Stud Muffin

by Smartypants Romance

  Her eyes go straight to mine, vulnerable and transparent.

  “Then what happened?” I ask, wanting her whole story—the whole truth.

  “I wanted to hit something, or someone. I wanted to physically do damage.” She huffs and shakes her head, stepping back and then bracing her hands on her thighs. “That’s when the crazy sets in… that’s why people talk about me. And maybe I am… crazy,” she says, swallowing and fighting back emotions. “Maybe he made me crazy.”

  “You’re not,” I tell her, wanting to get out of the truck and walk around to her, but I’ve got to keep my distance if we’re going to make this whole friends thing work. “It’s totally understandable. You’ve been through a lot and you need an outlet for your feelings.” I pause, really thinking through what I’m getting ready to offer, but knowing it’s the right thing to do… the right thing for her. “I could teach you kickboxing, possibly throw in some jujitsu. I think it would really help you channel the negative thoughts and feelings you’re having.”

  I don’t mention that it’ll also give her confidence and discipline, but those would be great residual effects. I’ve seen it time and time again, even in myself. It’ll also reduce her stress, which I think she could definitely use.

  “Kickboxing?” she asks, finally standing up straight to look at me. “Do you… is that why… you’re a kickboxer?” The way she stumbles over her words is adorable and I have to fight back a smile.

  Friends, Erickson. You’re just friends.

  “Yeah, I dabble,” I say with a smirk. “And I just ordered a new bag that should be delivered this week. I’m staying in one of the buildings downtown, just down the street from the bakery, and I’m turning the downstairs into a studio of sorts.” Pausing, I catch a vision of what the place could be and I store it away for later. Possibilities. “Maybe next Wednesday?” I ask.

  She thinks for a minute, obviously trying to decide if it’s a good decision. Does she trust me? Could she trust me? “Okay,” she finally agrees. “Maybe after noon? That’s when I get off work on Wednesdays.”

  “Noon.” I almost add “it’s a date”, but think better of it. “You know where Hank Weller’s building is? It’s the red brick one.”

  Slowly, she nods. “Yeah, I know the one.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  Chapter 9

  Tempest

  I woke up this morning with a lead weight in my stomach.

  The realtor is coming today to start the process of putting our house… the house… up on the market. She thinks it will sell fast, which means I have to finish getting things packed up and figure out what I’m going to do when it sells.

  Asher moved his things out months ago, right after the day I walked in on him and Mindy. Except for the things in the garage and a few stragglers, which I took care of in what is now known as the driveway bonfire.

  Over the past few months, I’ve slowly thrown out anything that reminded me of Asher or our marriage or anything remotely sentimental. So, basically, all that is left to pack up is the kitchen and the spare bedroom I’ve been sleeping in. As far as the living room furniture is concerned, I don’t want it. Asher picked it out and it can either stay with the house or go down in flames… or the Goodwill.

  I guess that’s the safer choice.

  As I’m purging the mail holder, my phone rings.

  I don’t even have to look at the screen to know it’s my mama. Merle Haggard’s Mama Tried plays on loop a few times before I finally swipe my thumb across the screen and place the phone between my cheek and shoulder. “Hey, Mama.”

  “Hey, darlin. Look, I know you have a lot on your plate today but your daddy was telling me he saw that scary looking man take you home from the picnic and I knew that couldn’t be true, so I’m calling to get some answers.”

  My mother has never been one to beat around the bush and once she gets going with her twenty questions, it’s hard to stop her.

  “Because,” she continues, “I know I raised my girl right and she’d never accept a ride home from a stranger. Let’s be real here, Tempest, your self-preservation skills have been somewhat lacking here lately, but to willingly put yourself in harm’s way, I just don’t know what to think.”

  A dramatic sob forces her to take a breath, so I use the opportunity to defend myself. “Mama, calm down.” I have so many things to say, I’m not sure where to start. Closing my eyes tightly while rubbing my forehead, I will myself to bite my tongue and not say anything that will only aggravate the situation.

