by Ella James
“You want to sit down?” Burke asks when it’s just us on the porch.
I hobble to the swing, and he follows, grabbing my arm gently.
“Let me at least stop the thing from swinging.”
As I’m sitting down, the door bursts open, and the kids—all five of them—rush onto the porch, trailed by Peach and Mario, the puppies. I don’t have the energy to police that situation—what I really need is to get my foot up on the swing, too, or go to the couch—but Burke disappears behind them. A second later, Leah and Ben step out.
For a few minutes, the three of us chat. Ben’s family owns a local landscaping business. His family is really nice, but he’s never been the brightest bulb in our crowd. I carry the conversation even though I spent the last twelve hours drugged out of my gourd. Then Shawn and Foster call to Ben, and he’s out the door, down the steps, and into the lawn, cast orangey with the sunset.
Leah drops into a chair beside the swing.
“You making that work?” she asks, running a fingertip over the swing’s arm.
“Yes.”
“You pissy with me?”
“No, Leah.”
“Your britches are burning. It’s not my fault I think he’s a catch. Guy’s worth more than the bank.”
“I don’t really think that’s how banks work, L.”
She shrugs. “You want me to give him the frosty shoulder?” I can tell from her tone that it’s an actual offer.
I sigh. “No. It’s okay.”
“He seems like he’s being nice to you.”
“He is.”
“So what’s the trouble?”
I rub my forehead.
“I’m gonna read my crystal ball, how about that?” She waves her hands around in a vaguely circular motion and peers down at them. “You’re fussy that you got stuck with him last night. Felt too intimate and personal for your introverted self. Then your dumbass brother decided to do a neighborhood cookout. For you, but we know how Shawn is. More of his crew will be over in a little bit. Someone’s gonna end up passed out in the bushes.” I widen my eyes at that tidbit, and Leah nods. “Heard them talking.”
I sigh again.
“You know Shawn thinks he’s doing it for you.”
“Oh, he is doing it for me. I just don’t want it.”
“Mary Helen cooked enough to fill your kitchen. Did you go in there yet?”
“No.” I roll my eyes.
“Fishing for the compliments,” Leah says of Mary Helen, smirking.
“No doubt.”
“What can I get for you, darlin’?”
The kids streak by us again—and again, they’re trailed by the puppies. I wrap my arms around myself. “Maybe some water?”
“Sure thing.”
Leah knows me well enough to know it’s time to stop discussing Mr. Ritchy Ritch. I spend a few minutes alone in my thoughts, and then, like a ghost, there he is. I look over, and he’s standing by the screen porch bookshelf, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking at me like a dog that’s looking at a bumble bee, all puzzled.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Masterson?” My voice sounds much more casual than I feel.
He smiles, lips pressed lightly together. “What can I do for you, Ms. Lawler?”
“I’m just fine.”
Some truck rolls up into the yard, and I’m pretty sure it’s that ridiculous, gas-guzzling F-350 that belongs to Slim, another of Shawn’s bros. Shawn calls for Burke—probably to drunkenly introduce him—and I shoo Burke toward the lawn. “Go on, Sly.”
In the next half hour, two more of Shawn’s friends pop up, followed by Latrice, a high school friend of mine who helps me run the farm as sort of a chief operating officer. Our families have worked together for two generations, so it’s really pretty cool. She comes bearing a plate of my favorite fried chicken and a tub of okra, plus a hug I guess I kind of need, because when her arms go around my shoulders, tears burn at the corners of my eyelids.
“Aww. Poor Buggie. Are you worried about your partner in crime?” She means Hottie.
I nod, wiping my eyes. “Sorry. I think I’m just over-tired.”
She nods, but she sees through me. Overtired means overwhelmed.
“Kids still look real good. How’s that been going?”
“I don’t know. Maybe okay? They had to stay with Mary Helen last night.” I glance over at the lawn, where Shawn has set up three card tables and a variety of chairs, complete with checkered plastic tablecloths. Actually, I bet that bit was MH.
