Swamp Happens: The Complete Swamp Bottom Series

by Cora Kenborn

  I tried and failed to curb the sickly sweet, head over heels, hearts in my eyes, hopelessly devoted smile permanently plastered across my face as I read the text Pope sent me earlier that morning.

  At least sixty times, I picked up my phone and stared at the little text bubble. Also, in the four hours since the chime that I’d painstakingly selected for him sounded, the same text nearly cost the life of my beloved pig.

  Tossing my pen onto my desk, I slumped into my chair and relived the chaos.

  Since my perpetually neurotic sister insisted on dragging me to work with her at the butt crack of dawn, I tried to find something appropriate to wear without opening my eyes. Grabbing the first shirt I found, I managed to shove one arm through the neck hole and the other through the sleeve before pulling it off with a curse and throwing it blindly onto the laundry pile on my floor.

  Pope’s distinct text tone sounded over Kevin Junior Bacon Cheeseburger’s snoring, and I spun in the direction of the noise. However, I couldn’t see anything through the fabric of the new shirt I’d pulled on, which was now stretched to near suffocation over my face.

  Doing my best impression of a cat fighting their way out of a paper bag, I tried desperately to disentangle myself from the tentacles of polyester holding me captive. Taking few stumbling steps, I cleared the three feet to my bed before my foot collided with something solid. White, hot pain radiated from my baby toe all the way up my leg, wrenching an unladylike cry from my throat followed by a string of nonsensical curses that would’ve made Babs proud.

  Swearing and battling with the python grip of my blouse, I blindly hopped around on one foot. Due to my lack of housekeeping skills, I landed on a rogue item of clothing, causing my foot to slip on the hardwood floor. My body pitched forward, my entire life of poor decisions flashing before my eyes as I fell helplessly to what was certainly my death. Instead of careening into the abyss, I landed awkwardly on my bed, and my elbow sank into a blanket covered lump.

  As soon as I landed, a squeal of epic proportions pierced the air. Rolling over quickly, I realized that I’d inadvertently body slammed Kevin. Because my shirt still blindfolded me, I failed to see the bed had ended, and I crashed to the floor, gracefully catching myself with my face.

  Once I caught my breath and managed to wrestle off the article of clothing, the smell and taste of rotten ass smacked me in the face like a bitch with a bad attitude. I peeked over the mess of blankets to see that, yes, I’d indeed scared the literal shit out of my pet pig.

  The slam of the office door pulled me out of my reminiscence just in time to see Zep clomp his way into view. Addie was away meeting with a new distributor, and I wasn’t sure he’d noticed me shifted low in my desk chair. I’d had about enough of his brooding ass. He and Addie had banged around each other all week, and not in the fun way.

  Addie had failed to convince me she’d indulged in a wild one night stand with some random guy she met at the bar. Yeah, right. Even if I hadn’t noticed Zep’s truck barreling out of the neighborhood that fateful morning, I would’ve known they’d bumped uglies the minute I saw them in the same room together. The satisfaction and regret painted all over their faces said it all. Addie’s twitchy panic gave her the “uh-oh, I accidentally tripped and fell on the dick of the man I’ve been in love with for the better part of two decades” look.

  I was done walking on eggshells. Kicking my booted feet off the desk, I rolled over to the filing cabinet where Zep sifted angrily through files.

  “What the fuck, dude?”

  Startled, he spun around to face me. “Shit, Sav, I didn't know anyone was here.”

  Yeah, genius. Why would anyone be in the office at noon on a Thursday?

  I crossed my arms and arched a brow. “You want to explain why you've been acting like a fucking caveman all week?”

  “I don't want to talk about it.” Zep grunted and turned back to the cabinet.

  I scoffed at his lame attempt to end the conversation.

  No dice, bro.

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me, and his brows slammed together in confusion. “Do you even know what rhetorical means?”

  I waved off his insult. I had a point to make, and he wasn't going to distract me. “You fucked my sister.”