  “First of all, Cage is not scary looking.” I’m not sure why I started there but at least I stopped myself before admitting just how “not scary” I think he looks.

  “Well, he’s built like a brick wall, if I ever did see one. The man is huge!”

  She’s not wrong, but where my mama may see Cage’s size as a threat, I see it as a safe fortress. I mean, not for myself but just in general, of course.

  “Just because the men around here walk hunched over, dragging their knuckles like their Neanderthal forefathers, doesn’t mean it’s wrong to be tall. He can’t help it. Also, he’s not a stranger, not to me anyway.”

  “Oh, my heavens, Tempest. Did you meet him when you were in jail?” She whispers in jail even though it’s just the two of us talking on the phone. “And, now he knows where you live? It’s a good thing you’re selling that house. He might’ve been… you know, casing the joint. Isn’t that what they call it?”

  “Mama, stop! He wasn’t casing the joint and even if he was, I wouldn’t care. He can have everything in this damn house, if he wants.”

  “Tempest June, you don’t mean that!”

  “I do, Mama, I really do. Asher and I are over and as much as I love this house, I’m tired of being surrounded by memories of us. This place, and everything in it, only reminds me of how we failed and I don’t want to be here anymore.” I deflate against the counter, feeling unwelcome emotions coming to the surface as the truth spills out of me.

  “Oh, honey,” my mama sighs.

  I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat before speaking, the fire in my voice now put out. “I saw Mindy’s ring at the picnic. I know they’re engaged.”

  “It’s worse than that. The truth is, they’re already married.” I appreciate how my mother delivers this news. Her words are precise and her voice is steady, but I can hear the underlying tone of disgust. It gives me hope she’s finally seeing Asher for who he really is.

  As for what she’s just told me, I’m going to have to reexamine that later. I can’t think about it right now. Compartmentalize. I think that’s what they call it, when you can’t process something, so you tuck it away into a box until your mind is ready to tackle the problem. Instead, I go back to my mama’s comment about self-preservation and my lack of it.

  “Mama, I don’t want to talk about them. I want to talk about you questioning my, as you called it, preservation skills. Do you really think I want to hurt myself?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I just don’t think you realize the consequences of your actions when you do these crazy things.”

  After hearing it so often over the past four months, it’s easy to ignore the “crazy” remark but, coming from my mother, it still stings.

  “I’m well aware of the consequences, thank you very much, and I don’t want to hurt myself or anyone else when I do those things. But,” I pause, sighing and attempting to mentally pull myself up by the bootstraps. “I’m working on it, Mama… I’m working on myself, and I’d really like your support.” It’s physically and mentally exhausting when I feel like it’s me against the whole damn world. I never realized how alone I feel until she starts in on me like this. The one person who should always have my back. “Lastly, stop judging Cage. He’s a nice guy and was helping me out by taking me home. That’s all.”

  “Okay, baby,” she finally says, but I can still hear the hesitance in her tone. “Okay, just promise me you won’t get tangled up with
someone like him. Do you even know who he is… really? I mean, he’s new to town, so you obviously just met him.”

  I want to spill all the beans and make her head spin.

  Yeah, Mama, he’s the bouncer at the Pink Pony and he knows kickboxing and he’s going to teach me. Oh, also, the first night we met, he drove me home when I was trashed on tequila and put me to bed.

  Instead, I tell her, “He’s friends with Hank Weller and he’s from Dallas and he’s been a good friend to me, which I can’t say for anyone else in this town over the past few months, outside of Cole and Anna, but they have to because they’re family.”

  “I don’t think you realize the impression,” she says, pausing for dramatic effect, “you’re giving people when you’re seen with him.”

  My eyes can’t roll any further into the back of my head without falling out.

  “Oh, good Lord, Mama—”

  “He is good, Tempest. And He is watching.” When she starts in with her holier than thou speech, I know the conversation is over.

  “Goodbye, Mama.”

  “I expect to see you at church on Sunday,” she says, right before I give her a final “I love you, Mama” and hang up the phone.