“It’s okay for them to stay with her,” she says. “They’re loving those puppies, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised you got them, though. They from the Danson’s place?”
“I didn’t get them.”
So begins a fifteen minute conversation about Burke—a conversation during which I try to keep my feelings hidden, but Latrice knows me too well for that.
“So he’s sort of a bastard, but he’s tall and…what is it? Tall, dark, and handsome?” She smirks, and I shrug. “Handsome to someone.”
“I’m not really into white boys, but I know a fine ass when I see one.”
“Oh, go eat a drumstick.”
She grins. “I think I will.”
In the end, Oliver, Margot, Latrice, Leah, and I eat dinner on the porch, while all the others—including Burke, who apparently is now a member of my family—eat out on the lawn, under the glow of tiki torches. The kids entertain us with handstands against the screen porch’s plywood scaffolding, and Shawn’s nine million friends tromp up the steps to refill at the keg and ask how I’m feeling.
Leah brings me Tylenol and Advil as the night wears on, and later, right around the time I start thinking the kids should go to bed, Shawn appears on the porch stairs and says, “We’re gonna do a truck ride!”
“Right now?”
“Huntin’ for dem snipes,” he says in an exaggerated twang.
Margot and Oliver start to giggle, and Shawn pulls the porch door open. “Come on down, little lady and gent. It’s time to hop up in the truck bed and go see some stars and see if you can catch some snipes.”
Leah stands up, looking wide-eyed. “I’ll drive!”
Chapter 15
Burke
I watch through a living room window until the yard is empty and the truck bed teems with shadow figures, glowing faintly red from Shawn’s brake lights. Oliver and Margot are surrounded by their cousins, sitting near Mary Helen, and if the truck’s cab light is any indication, it looks like Leah got the driver job she wanted. For the best, since she’s the only one of them who seems sober.
When I squint, I’m pretty sure that’s Shawn by Mary Helen; he’s laughing.
Everyone is ready to go except June.
I wait until the truck disappears down the driveway. Then I look around the kitchen, grab some kind of homemade cookie—oatmeal?—and a glass of water, plus her pain meds and the Tylenol and Advil, and, with my pockets stuffed full of pill bottles and the big dogs snuffing over the gate at the laundry room door, I step onto the porch.
June whirls around so quickly, I’m afraid she’s going to tumble off the porch swing.
“Jesus Lord! You scared the bejeezus out of me!” Thankfully, she laughs then, her face lit up and her hand drawn to her chest. “What are you doing here?”
I grin and pull pill bottles from my pockets. “Brought you dessert.”
“What?” She gives me a funny look, like she’s not sure why I would bring her painkillers, but I know she needs them. Her face looks tired, a little tight around the brows and mouth.
“What will it be? Ibuprofen? This handy bottle of Acetaminophen? Or the big guns?” I jiggle the prescription bottle. “Often considered more necessary after the sun goes down.” I gesture at the dark sky.
She snorts. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“I told you. To bring you your dessert.”
She narrows her eyes. “Just know that I’m ske
ptical.”
I open the prescription bottle, and she shakes her head. “I’ll take Tylenol. And then I think I can have more Advil in—”
“An hour,” I say with her.
She puts her hands over her face. “Now I’m really troubled. Who are you and where did you put the devil?”
I tap my chest and do my best to give her an evil look to match the evil voice I use when I say, “Don’t worry, he’s still in here.”
“You are so weird.”
I keep the strange expression on my face as I hand her the water, but I’m grinning as I watch her swallow the Tylenol.
“What do you think about me sitting by you?” I ask.
“Well if you mean swinging on that imaginary swing there”—she points a finger at nothing— “that would work. Because, I don’t know if you can tell with demon vision, but I’m kinda occupying this one.”
