by Penny Reid
“Why?”
“Because we touched their Monopoly game. She was a huge prankster.”
Shelly’s gaze dropped to the table and one side of her mouth hitched, her eyes losing focus. I got the sense she was remembering something from her own childhood.
“Hey.” I tapped her shin with my foot, bringing her attention back to me. “What are you thinking about?”
Her smirk still in place, she leaned forward like she was about to confess something big. “One time, I welded my older brother’s driver’s side door shut.”
I was surprised, but grinned at her sneakiness. “What did Quinn do?”
She stared at me for several seconds, and most of her good mood seemed to dissolve. “Not Quinn, he is younger. My older brother was Desmond. Quinn and Janie named their son after him. It’s also my dad’s name.”
I blinked at her use of the word was, as in past tense, and searched her gaze. She wasn’t icicle Shelly again, but something about her posture and the brittle look in her eyes made me want to reach out to her.
“My brother died.” She confirmed my unasked question, her tone flat as the brittleness turned hard.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, her attention moving to some spot over my shoulder. “Happened a long time ago.”
Deciding to assuage my curiosity, I asked, “What did your brother want? Wednesday, when he came by.”
Shelly pulled a napkin from the metal dispenser and placed it flat on the table in front of her. “Assurances.”
“Like?”
“Like, he wanted to make sure I was okay, living here. He worries more than he should about me.”
Her tone and the frustration in her expression implied a different meaning to her words, something like, He worries more than I deserve.
“He’s your brother, of course he’s going to worry.”
“He should be focusing on his family.”
“You are his family.”
She folded the napkin in half. “You know what I mean.”
“Until Quinn said something last week, I didn’t know you had a nephew. Congratulations.”
“I haven’t met him.”
“Yet.”
Shelly’s eyes cut back to mine, held. “Yet,” she agreed, sounding determined.
“Does your brother know why you don’t touch people?”
She swallowed, considering me for a second before shaking her head. “He knows I’m in therapy here, in Tennessee. We’ve corresponded via mail and he still manages my commissions, so I wrote him a letter and told him that I was in therapy But Quinn doesn’t know my diagnosis, we haven’t discussed it.”
Commissions?
“Commissions?”
“Yes. He’s always handled my contracts.” Shelly looked like she was going to explain further, but was interrupted by Beverly dropping off a whole banana and a side dish of butter.
Shelly picked up her banana, cut off the very top and the very bottom with her butter knife, then meticulously peeled it, one panel at a time. She set the peels to the side, one on top of the other, then sliced into the banana, cutting it at precise intervals and arranging the circles in a spiral design on her side plate.
I was so mesmerized by her meticulous banana peeling and cutting ritual that I forgot what we were talking about.
She considered the peeled fruit as though considering a weighty manner, saying, “He knows I cut myself. He was the first to find out. I think that’s why he worries.”
I blinked away from the intricate design of her banana slices and brought her back into focus. “Cutting your wrists is a good reason for a brother to worry.”
“I don’t want to die. Cutting is not about that. It has a stigma, an association with suicide that isn’t always valid, and it confuses people.” Her forehead wrinkled with clear consternation. “I want to live, I’ve always wanted to live. That is why I’m here.”
“I believe you.”
If she said so, then I believed her.
And for the record, thank God.
“Good.” She seemed to breathe easier after the words left my mouth, her attention returning to the napkin. “He checked my arms, and my legs, last week.”
“Your legs?” I sat up straighter. “Did you used to—”
“No. But he wanted to be certain. It’s why he let me stay, because I haven’t been cutting.”
I raised an eyebrow at that, unable to imagine a world where anyone let Shelly Sullivan do anything.
She scratched the back of her neck, her eyes darting to me and then away. “This is a horrible first date conversation. Sorry I am so depressing.”
“It’s not depressing and I don’t mind. I want to know about you.”
“But everything out of my mouth is about self-harm, overprotective brothers, fractured relationships, and death.”
The way she said this made me smile. And then she rolled her eyes at herself and my smile stretched into a grin.
“I promise, I’m not morbid. I have hobbies.”
Giving her a disarming grin, I decided a change of subject was in order. “So, about these hobbies . . .”
“I don’t knit, if that’s what you were going to ask. My sister-in-law crochets. I would like to learn how to do that.”
“I wasn’t, but good to know. I was going to ask if you like getting dressed up, going out, and doing things.”
“You mean other than to get pancakes?”
“I was thinking more like going to a wedding.”
She inspected me, like I’d confused her. “Going to weddings is not a hobby of mine.”
She sounded so serious I had to suppress a laugh. “No, honey. Sorry. That was my roundabout way of inviting you to go with me to Jethro and Sienna’s wedding.”
“Oh.” She sat straighter as her eyes moved up and to the side. “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I don’t do well in crowds.”
“I’ll protect you.” I tried to sound teasing.