  Pressing it to my forehead, I hold my breath for a count of ten, hoping it will help center me and keep me from doing what I want to do, which is rage and scream and cry.

  Don’t do it, Tempest.

  Don’t destroy everything in this kitchen.

  That’s just more work for you.

  Because you’re alone… and divorced… and being forced to leave the house you love.

  And Asher and Mindy are married. MARRIED.

  I feel the tears slip under my palms that are pressed into my eyes, and it immediately makes me even more angry. He doesn’t deserve my tears. Our marriage doesn’t deserve my tears. So, why am I crying? Why do I care?

  Those are questions I don’t have an answer to.

  After a few more tears and some deep, cleansing breaths, I’m finally able to open my eyes and step away from the counter, turning in place as I look around.

  This is just a house. It doesn’t define me.

  Asher doesn’t define me.

  I’ve been trying to convince myself of that, but failing.

  Looking at the screen of my phone, I see I have half an hour until the realtor is supposed to be here and an hour before I need to leave for Knoxville. My anger management session is this afternoon and I need it. If nothing else, I’ll sit and listen to other people’s problems until I feel better about mine. Regardless, the drive alone will be a welcome reprieve. The awesome thing about going to Knoxville once a week is no one knows me there. I can walk down the sidewalk and no one stares or whispers after I walk by.

  To keep my mind off the phone call with my mama and the news about Asher and Mindy, I dive back into the pile of mail and start purging. If I can’t burn shit, I’ll throw it away.

  It takes the edge off, until I come across an envelope that’s been tucked down in here since it came in the mail a few months ago.

  Green Valley High Class of 2009

  My knee-jerk reaction is to throw it in the trash with the rest of the junk mail, but I can’t help reading through the invitation.

  Join us for two days full of friends, family, and fun!

  Our ten year class reunion will kick off with some good ol’ Green Valley pride at the football game on Friday night. Come join us and cheer GVHS on to victory. Class of 2009 will have a dedicated section and we’ll be recognizing some of our classmates who made history at Green Valley High.

  On Saturday, join us for a fun day at the park. Bring your spouses, significant others, and kids!

  Saturday night, we’ll go out with a bang! Taking it back to the good days. Dinner, Dancing and this time around, we’ll be serving alcohol… legally. Your 2009 Homecoming King and Queen will be the guests of honor and emcees for the evening.

  Don’t miss your chance to reconnect and rekindle old friendships and flames.

  Cost: $25 for one/$40 for couple

  RSVP to Mindy Mitchell...

  Mindy Mitchell.

  Something inside me snaps, similar to what I’ve experienced lately—heart pumping wildly, blood rushing, logic fleeing—and I’m left with the rawest, most basic needs. And right now, I need to go to this reunion. I can’t explain it. But I don’t want to do what they all expect me to do—throw this invitation away and hide away like the guilty party.

  Hell no.

  I’m not.

  I’m going to do exactly the opposite. I’m going to show up and hold my head up high, knowing I’m not the one who is wrong in this situation. I didn’t sleep around on my wife. That was Asher. I didn’t sleep with someone else’s husband. That was Mindy. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them flaunt themselves around for two days like they’re the king and queen of the goddamned world.

  Walking over to the refrigerator, I take off one of the magnets and place the invitation there, holding it in place. Nodding to myself, I pick up my phone and open up my email, sending a brief, non-threatening, email to Mindy Mitchell.

  Class president.

  Husband stealer.

  Miss Mitchell…

  Scratch that.

  Mrs. Williams.

  I’m sure the invitations were made before she accepted Asher’s proposal, but I’m extremely too petty these days to let this opportunity pass me by.

  Please add me to the list of attendees for the Class of 2009 reunion.

  Tempest Cassidy.

  Wait…

  Please put me and a plus one down for the Class of 2009 reunion.

  Tempest Cassidy.

  I have no idea who that plus one will be, but I’ll be damned if I’m going alone. My thoughts immediately turn to Cole, but that would just be weird, taking my cousin, and would only further their opinions of me. But I’ve got a few weeks to figure it out.