“Yeah. But you won’t be if I do this.” I lift her leg with care, sit down, and set her boot atop my thigh. I lean my head back and look at the porch’s ceiling and the lazily turning fan.
“I love swings,” I tell her with my eyes shut.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“This is my routine to get you comfortable so I can eat your soul. Don’t question it.”
She sighs. “This is so awk.”
“Does that mean is aw-akened? Cousin to the hyper-trendy ‘woke’?”
She widens her eyes, giving me a scolding type of look. “Burke, it means awkward.”
“You want me to get up? That would work, too.”
“I didn’t say that. But this is a boyfriend thing to do.”
I take that like a kick to the chest. But I don’t want to make things even more awk, so I roll with it. “Well, I’m a boy. And I’m your friend. You don’t strike me as girlfriend material, though.”
When she gasps, I laugh and press on. “Not for me. I think you’re looking for more of an angel type. Less on the two horns and pitchfork. At least that’s what I’m hearing,” I say in a therapist type manner.
“For sure. If I was looking at all. And I’m so not.”
“No?”
“Oh no,” she says, leaning her head against the swing’s back. “This is definitely more communicating than I normally do with people who hiss, but yeah. I mean, there’s nobody around here.”
“Really, nobody?” I tap my fingers to my chin. “Does that mean there is literally no male your age in this corner of the state, or more like no one you prefer?”
She sighs. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. My sworn enemy.”
“We’re not enemies anymore. Remember? I surrendered.”
“I think I remember something like that. And an apology? I was sort of out of it, though, so I may need to hear it again. Just to really enjoy it.” She’s trying to keep a straight face, but I can see the little smirk at one corner of her mouth. And then I see the dimple. She’s so fucking pretty.
“I can do that for you,” I say.
June blinks a few times quickly, which makes me laugh. She winces, and I look down at her boot on my leg.
“No more laughing,” I pledge.
“Should be easy for you.”
“So easy.” She blinks again, and I can’t help grinning. “Okay, so where was I? I was going to say…I’m sorry.”
She nods, urging me on.
“I’m sorry I came to your house and was presumptive.” That make her lips twitch. “I was condescending and dickish. I had a goal in mind, and I was going after it. But I was still a shit about it, and I’m sorry.”
She moves her hand in a circle, urging me to continue.
“And now, I want to start things over. You’re their aunt. You’re keeping them here. I’m the uncle with the asshole tendencies and the fat wallet. You keep me updated on them, tell me what you need, and I can help—if that works.” I rub my forehead, looking at the patterns on the porch rug as I confess, “That’s really all I want.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek and force myself to lift my gaze to hers. “I want to make my brother happy.”
The confession makes my throat tight, so I shift my eyes toward the dark night framed by the screen porch’s wood beam scaffolding.
“I know,” she whispers. “Because that’s what I want, too. To make both of them proud.”
I don’t know if I can talk about this—not even with her. I run my fingertip along the outside of her plastic boot and blink out at the field that spreads out on the right side of her house until I feel more steady.
“How are you feeling?” I ask after a minute of silence.
She sighs. “Tired and grumpy. It’s annoying, breaking an ankle. And I’m pissy about Hot Rocket.”
“I really think he’ll be okay.”
“You’re really a horse guy?”
“You might say that.”
“You been riding since the preschool age bracket?”
I grin. “Have you?”
“Since I was two.”
“Wow, really? Three in my case.”
“I was a little green bean. Tall,” she clarifies.
“Were you really?”
“No, I’m just making shit up.” She smiles, and I squint as I try to picture her standing upright. Is she taller than I recall?
“I only grew to be five-foot-four,” she clarifies. “I think that thing about the correlation between two year old height and adult height is baloney.”
“Oh, you mean bologna.”
She snorts. “You are something else.”
“Do you drop all your ‘g’s?”
She shoots me a warning look, like she thinks I might really start to make fun of her.
“You know we do. They’re not really needed.”