“I’m not the one who needs protecting.” Her gaze came back to mine. “Won’t you be a groomsman?”
“Ah, yes.” I hadn’t thought of that. She’d be on her own, in a crowd, trying not to accidentally touch people.
“Maybe I could go to the reception?” she offered.
“Oh yeah. Sure. Think about it. No need to decide now. There’s no pressure.”
Shelly nodded and how her brow furrowed made me uneasy. She seemed to be frustrated with herself, or maybe growing frustrated with the turn of our date.
This woman had so many layers, and I wanted to know them all. I could be patient. I didn’t want to push her away by coming on too strong.
And yet, she’d been so open with me. Maybe she needed to know I could be equally open with her, so I changed direction a little. Drawing in a large breath, I studied the uncertainty and embarrassment plaguing her features, and decided something.
“My mother died last year.”
She flinched back a fraction of an inch, but much of her frustration melted away. “How?”
“Cancer. She was forty-seven.” . . . I think.
“That’s very young.” The embarrassment and uncertainty melted from her features, leaving only concern.
“It was, it is.” I moved my gaze to the table, thinking back on her last birthday and realizing I couldn’t remember if she’d turned forty-seven or forty-six.
“You miss her.”
“Yes, I do.”
We were quiet for a time and Shelly placed her hand on the table, her fingers just a half inch from mine. Glancing at her, her expression was one of frustration as she stared at my hand. Now that I knew her better, I could see desire—to comfort me, to touch me—was written all over her face.
I covered her hand and watched as she turned hers palm up, entwining our fingers and giving mine a squeeze. She also released a sigh.
“You miss Desmond?”
She nodded, her attention still on our hands. “He was the best person.”
“
He’s the best? What about Quinn?”
Shelly visibly hesitated and seemed to be debating how to respond. “He was and is also the best person, but very different than Desmond.”
“How so?”
“Like you and your twin.”
“You mean Desmond was handsome and charming, and Quinn is boring and surly?”
Shelly pressed her lips together like she was fighting another grin and lifted her gaze to mine. “Something like that.”
“What are your parents like?”
Her eyes fell away. “They are also the best.”
“You’re very close?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It’s my fault.” Wrinkles appeared on her forehead and she withdrew her hand. “I’ve never been able to be what they deserve.”
Now that was a heartbreaking statement.
“They said that?”
She shook her head. “I’m not stupid. I know what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“Exhausting.” She rubbed her forehead. “I exhaust myself. Or, I used to. I feel like I’m much better now, less . . .”
I studied her. “Because of your disorder?”
“I’m the only person responsible for my actions and decisions.” She lifted her chin but still didn’t lift her eyes. The way she said the words, it was like she was repeating a mantra, and that mantra was important to her.
On the one hand, I agreed with her—for obvious reasons. Personal responsibility was a big deal to me given the fact that I grew up with an abusive father who blamed everyone and everything else but himself for his actions.
If you’d listened the first time, I wouldn’t have beat you.
If you’d stayed out of my chair, I wouldn’t have locked you in the shed for two days.
If you’d had my dinner ready on time, you wouldn’t have that black eye.
People who thought initiating violence was ever justified weren’t people I wanted to know.
On the other hand, Shelly’s disorder meant she was a victim of her own mind. She didn’t want to be rude, to be cold, to be exhausting.
But maybe, more than that, she doesn’t want to be a victim.
I decided it was best to neither agree nor disagree. Stepping carefully, talking people out of a mood was a specialty of mine. I’d perfected it over the last twenty-four years, being Duane Winston’s even-tempered twin. I’d spent my life translating for my brother in an effort to keep us both out of trouble.
So I said, “And recently, you’ve been making some great decisions.”
That brought her eyes back to me. Since I had her attention, I made the most of the opportunity, unleashing as much charm as I could manage with an evocative grin.
Now she did smile. I had to blink against the blinding brilliance of it. Held transfixed, I knew I could easily grow addicted to seeing this woman smile.
“An example being?”
I lowered my gaze suggestively. “Following me into the supply closet.”
When I brought my eyes back to Shelly’s, she was watching me with that hazy expression. “You’re an excellent distraction, Beau.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes, when I look at you, all my thoughts, all the plates I’m spinning in my head, they stop. And for a few seconds, it’s peaceful. You make me witless.”
I shrugged, twisting my lips to the side so I wouldn’t laugh at the irony of her statement. “I have that effect on people.”
“Yes, you do.”
That did make me laugh. “I was joking.”
“Then it was a bad joke.” She leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table, giving me the impression she wanted me to understand something important. “I don’t want to creep you out, but I’ve been watching you for over a month. Everyone likes you.”
“No, not everyone.”
“Name one person.”
“My father.”
Dammit.
The admission erupted before I could catch it. Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, as she inspected me.
“Tell me about your father.”
