by K. A. Tucker
“No, don’t do that! Don’t become that crotchety, cynical old hag who forgets what it feels like! Of course you could be in love with him at seventeen after a summer. Look at me! I fell in love with Bill the day he bought me an ice-cream cone, when I was twelve. Twelve!”
She’s right. What I felt for Shane was real and it was powerful. It was that all-consuming, can’t-think-about-anything-else, don’t-want-anyone-else kind of love that, despite how badly he hurt me, only stopped plaguing me after I escaped Polson Falls and didn’t have to see him every day.
And now I’m back in Polson Falls and seeing him every day again.
I tuck my sheet into the crook of my neck, attempting to find comfort. “I hate that he’s dating someone else.” Especially after he made me think there was something real between us.
“A date,” Justine corrects.
“That will probably end in him sleeping with her,” I grumble, as I struggle to push out the image of them standing so closely together, and her pawing at his body, and him allowing it. I want to be the one pawing at his body. Why did it take last night’s debacle for me to finally admit that to myself?
Because I’m too stubborn for my own good sometimes. Because I thought I was protecting myself by denying it.
And maybe Shane’s right—that he isn’t doing anything wrong by dating other women, that I don’t have the right to expect him to just sit around, waiting however long, until I come to terms with the fact that I want to give us another shot. I just don’t know how to let myself do that. It would mean making myself vulnerable to him again.
“Last night, Shane told me to grow up.”
“Ooh.” She winces. “Pulling out the immaturity card. Bet that hurt.”
“I probably deserved it.” Why did I have to respond in such a foolish way? Beyond my hurt, my embarrassment is swelling. What if one of my student’s parents—besides Shane—were around to witness that?
“Are you going to apologize?”
“I don’t know yet. I mean, he’s dating other women. Maybe it’s best we stay away from each other.”
“Or maybe you should at least give him a clean slate for a few hours and see what happens.” She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide that what you used to like about him actually annoys the shit out of you now. Like, you know how Bill has to always have the last word, whenever we’re talking about anything. And he makes up all these stupid ‘what-if’ scenarios that aren’t ever going to happen, with aliens and viral pandemics. I used to think they were funny.” She gives me a flat look. “They’re not funny anymore.”
I’ve witnessed this firsthand and have to agree; Bill can get annoying. “You’re still with him, though.”
She grunts in answer.
“What if Shane doesn’t annoy me?” Speaking of ‘what-if’ scenarios …
What if I fall harder for him than I did when I was seventeen?
What if he’s everything I want for my future?
And what if he gives it to me, only to take it all away again?
Justine grins. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll screw it up somehow. You know, because you’re emotionally stunted.”
I haphazardly swing a loose pillow at her head. “Shut up, you brat.”
“But I do think you need to shit or get off the pot, Scarlet.”
I cringe. “I hate that saying.”
“Really? I love it. Reminds me of my gramps.” She smiles wistfully. “Anyway, I don’t think you can hold it against Shane for going out with other women while you keep turning him down. And you can’t keep playing whatever game this is. You’ll drive yourself mad.”
“Aren’t you the one who said I should play the player? Cat and mouse and all that?” I remind her wryly.
“Yeah, but that was before I knew you were seriously hung up on him. Plus, I am perpetually immature. And spiteful. I slashed Bill’s tire when I thought he was cheating on me, remember?”
“Vaguely.” One of many of Justine’s dark, insidious secrets that I will take to the grave.
“Don’t ever take my advice.”
I pull my sheet over my head. “I think I need more sleep.”
The mattress lifts as Justine climbs out of bed. “I’m gonna make a pot of coffee. Will you be up for greasy eggs and bacon in an hour?” Another of Justine’s post-drunk proclivities.
“I don’t have any eggs or bacon.”
“What kind of establishment is this?” she scoffs.
