by Lucy Score
The crowd was getting rowdier and louder.
This was not going well. I was just making a mess of this, too. I looked at my brothers in the front row, who looked concerned and a little annoyed. Jonah shrugged at my silent plea for help. We were all at a loss as to how to fix this.
Gram-Gram stood up on her bench. “Listen up, y’all. That hotshot yahoo detective forced my granddaughter out of her job! And we’re gonna get it back for her!”
“Bootleg Justice!” someone hollered from the back of the room.
It was answered by a chorus of “hell yeahs,” Bootleg Springs’ rallying cry.
“Now, hang on y’all,” I cautioned. “We need to do this the legal way. Connelly’s a cop. We can’t kidnap him and leave him in his skivvies with a thermos of coffee and bear spray in the woods.”
“That only works once or twice,” Marvin Lloyd pointed out. “We need some new material.”
Mayor Hornsbladt stood up. “Can someone run through the facts of the sitchy-ation so we can put on our thinking caps?”
Nadine Tucker rose. “I got this, Bowie. Now, y’all listen up. Here’s how it went down.”
She ran through everything. Connelly claiming Cassidy was a shitty cop. The poorly kept secret of our relationship. The tension between us about her being part of the investigation into our father. Right on up to Cassidy and Connelly’s dust-up at the station and that something she said to him had his face turning the color of a ripe eggplant.
The recap didn’t make me feel any better about myself. I’d pushed Cassidy into a relationship and then basically forced her to share things she wasn’t ready to share. Then I’d abandoned her. Just like I had seven years ago.
I needed to make it up to her. I needed to get her job back for her and then spend the next seven years groveling.
“Damn, son. You done shot yourself in the foot real good,” Mayor Hornsbladt said, tucking his thumbs under the straps of his overalls.
“I’m well aware, sir. I need all y’all’s help in fixing this.”
Thirty minutes later, after a lot of hollering and one cat adoption, we had a rough plan and all the players had their heads together on the details. I didn’t know if it was the recreational moonshine refreshment being passed around, but the plan sounded plausible…and legal.
Scarlett’s suggestions of breaking into Connelly’s house and threatening him to be a better person were summarily scrapped. She was relegated to the official internet searcher for the town elders.
“We aren’t all gonna fit in my El Camino,” Granny Louisa noted.
“We’ll take my van,” Mrs. Varney decided. “Estelle, you’ve got the best eyesight out of all of us. You can drive.”
Gram-Gram stood up again. “Now, let’s talk about how you’re gonna win her back. You need a grand gesture. A real big one.”
“Like spelling out ‘I love you’ in pepperoni rolls.”
“Have you changed your Facebook status to ‘in a relationship?’”
“Maybe you should adopt a cat together!” That suggestion came from Minnie Murkle, who was holding a black cat aloft. I made a note to make a sizeable donation to the rescue’s neutering program.
“Did y’all know that Cassidy told that Connelly fella that he had no right to tell her who she could and couldn’t date?” Bex from the police station said from the second row.
“She did?” I asked, feeling a little lighter in my chest. “Did she say anything else?”
Bex grinned and wiggled her eyebrow ring. “Just somethin’ about how it’s no one’s business if she loves you.”
“How long ago was this?” Gram-Gram wanted to know. “Maybe she changed her mind.”
63
Cassidy
The knocking at my front door was persistent. Yet so was my determination to ignore it. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve as I liked to call it before I was heartbroken and unemployed. Oh, and my best friend was still mad at me.
“Go away, Juney,” I called from a cocoon of blankets, cats, and sadness on my couch.
“How did you know it was me?” my sister yelled through the door.
“You knock four times.”
There was silence from my front porch.
The doors between my place and Bowie’s were, for the first time ever, locked on my side. I’d said my piece in the very nicely written letter, and when he hadn’t replied or acknowledged it, I turned off my phone and locked my doors. Even my cats were starting to avoid me. Every time I walked into a room, Eddie would sprint out, ears down, tail up as if Satan himself had strolled in.
Knock knock knock knock.
“I’m still not answering.”
“Mom told me not to leave until I saw you face-to-face and spent a minimum of ten minutes attempting to assess your mental state.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that part.”
“I’ll set a timer,” June offered.
I pulled the blanket over my head until the warm air made me feel like I was suffocating.
Knock knock knock knock.
My options were: 1. Wait her out. Or 2. Let her in.
June Tucker wasn’t necessarily tenacious. But she was literal. If Mom told her not to leave without proof of life and ten minutes of convincing me that the world didn’t suck, she would camp out on my front porch until she froze to death.
Really, I was doing my sisterly duty by saving her from frostbite. Besides, June lacked the ability to communicate empathy, so I wasn’t in danger of being forcefully cheered up. I pushed blankets and cats aside but carried the sadness with me to the door.
June frowned at me. “You look disgusting,” she said, taking in my rat’s nest hair and my rumpled, stained sweats. When a person didn’t have a job or a boyfriend, what did it matter if she spilled SpaghettiOs straight down her sweatshirt? Also what was the point of cleaning it up when there were two cats eager to eat the noodles right off the couch cushion?