I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear about him.”
“Please tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re perfect. I want to know why. I want to know what formed you.”
“I’m not perfect.” I glanced over the back of my booth distractedly, looking for Simone. She should have returned with our drinks by now.
“Please.”
I looked to Shelly, who was watching me with an echo of her “please” and I blinked, startled by the desire there. Was that desire to know me? I couldn’t remember a time when someone had ever asked me about my father. For that matter, I couldn’t recall a time when someone had ever asked about me, my childhood, let alone what formed me.
My siblings knew. There was no need to discuss it.
Folks in town knew. Or, if they didn’t know for sure, the rumor mill kept them well fed with hearsay.
No one asked about who I was, what made me me.
Unsettled, I cleared my throat and shifted my attention to the window behind her. The sun was in its last throes of setting, lighting up the sky with soft pinks and purples. Daisy’s sat high on a hill, where the Valley road connected with the Parkway, and the view of the mountains was spectacular. Misty peaks, usually blue, now dotted with the reds, yellows, and oranges of fall, and shrouded in the warm glow of sunset.
I loved this place, this Valley and these mountains, but I’d never known anything else. Shelly spoke of her parents as being the best, and my momma fit that description. What would it have been like to have a father I looked up to? Rather than one whose actions were a roadmap of how not to be, whose behavior was the opposite of what I wanted for myself and those around me, and whose presence I despised.
“Beau.”
“I’m not all that interesting.” I scratched my jaw.
“You’re completely fascinating.”
“No. Stop. Please, no. Don’t flatter me. I hate it when people flatter me. Anything but that.” I kept my tone deadpan, knowing she had difficulty deciphering sarcasm and wanting to make the job easy for her.
She narrowed her eyes in a reprimand, but her mouth tugged to the side with barely suppressed amusement. “You are fascinating. Nothing irritates you.”
I gave her a sly smile. “You irritated me, but—”
“I irritate everyone.”
“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t irritate me now.”
“Sooner or later I will.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I irritate myself.”
“That doesn’t make you special. Everyone—well, everyone with any self-awareness—gets irritated at themselves.”
“When have you been irritated at yourself?”
I squirmed in my seat. “All these questions.”
“What’s wrong with my questions?”
“Nothing is wrong with them, it’s just—”
“Here you go.” Simone appeared abruptly at my elbow, hurriedly plucking dishes from a tray and arranging them haphazardly on the table. My burger, Shelly’s pancakes, tater tots, and two waters.
“Where’s my shake?”
“We don’t have ice cream, we’re out. You’ll get plain old apple pie instead. I’ll bring it over in a minute.” Simone dismissed my irritation with a flick of her wrist, turning a smile to Shelly. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, just give me a wave if you do.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.
I glowered my disappointment for a half second.
No shake?
But apple pie.
Okay. That’s cool.
Shrugging off the last of my discontent—and anticipating apple pie for dessert—I reached for the ketchup.
“You’re not upset?”
I glanced at Shelly, pulling the plate of tater tots toward me. �
��Pardon?”
“About the shake?”
“Nah. I like apple pie fine. Actually, it’s my favorite, so it all worked out.”
“You are ridiculously easygoing.”
I sent her a mock-glare of suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about the tater tots? Because it’s too late. They’re mine and you can’t have any.”
“You don’t talk about yourself. You’re not used to it.” She said these words like she’d just solved one of life’s most important puzzles. “You focus on others, you draw them out, and you’re unfailingly accommodating. That’s why everyone likes you.”
“And here I thought it was the magnificence of my beard.”
She ignored me. “People like you because of how you make them feel. That’s why people don’t like me, or it’s one of the main reasons. I don’t know how to do that.”
“I could teach you how.”
Shelly examined me for the space of a heartbeat before saying, “I can practice on you. Let’s start now. Tell me about your father.”
I chuckled at her cleverness. “Wow. I’m impressed. Way to bring the conversation full circle.”
“Do you look like him?”
“You are relentless.”
“He’s still alive?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.” I took a bite of my hamburger; I couldn’t talk with a mouthful of food.
As she cut into her pancakes, she pummeled me with questions. “Is he here? In Green Valley? Do you speak to him? When is the last time you saw him? What makes you think he doesn’t like you? Why did—”
“Cool your engine, woman,” I said around the bite of food.
“Fine. Where is he?”
I eyed her over a sip of water and decided she was brave. Maybe the bravest person I knew. She’d answered every question I’d asked, even when the answers didn’t paint a pretty picture of her. She didn’t shy away from the ugly parts of her past, or her present.
The least I could do was return the favor.
“In prison,” I responded finally, setting my hamburger down. “For attempted kidnapping and assault.”
She didn’t even blink. “Who did he attempt to kidnap?”
“Ashley.”
“Ashley?”
“My sister.”
Her eyes grew impossibly wide. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
