ex-husband. So you blowing past with your smart-ass honk got me to the tipping point, you know?” Ryan started walking again, the bloodlust of kicking someone’s ass dying when he thought about mopping the road with the King of Rock and Roll. That seemed a bit much. Better to keep walking.
Elvis pulled away and hooked a U-turn. Drawing up just ahead of Ryan, the driver put the truck in park. The passenger door opened. When Ryan got even with the truck, Elvis said, “I’ve had a shit day, too. Get in, and I’ll take you up to the gas station.”
Ryan thought about sticking to his guns, but the sweat was pouring off his face now. Silently, he climbed into the cab. “I’m Ryan.”
“Jason.”
“Not Elvis?”
“Hell, no. Not now, anyhow. Just got fired from a reception gig. Drove all the way down from Memphis for that shit, too. Wish I’d brought a change of clothes.”
“Genovese-Reynolds wedding?”
“That’s the one. Crazy woman who owns the venue called me and told me to pack up and leave.”
“I know the feeling,” Ryan said, gesturing toward the Circle K. “Just let me off here. Appreciate you giving me a lift even after I acted like an asshole.”
“Ah, hell, what’s one little ol’ bird flipped at me. I’m dressed like Elvis and stuck in Mississippi. That’s easy livin’, my friend,” Jason joked, his rings flashing as h
e shifted into park. “Need me to give you a lift back to your … uh, car?”
“No, I’m good,” Ryan said, climbing down. “Uh, thank you. Thank you very much.”
Jason laughed. “Good one. Here’s my card, in case you ever need the King again.”
Ryan took his card and then waved as the King of Rock and Roll drove away. Ryan turned back to the Kuntry Kitchen.
Who spelled country like that? Rather than kitschy cute, it was annoying. But they had gas pumps, so he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at the gas station/convenience store/restaurant. Sighing, he trudged across the oil-stained parking lot and pushed into the store. A bell rang, and the clerk looked up. “Welcome to the Kuntry Kitchen,” he said in a monotone voice.
Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Kyle?”
The man looked up. “Yeah?”
“Kyle Stratton?”
The man looked annoyed. “Yeah?”
“It’s Ryan,” he said, pressing his hands against his chest. “Ryan Reyes.”
The man made a weird face. “Ryan?”
Kyle Stratton had been as close a friend as Ryan had ever had. Kyle’s parents had lived a street over from where Ryan grew up, and the two kids had played Xbox Live every weekend. Before Ryan skipped grades, he and Kyle had been in middle school together, both in accelerated classes. Four years after Ryan had graduated at the top of his class at MGHS, Kyle had been named valedictorian of his class and left Mississippi for a full ride at Tulane in New Orleans. So Ryan was baffled to find him behind the counter wearing a red button-down shirt with a chicken emblem.
“What are you doing here?” Ryan asked, gesturing to the register.
“Ah, long story, man. Let’s just say it started with a girl named Beth and ended with a stint in rehab. Stay away from crack, dude.”
Ryan nodded and wondered what to say to something like that. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He pressed his hands against the tops of his thighs, wondering if he should offer his hand or not in this sort of social situation. Probably not.
“Yeah, well, that’s life, you know. You think you’re going to be one thing, and then you end up a crackhead,” Kyle said, laughing. “But I’m back on track, dude. I’m enrolled over at the community college. But this makes ends meet. What about you? Saw the write-up in the paper last year. You’re doing your thing, man.”
“Uh, not anymore. I quit Caltech. I have a charter fishing boat down in Pensacola,” Ryan said.
“Why?” Kyle asked, punching a few buttons and shutting the drawer of the register. Behind him a few ladies moved behind the deli counter, doing whatever people who cooked at these kind of places did. An older gentleman shuffled from the back cooler holding a couple of forty-ounce cans of beer. “I mean, you were doing good stuff out there, right? Helping out the world.”
“I like to fish.”
Kyle laughed. “Sure. I get it. The stress get to you?”
“No.”
“I mean, it happens. I get it. That’s why I started smoking weed. The stress of all those damn classes. Being smart ain’t a cakewalk.”
“I didn’t quit because it was hard.”
His former friend scratched his greasy-looking blond hair. “Then why the hell, dude? I’m, like, confused. If I could go back and do things over, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here.”
“Hey,” one of the ladies in the back shouted.
“Sorry, Mar, but it’s true. This dude right here is, like, a genius, and he quit everything to fish.” Kyle pointed toward Ryan, a silly grin on his face. “Can you believe that shit?”
“I like to fish, too,” the older man said, shuffling toward the register, scratching his beard. The man wore a beat-up trucker’s hat and pants that sagged because he had no butt. “I catch a mess of catfish near every Saturday. Fry ’em up good, too.”
Kyle shook his head. “Man, you can never tell, huh? If anyone would have looked at us back in the day and then saw us now, they’d be shocked. I’m checking out old farts,” he said, grabbing the beer and scanning it, “and you’re running a fishing boat. We should be millionaires by now, a honey on each arm. Know what I mean?”
