Regardless of the biological mechanisms involved, I wanted carbs and fat. And thanks to my careful meal planning—and living with health-conscious Jonah—I didn’t have anything good.
How was a girl supposed to eat her feelings if there was nothing appropriate to eat?
What would Cassidy do? She’d text Scarlett. They’d do… whatever it was best girlfriends did when one of them was upset about a fight with her boyfriend. And that probably included eating something delicious.
I grabbed my phone and brought up Cassidy’s number. If I texted her for assistance, I knew she’d come. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was off today.
But what did I tell her? That my boyfriend and I had argued and I was feeling a potent mix of emotions I didn’t know how to process? Was he even still my boyfriend? How did I explain it all over text?
I decided to call.
Cassidy picked up partway through the third ring. “Hey, Juney. What’s up?”
“Are you currently occupied?”
“No, not really. I just got off my shift and I’m snuggling with George. George-cat, that is.”
“Would you be available to assist me with a problem?”
“Sure.” The tone of her voice changed. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to eat my feelings and I don’t have any carbs.”
“Juney, what are you talking about? What’s the matter?”
I switched my phone to my other ear. “I’m having an emotional crisis. I’m not sure what to do with all the feelings I’m experiencing and I think I need to eat.”
“Hang tight. We’ll be right over.”
We meant Cassidy would bring Scarlett. And maybe Leah Mae. That was fine with me. If they each brought a baked good, I’d have more options.
Twenty-two minutes later, all three women arrived. True to my prediction, all three had a box or bag. Cassidy had opted for ice cream. Scarlett had cinnamon rolls from the Pop In. And Leah Mae had a box of lemon squares her dad’s fiancée Betsy had made.
“Okay, Juney,” Cassidy said when we’d all settled in my living room with plates and bowls of sugar and fat. “What’s going on?”
I spooned a bite of chocolate ice cream into my mouth, not even caring that it wasn’t the right time of year for this flavor. “George and I had an argument and I left.”
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
“That him?” Scarlett asked.
“Probably.”
“That’s all right,” Cassidy said, gesturing toward my phone like she was shooing it away. “It’s okay to take a little time to sort out your feelings before you talk to him. What did y’all argue about?”
“His bunny. And his assistant.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate a bit,” Cassidy said.
I explained the basics of our argument.
“He called her pretty?” Scarlett asked. “Oh hell no.”
“The fact that he mentioned her attractiveness isn’t why I’m upset,” I said. “He trusts her to handle things like his finances and he’ll sign documents she puts in front of him without reading them. But she can’t remember to make sure his rabbit has water.”
“Could be an honest mistake,” Leah Mae said.
“Leah Mae Larkin-someday-Bodine, you are not defending her,” Scarlett said.
“No, Scarlett Bodine-someday-McAllister, I’m not defending her. I’m just pointing out that June might have jumped to a conclusion.”
“I agree with Leah Mae on this one,” Cassidy said and held up a hand when Scarlett glared at her. “Don’t freak out, Scar, I just mean June doesn’t have a lot of evidence to back up her concerns. One mistake doesn’t mean she’s inept as an assistant.”
“He still shouldn’t have called her pretty,” Scarlett said. “And I don’t mean that because a guy can’t think another woman is pretty. He can, he just needs to keep it to himself. His very new girlfriend doesn’t need to hear it. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Agreed,” Cassidy and Leah Mae both said through mouthfuls of baked goods.
“Look, Juney, it sounds like y’all just had a spat,” Cassidy said. “A little argument. Are you worried you can’t get past it?”
I looked at my half-finished bowl of ice cream, considering her question. “That’s part of my current state of distress, yes. Did I ruin things by walking away so abruptly?”
“Of course not,” Cassidy said. “Why don’t you just go see him and talk about it?”
“No, she should wait for him to come to her,” Scarlett said. “Make him work for it.”
“If you want to make up with George, bring him food,” Leah Mae said, holding up a lemon square.
“You’re just saying that because you’re dating the second biggest sugar whore in town,” Scarlett said. “I bet you could get Jameson to do anything by offering him cake.”
“That’s one way,” Leah Mae said and licked her fingers.
“That is the upside to arguing,” Scarlett said. “Making up.”
“Oh yes.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I glanced between the three of them. “You’re talking about intercourse, aren’t you?”
“Oh my god, Juney, stop calling it intercourse,” Scarlett said. “Especially if you’re having it.”
My body tensed at the topic. They talked about their sexual relationships all the time. Girl talk, they called it. And I didn’t mind, as long as it didn’t involve me. I didn’t want to talk about me and sex. It wasn’t something I wanted to face yet. “We’re not having intercour—I mean, we’re not having sex.”
“That’s fine, no one’s saying you should be,” Cassidy said, her voice soothing. “It’s up to you to decide when the time is right. But make-up sex is a beautiful thing.”
“A beautiful, beautiful thing,” Leah Mae agreed.
Scarlett nodded. “Lord, yes. Sometimes I pick a fight with Dev just so he’ll blow my mind after we make up.”