“Thanks, Juney,” I sighed, stepping away from the door.
“It wasn’t a compliment. It was a statement of concern.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“Wait. Stop talking. I want to make sure all this counts.” She pulled out her phone and fiddled around. “Okay. Timer’s set. How are you feeling?”
“Great.”
June eyed me. “Is this one of those sarcastic jokes of yours?”
I face-planted on the couch. “What do you think?” I asked through the pillow.
Everything hurt. Especially that hole in my chest where my heart had been. I’d gone from having everything—Bowie, a great job, a bright future—to nothing but a greasy-haired, Golden Girls rerun-watching cat lady.
The pillow smelled like old SpaghettiOs. I sat up.
My sister glanced around the living room, noting the mound of used tissues. “From the evidence you’re presenting, I feel that you are not great.”
“You’re very observant,” I said dryly. “No, I’m not great. I suck. Everything sucks.” I was horrified by the sudden urge to cry. How did I still have water in my tear ducts? I should have been dehydrated by now.
June frowned. “But isn’t this what you wanted?”
“How is any of this what I wanted?” I blew my nose noisily.
“Didn’t you want to prove that Bowie would hurt you again just like he did when you were in college? Didn’t you also want to prove that Connelly could and would take your job?”
“What are you talking about?”
June nudged a shredded magazine with her foot. I’d ripped the cover off because it promised me seven ways to keep my man.
“It would appear that at least part of you wanted to be right,” June said. Eddie jogged over to her and peered up at her. “Nice kitty.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I accused her.
June looked at her phone. “You thought Bowie could still hurt you. So you proved yourself right. You thought Connelly had it out for you so you l
et him force you to resign. I thought you’d be happier.”
I laughed. A dry, hacking, humorless cackle that had George giving me the side-eye and waddling further down the couch.
“Do I look happy?”
June peered at me and shook her head. “Definitely not,” she said with confidence.
She took a seat in the armchair I’d bought because it seemed so cheerful with its big blue flowers. Now I kind of hated it.
“What am I going to do, Juney?”
She blinked. “Either fix it or move on,” she said, as if it were that simple.
The timer dinged, and June stood. She held her phone out at arm’s length, and I heard the audible click of her camera.
“Seriously?”
“Proof for Mom.”
“What? Your timer went off. You’re free to go,” I snapped.
“You’re upset. Do you want me to make you some hot tea? Some people find hot beverages soothing.”
It just about broke me. I shook my head. “Thanks, Juney,” I said softly. “But I think I need some time to myself.”
“See you at dinner tomorrow night.” June let herself out and left me in peace.
Only now the solitude had lost its comfort.
I picked up my phone. There were text messages. Several dozen of them. Missed calls, too. But none from Bowie. None from Scarlett.
Was this it? Was this the end of my honorary Bodine membership? Had I lost my job for nothing?
June’s words came back to me, chipping at my head like a woodpecker on a dead tree. Had I done this to myself?
I needed to know, and there was only one person who would tell me the truth. I picked up my phone and dialed. “Hi. I need help.”
Approximately two minutes later, Scarlett burst through my front door. “It’s about damn time!” she announced, lugging a cardboard box with her. “I’ve been circling your block for two hours waiting!”
“Waiting for what?”
“You to ask for help.” She started unloading the box. The takeout food was followed by a new hoodie, fleecy pants, and two pre-packaged face masks.
“You forgive me?” I asked.
“All I wanted is for you to stop trying to do everything your damn self. You asked for help. I’m here. That’s what friends are for. I love you, Cass.”
“He hasn’t called, Scar,” I confessed, my eyes watering like I was cutting an onion. “No texts. I think this is the end.”
“Neither one of you has ever done the long-term, forever and ever with someone before. There’s bound to be a few bumps along the way.”
“I took Bowie to the wrecked car your mom died in.”
She sat on the couch and heaved George into her lap. “In the course of your investigation to prove our daddy innocent and save our family from public scrutiny,” she insisted.
I dragged my hands through my hair and winced when they got stuck. I really needed to shower.
“It’s my job to be impartial,” I said stubbornly.
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “You can’t be tellin’ me to my face that you believe that you have to conduct yourself as a cop in your personal life. Because that, my friend, is bull-fucking-shit and you know it.”
It was a cop-out—ha—and I was well aware. I’d deliberately kept my opinion from the man that I loved, an opinion that might have offered him the slightest bit of comfort. Worse, I’d done it because I hadn’t trusted him or myself.
“Look, I’m not saying you didn’t make a mess of things. But so did Bow. Y’all are to blame and it’s gonna take both of you to fix it.”
“I don’t think Bowie wants to fix it. He told me this is just a fight and that it’s not a break-up, but he’s shutting me out. But I don’t know if he changed his mind and broke up with me without telling me.”
“Let me ask you this. How important is your pride?” Scarlett asked.
I gave a hapless shrug. “I don’t know if I have any left.”
“You let Bowie walk away from you when you were nineteen.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Scarlett held up George’s paw. “Uh-uh. You wanted him. You probably had an idea that he was lying to you. And you still let him go. Are you going to let him go this time or are you going to put it all on the line?”