  Zep’s body froze, and he slowly turned all the way around until we faced off. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or incredulity shining in his eyes. “She told you?”

  Easy as taking candy from a baby.

  "No, but you just did, and let me guess… She didn't fall at your feet and worship you, did she? So, now you're being a little mitch because you got your feelers hurt. Am I right?”

  A flush crept up his cheeks from his beard, and I had to stifle a laugh. Zephirin LeBlanc actually blushed. If I didn't already have an agenda, I'd have stopped to rag on him endlessly for that one.

  Seeming to pull himself together, he straightened his shoulders and pinned me with a look. “What the hell is a mitch?"

  “A man bitch,” I stated succinctly.

  Zep rolled his eyes. “Classy, Sav. My feelers are intact, thank you for your concern. I'm just pissed that she can't figure out what she fucking wants.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned and slouched down in my desk chair. “Yes, because you've been so open and honest with your feelings. Seriously, you two fucking kill me.”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “Fine, just listen then. My sister is scared. Her heart was pulverized over the last ten years so be gentle with her. Do us all a favor and lay it all out. Tell her how you really feel, none of this tip-toeing shit. It’ll save us from having to buy new office furniture,” I said, staring at the brand-new filing cabinet he'd beat to shit since they’d done the deed.

  “Don't you have your own relationship to worry about?”

  “Pope and I are great, thanks for asking. But we're not talking about me. We’re talking about you and my sister and your epically fucked up relationship.”

  Zep pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “I know you mean well, Savannah, but do me a favor and stay the hell out of it.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “And we’re both adults. I’m serious, Sav. Mind your own business.” Slamming the drawer, he stalked out of the office.

  “What do you think, Kevin? Should we stay out of it?”

  Kevin gave an almost inaudible snort from his nest of blankets under my desk.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. It’s for their own good, really.”

  “Y’ello?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief at hearing Babs’ crackly voice coming through the line. “I need your help.”

  The desperation in my voice must’ve been evident because after a brief pause, Babs asked, “You need help hide body? I call Bam-Bam. He strong.”

  “What? God, no.”

  “Bam-Bam keep good secret. Cold water with soap for blood,” she continued.

  I knew my grandmother was as ride or die as they came, but it was a little unsettling to know she might have had experience covering up a murder.

  “Gator eat everything,” she added.

  “Babs, I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Then why you call?”

  “Because I’m trying to make gumbo, and I think I fucked it up.”

  Babs’ smoker’s laugh echoed in my ears. “So, you trying to kill someone?”

  “My cooking isn’t that bad.” Kevin responded with a loud snort and a nudge to the back of my leg. “Oh, shut the fuck up, you asshole.”

  “Say again?”

  Shit.

  “Not you, the pig. For real, Babs, I need your help.”

  “Why you try to cook? Addie not there?”

  “I’m trying to surprise Pope,” I admitted, feeling another failure coming on. Pushing away from the counter, I buried my hands in my hair. After a week of text messages and opposite work schedules, I’d been dying to get some a
lone time with him. I’d thought moving to New Orleans would mean I’d get to see my boyfriend any time I wanted, but I hadn’t considered the fact that he was a beat cop in one of the most popular tourist destinations in the country. Since he’d just been transferred to the NOPD, he was stuck working the most undesirable shifts.

  “You want to surprise him, use sex not poison.”

  “Well, you’ve been a wealth of help, thanks so much.”

  Babs sighed, “All right, you make old lady guilty. I help. I get more vodka first.”

  I looked at the explosion of crap littering the kitchen island as I listened to the sounds of Babs hunting the house for one of her hidden bottles of vodka. Unlike every other female in my family, my culinary skills were less than stellar. My history in the kitchen was limited to canned soups and frozen pizza.

  My relationship with Pope was in a delicate place. Officially, we'd only been an item for a few months, but our relationship felt more real than anything I'd ever experienced. The only problem seemed to be time. There wasn't enough of it, and while I was eager to move our relationship forward, Pope seemed to be at ease with taking it day by day. Normally, his behavior wouldn't bother me, but I couldn't help the feeling that he was holding back. When we were together, we'd spend hours lying awake at night talking about everything under the stars while simultaneously not talking about anything of real consequence.