“Scarlett Rose, you are evil,” Cassidy said.
“Just remember,” Scarlett said, pointing a chunk of cinnamon roll at her. “I’m the one who told you multiple orgasms were a real thing.”
“That they are,” Leah Mae said. “And Bodine men are experts at giving ’em out.”
Cassidy high-fived her. “Yes, girl.”
“I know how to solve my problem,” I said, letting my spoon clatter into my bowl.
“Good,” Cassidy said. “The ice cream helped, didn’t it?”
I glanced at my bowl. It had helped a little bit. As had their conversation. Not directly. But somehow the chat with my sister and her friends had helped solidify my thoughts. I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to show George that I was right.
* * *
Two hours later, I was prepared with everything I needed. I’d researched twenty different celebrities—from athletes to actors—who’d been taken advantage of by agents, managers, and personal assistants. I’d sorted through their stories for the elements they had in common and charted them on several graphs. Visual aids were often helpful when making a point.
I was determined to show George why I had concerns about Andrea. And I had the data to back my position.
The knock at my door startled me. Who was here? I hadn’t called George to ask him to come over yet. I’d only just finished my research, the print outs still warm in my hand. The remnants of my carb-fest with the girls sat untouched on the coffee table of my living room. I hadn’t even cleaned up.
“June Bug,” George said through the door. “Will you answer, please?”
Invited or not, his timing was satisfactory. I tapped the edges of the printouts, shuffling them into a neat pile, and went to answer the door.
“Hello, George.”
He let out a breath and his shoulders relaxed. Was that relief in his expression?
“I need to talk to you.” He came in and grabbed my hand, enveloping it in his larger one.
I let him lead me inside. He didn’t seem to notic
e the mess in my living room. Just sank onto the couch and pulled me down next to him, still clasping my hand. I set the stack of papers in my lap.
“I came to apologize,” he said, meeting my gaze. His brown eyes were so clear. “I hurt your feelings earlier, and I’m sorry. You were concerned about me and I acted like I didn’t care. But I do. I care about you, and I care about your opinion. And I’m sorry I didn’t take what you were saying seriously.”
His apology was so unexpected, and so sincere, it took the wind right out of my sails. I stared into his eyes, my burning need to be right winking out like a spent match.
I was still concerned about Andrea. That hadn’t changed in the minute or so since he’d arrived. But maybe—just maybe—the facts weren’t the most important thing in this situation. The data wasn’t the point.
He was.
I pulled my hand back from his and grabbed the stack of papers as I stood. George watched as I walked over to the trash and tossed them in.
“I accept your apology,” I said, brushing my hands together. “And I apologize for my part in our dispute. I showed a lack of faith in your judgment. You’re an intelligent man. One I admire a great deal. I could have expressed my concerns in a manner that wasn’t so… harsh.”
“What was that you threw away?” he asked.
“I’d prepared documentation to prove my point.”
His mouth turned up in a smile. “Let me guess. Charts and graphs?”
“Yes. How did you know? You only saw the cover page.”
“You aren’t going to show me?” he asked.
“No.
He laughed and shook his head. “Come here.”
I joined him on the couch and he kissed me. A deep, slow kiss that had me thinking about what the girls had said regarding make-up sex. We weren’t there yet, but I got an inkling of what they’d meant. George and I made out on my couch, and it was incredibly satisfying.
18
June
In the weeks since the news about Callie Kendall had broken, most of Bootleg Springs had settled down about it. The balloons, signs, and streamers had all come down. Conversations and arguments that had once centered around the prevailing theories about her disappearance turned to other topics, although there was still a fair amount of boasting from those whose favorite theories had been the closest. Anyone who’d spouted the ran off with a boy notion was especially smug.
I heard from my sister that the case files and what evidence there was had been boxed up and put in storage. She grumbled about the Hollis Corner police department being the ones with jurisdiction to look into the cult and the rest of Callie’s story. I could tell she didn’t like being kept in the dark about it.
People took down the missing persons posters. Some had been pinned to walls so long the paint was faded around them, leaving bright paper-sized rectangles behind.
There was an odd sense of loss mixed with relief. Callie had been found, her mystery solved. Everyone agreed it was a good end. She was alive and well. But it had ended so abruptly, it was hard to shake off over twelve years of speculation, curiosity, and hope.
I had enough to keep me occupied, so that little splinter of doubt about Callie Kendall waited in the back of my brain. I knew it was there, but I didn’t turn my attention to it. There was work, and I was brought in to help with a risk analysis and sales plan.
And there was George.
I was falling for George Thompson. The logical part of my brain recognized these strong feelings for exactly what they were. Noticed them, saw their brightness. Their warmth and innate appeal. I liked these feelings, even though I was often confused by them.
Why was an evening snuggling with George and Mellow watching SportsCenter so much better than doing the exact same activity at home? Or with my dad? Why did my heart beat faster when I knew George was coming to pick me up for a date?
And the touching. I’d never been one to relish a great deal of physical contact. I liked my space, and I’d never found touch to be a compelling way to bond with other humans.