I listen to the soft pad of her bare feet as she heads downstairs and then let myself drift off to the fuzzy memory of Shane’s lips on mine, my internal conflict swelling.
The truth is, I already know, deep down, that I want to give Shane another shot, no matter how dumb an idea that may be, no matter how much he might hurt me again.
I’m just terrified I won’t survive getting played by him a second time.
The faint waft of bacon stirs my senses. It takes me a few moments to process that Justine must have made a grocery run, which means she’s cooking up a full brunch buffet.
I smile, knowing she’ll fix a heaping plate and bring it up to lure me awake. Breakfast in bed sounds good right now—
The high-pitched shrill of the smoke alarm sounds, followed by Justine’s shrieks. “Fire! Help! Oh my God, fire!”
I bolt out of bed and charge down the stairs.
“How was I supposed to know your stove is a fucking death trap? You should have told me!” Justine yells through a bout of coughing, waving a dishcloth in the air to help disperse the haze of dark smoke out the open side door. “I went to pee and I came back to flames!”
“I didn’t know this would happen. Iris just said it sometimes acts up!” I set the emptied fire extinguisher on my table, my limbs shaking and my pulse racing from the adrenaline. It’s hard to tell, given the white residue coating everything, but there doesn’t appear to be much damage, aside from the charred stove top and scorched tile behind. The most severe casualty is the bug calendar that hung on the wall, its pages turned to black ash.
“Acts up? Your stove ‘acts up’? What does that even mean? I almost burned down your whole house!” Justine’s bottom lip wobbles. God, not the wobbly bottom lip. If she doesn’t get a hold of herself, she’s going to melt into a sobbing mess on the floor.
“But you didn’t,” I say calmly. Had I not had the fire extinguisher here, though … I shudder at the thought. “And it wouldn’t have been your fault.”
She throws the dishtowel to the sink. Blinking back tears, she smooths her disheveled ponytail with her fingers. “Okay. You are going upstairs and getting dressed, and then we’re going out to buy you a new fucking stove. One that won’t try to kill you.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I’m getting paid next week anyway. I should have enough room on my credit card.
“And it’s being delivered this weekend, before I leave.”
“Okay.” When Justine’s upset, she gets bossy. I’ve learned to just let her get it all out.
“But first, we’re going to get breakfast, because I’m starving and my perfect bacon is now charcoal.” She throws an accusatory hand toward the pans.
The last thing I can think about is food, but Justine’s mood will only deteriorate without her grease fix.
“And I don’t want to hear how broke you are or that you have to sell your body on the street to pay for it. You are buying my meal.”
I laugh. “Okay! I’m so sorry, Justine. That scared the shit out of me too.”
The corners of her lips twitch. “Good. Hurry up and get dressed.”
My ears catch the faint sound of a siren. I don’t think much of it as I head toward the stairs, but it grows louder and louder …
And louder.
Until the wailing stops outside my house.
“Is that for us?” Justine and I share a panicked glance and then run to the window that overlooks my front yard.
“Holy shit.” My stomach drops as I take in the enormous red truck pulled i
nto my driveway and the swath of bodies in full yellow firefighter gear charging across my lawn. “Did you call them?”
“What? Oh, yeah. While I was running around like a goddamn chicken with my head cut off, screaming ‘fire!’ Does that count?” she asks sarcastically.
“Well, someone must have.”
Heavy boots storm up my front porch, followed seconds later by shouts and a fist pounding on my front door.
“You probably have about five seconds before they bust that shit down,” Justine warns, folding her arms across her chest, making it clear that she will not be handling this.
I curse under my breath, my cheeks flaming as I march forward, aware that I’m still in my tank top and boxers. I throw open my front door, to find four mammoth bodies standing outside.
Shane is front and center.
“There was a report of a fire?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, stepping across my threshold, forcing me back into a corner, his piercing gaze quickly searching the house’s interior.