  But I craved more.

  I was starved for any morsel of information he'd let slip, but after almost three months, I still only knew the basics about his family and his life before I came barreling into it. Even though I knew he'd grown up in New Orleans, and his family still lived in the city, somehow he'd artfully avoided going into detail about them every time I tried to bring it up.

  The overly neurotic part of my brain, courtesy of the Dubois gene pool, had lain dormant most of my life. However, due to Pope’s secrecy, it’d reared its ugly head and whispered evil things into my subconscious. What if Pope didn't take me seriously? What if due to the way we met, my over the top personality, and crazy ass family, he thought we were just having a fling? What if he was embarrassed by me? A litany of “what if’s” bombarded my thoughts and grew louder the longer we were apart.

  While I realized it was unhealthy, I found myself wanting to prove to Pope that I was in his league. He needed to know I had shed my wanderlust ways and wanted something real.

  "Ah, okay, I ready," Babs said finally. I heard the creak of her old rocking chair over the line as she settled into her spot on the front porch.

  Always the front porch.

  It seemed fitting. The front porch of my grandparents’ house was the pinnacle of every major event in the lives of the Dubois women after all.

  "Okay, how the fuck am I supposed to cook gator sausage?"

  Babs laughed so hard she started hacking up a lung. She didn't stop laughing the entire time she walked me through cooking a Louisiana staple that, in her words, should be natural like wrestling a gator.

  An hour, three Band-Aids, one burn, and a few tears later, I had a giant pot of something that resembled vomit bubbling on the stove. At least it didn't smell like vomit. In fact, Babs had done me right because it smelled rather good. I checked the clock and noted that Pope would be home in less than a half an hour. With the cornbread in the oven, and the gumbo simmering away, I set to work cleaning up the disaster I’d made of his kitchen.

  My housekeeping skills were about as honed as my cooking. Mama’s “clean as you go” advice echoed in my ears as I hastily wiped down the counters.

  There were so many steps to the recipe Babs had given me I didn’t remember half of what I’d done to get it all in the same damn pot, much managed to clean anything in between. Lost in my head and not paying attention, I swiped a huge pile of vegetable scraps onto the floor instead of into my hand.

  “Motherfucker! Kevin!” I called out, looking for my living garbage disposal.

  Nothing.

  “Kevin, food!” I hollered, louder this time.

  More nothing.

  What the fuck?

  Abandoning my station in the wreckage of my culinary expertise, I searched the house, hoping Kevin hadn’t decided to take a shit in a pair of Pope’s shoes. I followed the sounds of his snorts down the hallway and into the bedroom. Dropping to my knees, I peeked under the bed.

  Nada.

  “Kevin! Where are you?” I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him, which was by far more terrifying. After coming up empty in the bathroom, I found him nestled in a pile of dirty clothes in the closet, gnawing on something I couldn’t immediately identify.

  “What the hell, Kev?”

  It took me a minute, but I eventually wrestled a picture out of his mouth.

  "I swear, one of these days you're going to eat the wrong thing and explode like a damn pork bomb."

  I wiped the slobber from the picture and tried to smooth out the wrinkles but stopped short when I saw the image. Dressed in a tux, Pope smiled back at me and stood in a garden with a beautiful girl in a white dress. I froze.

  Examining the photo closer, I noticed that it was obviously old. Pope's face was fuller, his features less chiseled, but he had the same build and looked to be around twenty years old. It was a professional photo, like the kind of picture taken at weddings.

  An expensive wedding—not like the backyard cookout receptions where I came from.

  He had a whole life before you that he won't tell you about.

  My stomach soured at the thought, and the “what if’s” came flooding back full force.

  What if I'd given my heart to a man who wasn't who I thought he was?