  I’m a smart girl and I’m not entirely unfortunate looking.

  I can find a date.

  At least, in theory, but the truth is that I’ve never actually approached a guy before. Before Asher, I hadn’t really had a boyfriend. There was this one guy, Tim, who took me to the movies my freshman year, but it was awkward and my mama drove us.

  Before I can chicken out, I hit send.

  As I’m driving to Knoxville, I think about the email, the invite, the marriage. I let it all sink in.

  When I walk through the doors of the church, where the anger management group sessions are held, I take a deep breath. Somehow, I made it. I made it here without losing my grip, my temper, or my mind.

  “Welcome,” the group leader says, when she sees me. “Tempest, right?”

  I nod and give her a small smile, my eyes darting around the room, noticing a few familiar faces from last week. Most of the people stand around talking in groups of two or three. Since I’ve only been to one session, I don’t feel comfortable enough to approach any of them. So, after I sign in, I take a seat in the semi-circle of chairs, opting for one closest to the exit.

  And my mama thinks I don’t have any self-preservation.

  “Hello everyone,” the leader says as she walks to the front of the room. “As most of you know, I’m Lana. Pretty sure everyone has been here at least once, so I won’t force any awkward introductions.” She smiles and claps her hands, pacing for a moment as she waits for everyone to find a seat.

  Once everyone is seated, she starts. “Something we haven’t done in a while is speaking individually about why we’re all here. A few of you spoke about isolated incidents last week, but this week, I’d like us to all share… at least a brief synopsis of what brought you here.” Pausing, she smiles and lets her eyes travel around the circle. “I know this might be hard for some of you, but the thing we need to realize the most is that we’re not alone. Everyone here is dealing with something.”

  A guy to my left holds a hand up, getting her attention and she nods at him. “Go ahead, Steve.�
��

  “My wife and I were having issues at home,” he starts. “She’s…” he stops, “I’m not very good at keeping my cool. When we argue, things get heated.”

  At his confession, my heart beats a little faster.

  “I’ve never hit her,” he clarifies, clearing his throat. “But I have broken things at our house… tables, lamps, doors. And I know it’s wrong. Our marriage counselor suggested these sessions and they’ve really helped.”

  When he’s finished, I notice that he wipes his palms down the legs of his jeans. And I realize my palms are sweaty too.

  “I’m here because a judge sentenced me to anger management sessions instead of jail time,” a guy across the room says, and I look up at him. He seems like an average guy—probably in his early thirties, dress shirt and slacks. “I was in a bar one night and a guy made a pass at my girlfriend. I let it go the first time, but when she told me he followed her to the bathroom,” he pauses, running a hand through this hair and letting out a deep breath. “Well, I lost it… body shakes, blood boiling… you name it, I felt it. One minute I was standing toe-to-toe with the guy and the next minute I was in handcuffs in the back of a cop car.”

  The personal stories continue and with each one, I start to feel less and less alone. Sure, I’m flying solo these days, but something about hearing other people—normal, everyday people—who’ve been through similar things, dealt with similar things, makes me feel… less crazy, more normal.

  “I’m Tempest,” I say, when I’m the last one left who hasn’t talked. “Like you,” I say, pointing across the circle to the guy in the dress shirt, “I was sentenced to anger management after my fourth… episode, as my mama likes to call them.” I smile, shaking my head. “I walked in on my husband and his… well, wife, now… he just recently married his mistress.” A few people shift in their seat and I glance up to see their disapproval, making me feel like they’re on my side, and it makes all of this easier. “About four months ago, I walked in on them together in bed. My first time in jail was for disturbing the peace. I stood outside his new house and yelled… everything… I can’t even remember. I’d been drinking that night and then I had a bad dream, and I figured if I couldn’t sleep, he shouldn’t either. Then, I burned all of his stuff he left at our house. Apparently, it’s against the law to start a bonfire in your driveway.”