“What if he doesn’t want to be with me?” I asked. Nerves danced through my system, making me feel more scared than sad. Purposely putting myself out there, opening myself up to be devastated?
“Then he’s a dumbass, but at least you would have put forth maximum effort. You wouldn’t be living with any of those ‘what ifs.’ What if you tried one last time? What if you told him how you felt? What if you made him tell you how he felt? You could close the door on all of those things.”
“When did you get so wise?” I asked as she tore open the to-go food containers.
“When Devlin taught me how to grow the hell up a little bit. Now, let’s eat, watch some Arrested Development, and give ourselves facials.”
“I love you, Scarlett. I may not tell you often enough. But you’re the best friend a girl could have.”
“And don’t you forget it. Now, do you want the charcoal mask or the hologram unicorn mask?”
64
Cassidy
It was supposed to snow today. Snow. On Christmas Eve. I was supposed to show up at my parents’ house in a few hours for our annual family dinner. But that felt so monumental. And the nerves that I had bubbling up inside me.
I was meeting Scarlett, a little reluctantly, downtown for lunch. I had her Christmas present—a snazzy, custom-made tool belt with a beer bottle holder—tucked inside a cheerful holiday gift bag. She was going to help me with my speech. My “lay it all on the line and put my heart in Bowie’s hands” speech.
I’d give him the words tonight, face-to-face if I had to break down the door between our halves.
My heart skipped a beat or two at the thought of putting it all out there. All on the line.
Scarlett had asked me what I wanted to save first, my job or my relationship. I’d surprised the hell out of myself by choosing Bowie. I could get another job, probably. I could be a security guard at the courthouse or maybe work with Leah Mae at her boutique when it opened. Or I could venture outside of Bootleg and look for a law enforcement job.
But I couldn’t find myself another Bowie Bodine.
I meandered down Lake Drive, scarf wrapped high around my neck, hat pulled low. I wasn’t eager to see or be seen. Not yet. The station was up ahead. But I couldn’t make myself look at it. It hurt too much. I’d mourn that loss and mourn it fiercely. But first things first. I needed to see if I could salvage things with Bowie. There were other jobs. Other ways to serve. But there was only one Bowie.
I’d done a lot of soul searching on how I’d come to be in this predicament. I had wanted to blame Connelly or Bowie or Misty Lynn, because—let’s face it—she was a terrible human being. But I just kept coming back to all the ways I’d screwed up.
I’d let Connelly chase me out of a job I loved because, in the beginning, I was too chickenshit to stand up and demand respect. I’d let Bowie walk away from me twice now without laying it all on the line. And I’d omitted and outright lied to my best friend using the law as well as my own self-preservation as excuses.
I’d drawn a distinct line dividing my personal and professional lives and refused to tip-toe over it. And maybe that could work in a bigger city where no one knew their neighbors and cops didn’t personally know the people they served. But that did not work in Bootleg Springs. That did not work for me.
Maybe I was too rigid? My father made it look easy. Mending fences, laying down the law, or bending it when the situation required it. Because he cared. He served.
He doesn’t just try to solve. He’s there to serve, Bowie had said. I felt the truth of it in my bones. Solving was what brought me to the law. But I was starting to realize that it was the serving part that fulfilled me. I would find a way to serve. Find a way to walk that
line of personal and professional.
I glanced up and spotted someone in a blue winter coat that reminded me of Bowie’s and felt the pang. I missed him, with a physical ache so acute I thought I was coming down with the flu. I’d been furious that he let someone else come between us, yet I’d done the exact same thing, allowing Connelly to call the shots. I’d been trying to protect my job, choosing it as my priority. That choice had cost me both job and man.
I looked around at the holiday bunting over shop windows, the inflatable nativity scene set up in front of the courthouse, the big red bows tied to the lamp posts. I was supposed to love this time of year. But I couldn’t even muster the energy to wrap the presents I’d bought.
Would I have ignored my hunch at an accident scene to save the family heartache like my father? Or would I have investigated it, picked it apart, held it up to the light just so I could check all the right boxes in my report?
Was I more like Connelly or my father? The question seemed important more now than ever.
What was the point of protecting if I wasn’t also serving?
I spotted Scarlett up ahead, cozy in a work jacket and ski cap over her dark brown hair. She raised her hand in greeting. We both heard the yell and turned in the same direction.
“Someone help!” It came from a small crowd gathering across the street at the park’s entrance.
“The baby’s not breathing!” someone yelled.
I was in a dead run, dodging a pickup truck carrying a bunch of snow inner tubes and freaking Mona Lisa McNugget out for her afternoon stroll.
“Cassidy! Come quick,” Sallie Mae Brickman called from the circle.
I slammed my knees into the concrete so hard I thought I might have dented the sidewalk. A baby. Not breathing. I was already assessing while the crowd around us shouted information.
They’d been shopping. She was fine and then went stiff and started turning blue.
So tiny. Her perfect little cupid’s bow lips were blue. Oh, God.
It was Christmas Eve.