  No amount of logic or reason could stop my mind from jumping and then catapulting to conclusions. Like some bizarre case of Bodysnatchers, my hippie bohemian personality had been hijacked and replaced with that of a reality star who constantly tried to catch her boyfriend in a lie. Instead of thinking of fun date ideas, I daydreamed about whether Pope told me the names of his childhood pet and first-grade teacher so I could break into his email account.

  When that didn’t work, I took to pacing the floors while practicing the most practical way to confront him out loud.

  “Oh, hey, Pope! So, I wanted to surprise you with dinner, and I brought Kevin with me because you know he goes with me everywhere.”

  No, that was stupid.

  “Hey, Pope, how was your day? Mine was good. I wanted to surprise you with dinner, but I noticed that Kevin had wandered off, so I went to find him, and he had this. I was just curious as to what it was.”

  Ugh, too crazy.

  Taking a deep breath, I shook my hands and continued pacing. I felt like an MMA fighter preparing to enter the Octagon.

  “You can do this Savvy. Just don't act like a lunatic. Suppress all that inner Dubois crazy and just pack it on down. You're capable of acting like a decent, rational human being. You found a picture—just a piece of paper with an image printed on it—not a body. You have no idea where or when it was taken. There's no reason to jump to conclusions.”

  Except I kind of already did.

  “I’m overcomplicating this. I should casually bring it up and slip it into the conversation. Maybe I should wait till after dinner? But what if he thinks that I sat on it and then waited for an opportunity to catch him in an “I gotcha moment”? Shit, what am I going to do?”

  I groaned in frustration and buried my hands in my wild hair. I was starting to lose it and nothing good could come from that. Pausing mid-stride, I clenched my fists by my side and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  “Maybe I should just ignore it and see if he'll tell me in his own time. No, I can't do that because it’ll drive me nuts. Don’t you think, Kevin?” I glanced down, taking in Kevin’s bored expression and wet snout. “Annnnd now I'm talking to a fucking pig. Oh my God!” I covered my face with my hands, the stress and anxiety becoming too much. “I'm really losing my shit.”

  “Why are you losing yo
ur shit?” Pope’s deep voice came from behind me. I spun around, my heart racing like a crackhead on speed.

  Oh, God.

  How much had he heard? Shit, did he hear me talking to Kevin like he was a person? I tried not to do that in front of people. It took crazy cat lady to a whole new level.

  We stood in the middle of the living room staring at each another and not saying anything. The cogs in my brain had just seized, and the lights behind my eyes had gone out.

  Nope, no one was home.

  I tried desperately to will an explanation to come, but no such luck. Instead, my mouth moved without permission from my temporarily frozen mind.

  “I wasn't snooping,” I blurted out. “I was not snooping. It's just that Kevin was missing, and I had to look for him and then I found him in your closet. I thought he'd shit in your shoes, but he didn’t. He tried to eat this.” I waved the picture in the air. “He was slobbering all over it, so I had to wrestle it out of his mouth. Then there was slobber all over it, so I had to wipe it off. I looked at it to see if it was damaged, and then I saw this.” I took a breath and wished that the floor would open and swallow me whole.

  After planning this conversation in my head and going over it a dozen times, I ended up blurting it out like verbal vomit. Now Pope would think I was just as insane as the rest of my damn family, which was the exact thing I wanted to avoid. I wouldn’t be surprised if he looked for a little mini-Pope voodoo doll in my bag. I’d just raised the psycho girlfriend meter to “might have a shrine in her closet with a lock of your pubes and nail clippings she prays to every night”.

  I didn't want to be one of those crazy girlfriends that cyber stalked her boyfriend and searched his apartment while he was gone. That wasn't who I was. I was carefree. I was a “go with the flow” kind of girl. I didn't spend hours trying to decode my boyfriend’s PIN number on his phone so I could search through his messages, emails, and social media. I was the “live and let live” type—the girlfriend who was just one of the guys. But for some reason, Pope made me act like a goddamn mental patient.