Not so with George. Those enormous hands of his roamed across my body—respectfully, of course—and I loved every bit of it. Couch snuggles, hand-holding, arms around my waist. Kissing. Oh, the kissing. His kisses were so distracting, I’d never once thought to ask ahead of time if he’d flossed recently.
I was curious about this newfound emotional resonance I was experiencing. I didn’t understand it, but in this case, it wasn’t triggering my instinct to shy away. I wanted to dive into it. Experience more. George had told me more than once, don’t think, just feel. And I wanted to. I wanted to try feeling all sorts of things.
So I did what one should always do when faced with a topic about which they’d like to learn more. I went to the library.
The Bootleg Springs Library was right downtown, housed in one of the oldest buildings still standing. Its brick façade was a little crumbly, but still inviting. Brand-new wooden steps led up to a landing that Scarlett had fixed just last summer. She’d replaced the worn wood that had been so rotten Millie Waggle had gotten her foot stuck, pulling her shoe clean off.
Inside it smelled like heaven—leather, old paper, and a hint of lemon from the polish the librarian, Piper Redmond, liked to use on the surface of the front counter to keep it shiny.
I stepped inside and took a deep breath. This library was one of my favorite places on earth. It wasn’t particularly large, as far as libraries went. Nor was it fancy. I’d been to others that were far more grand, or housed old and important books. This library was simple, but it was home. I’d spent hours of my childhood within these walls, curled up with a book.
My parents had encouraged my love of reading but had always been puzzled by my choices. While Cassidy was reading the Baby-Sitters Club, I was checking out books on astronomy and physics. I read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos when I was eight. I’d devoured anything that had to do with science, and later, math. Cassidy had been dumbstruck when I’d brought home college math textbooks so I could do the problems for fun.
My brain craved that sort of stimulation. Without it, I felt twitchy and restless. As long as I was soaking up knowledge about something, I was happy.
I wandered past the non-fiction area—those shelves I knew so well—and stared at a place of unknowns. Fiction.
I’d expanded my horizons beyond science texts as a young teenager when my dad had hooked me on sports. Then I’d started devouring books on sports statistics and athlete biographies. It had started with baseball—batting averages were easy to calculate and interesting to follow. But football had excited me in a way other sports hadn’t. There was an element of chance to the game that numbers couldn’t account for. A brutality to it that had made it especially stimulating to follow.
But reading fiction? I’d never bothered unless it had been assigned reading in school.
“Hey, June. Are you looking for something in particular?” Piper asked.
Piper Redmond was nothing like a stereotypical small-town librarian. She had a pixie cut that changed colors every week, more piercings than I could count, and a riot of colorful tattoos all over her body. She was a Bootleg transplant, having moved here to take over the library eleven years ago. Despite her loud exterior, Piper’s demeanor was subdued. She spoke softly and had read more books than anyone I’d ever known.
“Yes,” I replied. “I need books with lots of feelings.”
“Hmm.” Piper tapped her finger against her lips. “What sorts of feelings?”
“All of them.”
She smiled. “Then I know just what you need.”
She led me to the romance section. My first instinct was to scoff, but I knew better than to question her. She’d given me countless recommendations over the years, and she’d never once steered me wrong. If she thought I should read romance novels, I’d trust her.
I waited, holding out my arms so she could deposit her selections in a growing stack for me to carry. She chose six books of varying thic
knesses, all displaying passionate couples or attractive men on the covers.
“You can’t go wrong with any of these,” she said. “Fair warning, they’ll rip your heart to shreds, but put it back together quite nicely.”
“That sounds like the sort of book I’m looking for.”
“Need help with anything else?” she asked, depositing one more on top.
“No, these should keep me busy for a few days.”
“There’s more where these came from,” she said. “If you like one in particular, let me know, and I can suggest more that are similar.”
“Thank you.”
I followed her up to the check-out counter, but paused when a title in the non-fiction section caught my eye. Crime Statistics in America: Newly Expanded and Updated Edition. I grabbed that too and added it to my pile.
Piper scanned my books and I slid them into my tote bag, satisfied with my selections. I went home and stacked the books on my coffee table, then tucked myself into a corner of my couch. I’d planned to dive into the first of Piper’s suggested romance novels, but the crime statistics book was poking at that splinter in my brain. The Callie splinter.
I wasn’t sure why. Callie’s case was solved. There was no longer a mystery to ponder. But something about her story still bothered me. Maybe it was time to turn my brain on the problem and figure out why.
Bringing up footage of one of the news stories on YouTube, I let it play in the background while I thumbed through the book on crime stats. Nothing was connecting. No flash of insight making my brain light up.
And then, there it was. Neurons fired, connections were made. I knew what had been bothering me. I just needed to do a little digging to see if I was right.
George texted, letting me know he was on his way. We had plans with Cassidy and Bowie to go out on a double date. I sent a quick reply, my thoughts buzzing on the problem at hand.
Twelve minutes later, George arrived. He came in and I looked up, feeling dazed, like I’d just woken from a long nap.
Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four Page 13