“I think I’ve come to agree with you. I think maybe they’re better dropped.” She’s still giving me a skeptical look when I give her another I’m-your-friend smile. “I like your accent.”
“If I hear it’s cute or sweet or funny from another stranger, it’ll make me puke.”
“You get a lot of that?”
“Oh yeah. Mostly it’s so sweet. That’s not real aspirational for when you’re in your later twenties.” She shakes her head. “Margot and Oliver have got that Yankee accent.”
I guffaw at that before I can stop myself. “Did you just say Yankee?”
She’s glaring at me again. “What do you want me to say? Northern? It’s the same thing.”
“No it isn’t. For one, California isn’t really northern.”
“Beg to differ. North of here.”
“It’s West Coast.”
“Like Tupac?”
I grin, imaging her listening to Tupac. “It’s more west than north.”
She rolls her eyes. “Semantics. I’m not wrong, either. They were on the Union side in the War of Northern Aggression.”
I think she’s being serious until she throws her head back laughing.
“Oh, c’mon,” she laughs. “Nobody’s really calling it that with a straight face.”
“I’ve seen no less than two Confederate flags since I got to Heat Springs.”
“Some people are dumbasses.”
“So you’re going to call our niece and nephew little Yankees, and you’re still pissed off that California helped the Union cause, but you think it’s dumbass to fly the Confederate flag?”
She shakes her head. “It’s complicated. But here’s what it boils down to. I don’t like the flag or what it means these days, and we can do without those statues. I’m siding with living, hurting humans over and above the legacy of some dead soldiers. We all know what went down. Nobody needs a statue to remind us. So no, I don’t fly that flag because it’s hurtful. And I only called them Yankees because that’s what my mama used to say, and you say what you hear. And anyway, you’re not getting upset.”
“Oh, I’m totally offended. Is my accent the Yankee kind?”
“Well, yeah.” She blinks at me a few times.
“You
think it sounds bad?”
“Nah. I like it just fine. I’m not making you my boyfriend. I can handle hard Gs sometimes. They ain’t gon kill me.”
I lean toward her, stretch my arm along the swing’s back. “Is that how you really talk? Like if you’re drunk, do you slip into Southern dialect?”
“You were in the ER with me, what do you think?”
“I think you do a little bit.”
She grins and shakes her head, and I think maybe she’s embarrassed. “Hard to change an accent. Or a ‘dialect.’ ”
“I wouldn’t want you to.”
“I wouldn’t care if you did, Sly.” She regards me for a minute, and I can tell she’s thinking something.
“What?” I prompt.
“What kind of ladies go for tall, dark, and Slytherin out there in San Francisco?”
That makes me laugh. “I’m not a Slytherin.”
“What are you then?”
“You already guessed it one time.”
“Oh, because of MIT. You’re saying you’re a Ravenclaw.” She quirks a brow up. “Nah. You ain’t no Ravenclaw.”
“I am. I’m Ravenclaw.”
She shakes her head. “You keep telling yourself that, darlin’. I know if you pull your britches up, you’ve got some green socks hidden underneath there.”
I pull them up and show her my black socks, and she snorts. “Well black’ll do, too—for the devil.”
I rub a hand back through my hair, and she smiles. “You’re a little funnier than I was thinking.”
“So a half step up from total bastard?”
“Maybe like a quarter step.” She sinks a hand into her own hair, which is flowing down around her shoulders.
For a moment, it’s just the wind through the trees. Then she shifts her weight a little, and the swing creaks.
“Entertain me, Sly. Tell me things about you. I’m not taking another Percocet because I’ve gotta watch the kids tonight, but I would like a distraction.”
“Oh, so what I’m hearing is you want a houseguest—me. Someone to put the kids to bed and sleep on the couch to help if they get up at night. Which works out well, because I’m leaving in the morning, and I want to see them more.”
I try to soften my expression so I look like a nice guy. I’m rewarded by another of her googly-eyed skeptical looks.