Something about hearing his life whittled down to such a state bothered Ryan. It wasn’t like he couldn’t be successful at Caltech. He’d chosen to leave. And he had millions. Well, now he had only $1.3 million, since he’d paid cash for the boat. He liked fishing and being his own captain. And while he certainly missed being on the cutting edge of science, he rather enjoyed drinking a beer and shooting a combo at Cuesticks.
What if you had both?
The question popped into his mind, another sudden epiphany similar to the one he’d had a year and a half ago. Why did he have to sacrifice any part of himself? Jess’s words came tumbling back to him. You’re the pretender. You hide who you truly are.
“Sure, that’s right. Never can tell,” Ryan said, walking down the aisle with the automotive offerings. He spied a three-gallon red gas can on the bottom shelf and snagged it. Even as he gave lip service to Kyle, his mind raced with the possibilities. What if he merged the nerd with the beach bum? What if he stopped hiding his OCD tendencies and still hung out at the bars? Perhaps he could even apply to teach something at the local university? Or he could go to a research hospital. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take his boat with him. And if he was so smart, why hadn’t he already thought of this?
Jess had been right—he’d assumed a demeanor in order to be what he thought was the ideal guy. He hid much of the real Ryan.
“Ran out of gas?” Kyle asked when Ryan put the can and a bottle of water on the counter.
“Yeah. Go ahead and add two gallons of premium to the ticket,” Ryan said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. Kyle rang him up, and just as Ryan went to pay, a limo screeched into the parking lot.
“Whoa,” Kyle said, craning his neck to look out the door. “We just saw Elvis and now this.”
The two women behind the counter stopped working and came around, drying their hands on their soiled aprons. Everyone stared out the grimy glass at the limo idling, taking up three parking spots.
The driver door opened, and Jess stepped out, still wearing her hot-pink bridesmaid’s dress.
“Hey, that’s Jess Mason,” Kyle said.
“Culpepper,” Ryan said, taking his change from Kyle’s hand and shoving it into his wallet. “She’s divorced.”
“I hated her husband. What an asshole, right?” Kyle said, tearing off the receipt and passing it to Ryan. “She’s freakin’ fine, though. I’d love a piece of that action right there.”
Jess spied Ryan through the glass and stopped. Instead of coming inside, she parked her ass on the hood of the limo and waited.
“What’s she doing, man?” Kyle said, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Waiting on me,” Ryan said, grabbing his water and heading for the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Borrowing the limo from Barry Travis after he dropped a radiant and almost sickeningly happy Rosemary and Sal at the reception, Jess had kissed her friend and told her she had to go get her own happily ever after. She hoped. If she could find Ryan, who was not answering his phone.
The fact that she didn’t have a class D driver’s license and had never operated a limo before had not stopped her from pulling away from the reception. She’d almost taken out a small Honda during a turn, and she hadn’t a clue as to where she was going, but she figured spotting a tiny car among the monster trucks that seemed to plague Morning Glory shouldn’t be hard.
It was tougher than she thought, but eventually after ten minutes of driving around, praying when she took corners, she came upon the blue Smart car on the side of the road. Unfortunately, Ryan wasn’t in it. Seeing no blown tire, she could only deduce the car had run out of gas or whatever fueled it and the man she loved had hiked down to Kuntry Kitchen for help.
Jess drove up the road and pulled into the parking lot, hoping like hell this was enough of a grand gesture even though she su
spected Ryan wasn’t the kind of guy who would need one. However, after the fight, the argument, him catching her in something that looked to be what it wasn’t, and then running out of gas, she figured he needed something more than a text.
Spying him through the glass peppered with sales ads and beer signs, she killed the engine and climbed out. She didn’t want to air her business in front of Mary and the rest of her workers, so she carefully slid onto the hood that thankfully wasn’t too hot. A few seconds later, Ryan came out, carrying a red gas can and a bottle of water. He looked hot and tired and so damn sexy with his shirtsleeves rolled up revealing tanned forearms. The tail of his starched white shirt was out, and she could see the delicious skin at the base of his throat.
Her heart contracted in her chest when he lifted his gaze to hers.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his face expressionless. He clenched his jaw and stared at her, his eyes somehow cold in the heat of the afternoon.
“I heard you needed a ride,” she said, because she didn’t know what to say at that moment. He was angry, and she’d not seen him angry before today. If she were objective, she could say he was hot when perturbed, all hard angles, pulse throbbing in his temples. Not scary, but intimidating nonetheless. But she wasn’t objective. She was very subjective with her emotions tangled into a pulsating ball.
“No, thanks,” he said, angling toward the road, walking a few steps. Then he turned. “Where’d you leave Benton?”
“I don’t know where Benton is, and I don’t care.”
He looked at her for a long time. “Right.”
Then he started walking again, ignoring her.
“Ryan,” she called, swinging her legs over the side so she could see him.
He stopped. “What?”
“It wasn’t what it looked like.”
His stare was uncomfortable.
“It was a good-bye. That’s it.”
He shook his head. “Look, I understand the score, Jess. You belong here. I don’t. You and I, we’re nothing but a hookup that spanned a few weeks and is dying a natural death because we don’t belong together. No need to draw this out or try to spare my feelings.”