“Yeah, in the kitchen, but it was small and we put it out with the extinguisher. Really, you guys didn’t need to …” My words trail as he storms down the hall. The others follow, brought up at the rear by Dean who offers a small smile—and an overt glance downward that makes me cross my arms over my braless chest—before continuing. I glare at his back. Dickhead.
Outside, more firefighters wait by the truck for instructions. Several people loiter on the sidewalk, watching the excitement unfold.
“Could this weekend get any worse?” I hiss, wandering into the kitchen with Justine. We’re squeezed against the wall as they quickly survey the damage and radio in a report.
“Like I told you, there’s really no need for this circus. We put it out.” I eye the enormous bodies in heavy equipment filling my tiny kitchen.
“Dispatch got a call from one of your neighbors about screaming and smoke. We can’t leave until we’ve inspected. It’s protocol.” Shane doesn’t sound like himself right now. Maybe he’s trying to maintain a professional appearance, but something tells me there’s more to it than that, because aside from those few seconds inside my door, he seems to be intentionally avoiding eye contact with me. “What happened?” he asks, pointing at the stove.
“Well, I was cooking breakfast …” Justine goes into detail, about the glorious meal she was making and the faulty stove top I forgot to tell her about. By the time she’s done, two of the firefighters have filed out, leaving Shane and Dean to deal with us.
“Faulty stove top.” Shane frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. Iris left me a note and just said the back burner acts up sometimes.”
“It acts up?” he echoes lightly, his eyes connecting with Dean’s where a silent message seems to be relayed. Do they not believe me?
“That’s what her note said,” I reiterate, my tone sharp. Why is everyone having difficulty accepting the words of a sweet ninety-year-old lady?
The corners of Dean’s mouth curl but he smooths his expression quickly with a clearing of his throat. “Good thing you had a fire extinguisher. Most people don’t.”
“Yeah … Good thing.” I steal a glance at Shane, whose focus is on my scorched bug calendar now.
He shifts a pile of ash with his boot. “Didn’t think you were serious about burning down your kitchen.”
Oh my God. “I wasn’t!” I snap. Elementary school teacher and daughter of local infamous harlot is named arsonist. The last thing I need is that rumor floating around town. I wish I’d never cracked that stupid joke.
His gaze flickers to mine briefly. “Relax. I’m kidding.” There’s no humor in his voice, though. “Murphy’s in town will give you a ten percent friends-and-family discount on a new stove if you drop my name.” He hesitates. “Or use Dean’s name, if that works better for you.”
I let him see my heavy eye roll. We’ve moved to the cordial, distant, awkward stage. Great.
“I’ll be outside. Have a good day, ladies.” He strolls out of my kitchen.
“You don’t want to leave this stuff for too long.” Dean steers our attention to the white residue from the extinguisher. “Hot water and vinegar usually works, but if it’s stuck …” His instructions drift as I watch Shane’s retreating back down my hall. He looks enormous in all that gear.
And this is stupid.
“Hey, Shane!” I trot after him.
He slows. “Uh-huh?”
“Thanks.”
“Just doing my job.” He says it casually, but there’s still that hint of something in his voice—animosity? Reluctance? Annoyance?
“No, I mean, thank you for the fire extinguisher.” Finally, he turns to face me and I smile sheepishly. “If I hadn’t had it, I probably wouldn’t have a house right now.”
“Yeah, well …” He offers a smirk. “What did I tell you? Fire safety’s no joke.”
“You don’t say,” I murmur, studying my bare toes as the awkward silence hanging between us grows.
“If there’s nothing else?” He waits a beat and then shifts toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Last night was weird. I’m not normally like that. I just …” I still care about you. “My mom and all that.” I blame my mother, though my alcohol-fueled emotions got the better of me long before Dottie ever strolled in to drop a cherry on a ruined night.
He nods slowly, biting his bottom lip. “Yeah, it was weird for me too.” His gaze drifts over my mouth. Has he been thinking about that kiss since he woke up like I have? I have the urge to kiss him again, just to make sure it’s as good in the sober light of day.
Shit or get off the pot.
Justine may be crass but she has a point.
I take a deep breath. “So, listen, maybe we should try—”
“You were right.”
“Huh? I was?”
“Yeah. We should definitely keep this”—he waggles a finger between us—“straightforward and uncomplicated. I think it’s better for everyone involved.”
My stomach drops like a rock. Uncomplicated. I think that’s my new least favorite word. “Yeah. Right. Of course.”
He flashes a playful smile. “Try not to start any more fires, okay?”
“It was the stove,” I mutter, watching him stroll out the door, my disappointment swelling. So, I guess that’s a no to dinner, then.
Behind me, heavy boots plod along my hallway toward the door.
“Thank you for rushing to our aid,” Justine says.
“You have any more questions?” Dean’s deep voice is grating on my nerves. I want everyone to leave so I can crawl back beneath my covers and die.
“No, I think we’re good.” She flashes a wide, flirtatious smile and I struggle to hide my cringe. “But, just in case, why don’t you leave your number so we can call you?” She opens the notebook that sits on my hallway console table and holds up a pen.
I shoot her a glare behind his back as he bends over to jot down his number. “He’s the motherfucker. Literally!” I mouth.
“I know,” she mouths back. “Prank-call later.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Justine would do that.
Dean tosses down the pen. “Hey, listen, if you end up buying something from Murphy’s, skip the delivery charge and tell him I’ll pick it up and bring it here for you. I’ve got a dolly.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, more sharply than I intended. “I mean … why?” Why is he being so nice after last night’s debacle? Is Dean dumb enough to think he still has a shot at getting laid?
My question—or more likely my tone—seems to take him back, because he stumbles over his next words. “I just … I guess I figured you could use the help?” A small frown pulls his brow.
I could use the help. I’ve already been to Murphy’s to check out the appliances. They’re overpriced and they charge seventy-five bucks to deliver.
“Scarlet would love the help. And seeing as she almost had Dottie’s sl
oppy seconds and you feel super guilty about that, she’s going to take you up on your offer,” Justine says sweetly, batting her lashes for effect.
Dean winces. If he were entertaining any ideas of a post-delivery thank-you blow job, I’d say that sufficiently crushed it. “Text me if you end up buying one and I can grab it in the afternoon, after I wake up.”
“And you should get Shane to help you,” Justine adds.
He grunts at that and then marches out the door and down my steps to join the fray of loitering men on my front lawn.
I spear Justine with another glare. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“It was definitely more fun than the fire. So, what happened with Shane?”
I sigh, eyeing his retreating form as he climbs into the truck. “He took the pot away before I could do anything on it. For good, I think.”
“I’m sorry, buddy.” She smooths a soothing hand over my shoulder.
“It’s probably for the best. You know, because of Cody.”
“Right.” We watch the truck pull out of my driveway and head back to the station, to wait for a real emergency. Thankfully, the neighborhood gawkers are dispersing quickly now that the action is over.
When the truck’s taillights are out of sight, Justine claps her hands. “Okay, get dressed. I’m starving.”
Seventeen
I’m sprawled out in my living room on Sunday afternoon and halfway through grading Friday’s surprise math test when a sharp knock sounds on my front door.
With a nervous flutter in my stomach and a quick glance in the hallway mirror, I head over to answer it.
Dean is standing on my front step with a dolly.
Alone.
“Hey.” My attention veers to the shiny black truck parked in my driveway and the sizable brown cardboard box. “Is that my stove?”
“I hope so,” he jokes.
I force a smile as my disappointment swells, and I realize how much I was counting on seeing Shane. “Are you going to be able to manage that on your own?” Did Dean not mention to Shane that he was coming here today? Or is “keeping it uncomplicated” code for “I’m staying the hell away from your crazy ass from now on”?
