by Reid, Penny
I’d devised three versions of a kidnapping plot by the time I arrived at the community center and cut the engine. Grabbing just my keys, I bolted out of the car, locked it, and jogged to the entrance. Since the music had just started up a few minutes prior, I encountered the crowd migrating from the cafeteria down the hall to the rooms grouped by genre—country, fiddle, gospel, bluegrass—and ignored the sound of someone calling my name.
Stumbling into the room labeled bluegrass out of breath, more from my own emotional upheaval than any physical cause, I looked expectantly to the improvised stage, expecting to find Cletus in his usual spot. My heart sunk. He was not there.
“Huh.”
Someone tugged at my jacket sleeve and I turned to find Jackson James at my arm, wearing a harassed frown. “Jennifer.”
“Oh, hey, Jackson. Have you seen Cletus?”
His frown deepened, grooves forming between his eyebrows, and he encircled my wrist with his fingers. “I’m glad you’re here, but I wish you hadn’t been late.”
“I’m not that late.” I allowed Jackson to pull me from the room, following where he led. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, it’s—it’s complicated. Word got around about your engagement, and so some of the guys were congratulating Cletus and such, nothing untoward. But then—” Jackson sent me an aggrieved look.
“What?”
He sighed, tugging me over to the gift shop and stepping inside, his voice a whisper. “Evans said something stupid about you, and so Cletus made a bet.”
“What? What kind of bet?”
Jackson appeared even more agitated than before. “Evans remarked on how he hardly ever saw y’all together and asked if Cletus was sure y’all were actually engaged or if he was making it up. Evans was just trying to be funny. Teasing, you know?”
“Okay . . .?”
“So he and Cletus went back and forth for a bit, and Evans said something about you never coming to the jam sessions, or if you did, it was only for a short time, like maybe you didn’t like Cletus’s music or something—again, just joking.”
My stomach sunk as my heart jumped to my throat. “Oh no. What was the bet?”
“They bet that if you showed up early or on time, Evans would give Cletus his 1951 Chris-Craft twenty-two-foot Sportsman.”
“A boat?”
“Yep. It’s not fixed up yet, but they’re expensive and difficult to find.”
“What did Cletus bet?”
Jackson seemed to struggle for a minute, like he didn’t want to tell me, but then blurted, “If you were late, then—uh—” He winced, peering at me through one eye. “Cletus bet his Deering Clawgrass.”
I gasped, covering my mouth, a thunderbolt of remorse and shock and everything in between striking me momentarily speechless.
“I know.” Jackson seemed just as pained as me, grabbing a fistful of hair like maybe yanking it out would remove unpleasant memories. “I know,” he said again.
“Oh my God.”
“And now you’re late, and Evans offered to call off the bet—I can tell he feels bad—but Cletus handed over the banjo already, being stubborn.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s been like a funeral in the cafeteria ever since.”
“Oh my—” I stopped myself before I could repeat the words a third time. My heart galloping in my chest, a cold sweat had broken out on the back of my neck and down my spine. “Why? Why would he do this?”
Jackson’s look conveyed nothing but sympathy as he said, “He thought you’d be here on time.”
My mind a mess, I slid down the wall to the ground, clutching my forehead. “He loves that banjo. He’s insane. He’s crazy.”
Why would he do this? Why? Why?
His text from earlier in the day took on a whole new meaning, I know how important this plan is to you and I will do everything in my power to ensure everyone believes what they see and hear.
I wanted to cry.
“Uh, Jenn.” Jackson nudged me with his foot, and I looked up.
Cletus.
His eyes were on Jackson, and his features—except for his eyes—were completely clear of expression. But his eyes . . .
“Hey, Cletus.” Clearly, Jackson needed to work on his acting skills, he sounded anything but nonchalant. “Look who I found.”
I swallowed, or tried to, and stood, pushing away from the wall to step out of the gift shop and only tangentially noticed that the crowd from earlier—the crowd I’d assumed was working their way to the music rooms—had stopped moving. They were now staring. At us.
“Cletus—”
He held up his hand, shaking his head, still not looking at me. “I’m honestly not interested.”
“I’m so sorry.” My voice cracked, my vision blurring, and I knew I was supposed to be playing a part, but all the regret pouring out of me was entirely sincere. I never should’ve worked overtime at the bakery during the busy season. I should’ve been firmer with my mother and stuck to my boundaries. I should’ve made him a priority the way he’d always, always made me a priority.
He said nothing, just continued to stare daggers at Jackson, the muscle at his temple ticking.
I tried again. “I am so—”
“Don’t,” Cletus spat, looking fed up. “You’re not sorry. I’m so sick of your lies.” Abruptly, he turned, walking back toward the cafeteria.
I followed, feeling like my heart tugged me forward on a string, hating the grim set of his jaw, that same determined aloofness in his eyes from last night. “I am sorry. Will you just—” I caught his arm.
He shook me off easily and kept on walking.
“Listen to me. Please.” Tears running down my face, I caught his arm again and he twisted out of my grip, finally facing me.
But still, he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“What, Jenn? What should I listen to? Another excuse for why you can’t be bothered to be here?”
“It’s not like that. You know it’s not,” I yelled, wanting to defend myself even as a voice in my head reminded me that this was fake.
It doesn’t feel fake.
“How many special orders was it this time?” His glare moved to some spot over my head, his tone mean. “Who is so much more important than your fiancé? Was it the Queen of England?”
“I never should’ve been late. I’ll never be late again. I just—”
“And I find you with Jackson?” His tone cracked like a whip, sharp and sudden, and he gestured beyond me.
“Hey now.” Jackson, suddenly at my side, lifted his hand palm out, as though attempting to calm a wild animal. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh. Sure, Jack. You think I don’t see the way you look at my fiancée? You think I don’t know about the two of you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jackson’s hands came to his hips, his voice now outraged. “Jenn and I are friends, and I would never—”
“You would definitely,” Cletus cut in bitterly. “And you know what? I don’t care. I do not care. You can have her. I’m done being an afterthought. Take her, and good riddance.”
I flinched, my arms folding over my hurting stomach as he turned again and pushed through the crowd, leaving me. As I watched him go, watched his head full of chaotic curls disappear into the sea of onlookers, I reminded myself over and over that this was not Cletus. He would never do this or speak to me this way.
And yet, he was entirely convincing.
I was convinced.
* * *
“So . . . you want to talk about it?”
Closing my scratchy eyes, I let my head fall back against the headrest of the passenger seat and blew out a shaky breath.
After Cletus left me standing there in the middle of the cafeteria, my heart on the floor in a million pieces, Jackson had put his arm around my shoulders and steered me to the exit, walked us to my car, and insisted on driving me home. I’d accepted; just the thought of backing out of a parking space was immeasurably ov
erwhelming.
Presently, he’d just pulled onto the road leading to my house, and I heard Jackson clear his throat before saying, “He’ll get over it. You’ll see.”
My chin wobbled, and I did not trust myself to speak. I felt so dumb. Even though I’d reminded myself a hundred times that everything Cletus had said tonight was a lie, I still felt terrible, and panicky, and bereft.
Because it actually hadn’t been a lie, had it? Everything, except for the nonsense about Jackson, had been true. Maybe, I really did lose him tonight.
Perhaps putting on a show had been the original plan, but as each of his words hit their mark, I had to wonder if he meant them.
Were things over between us? The mere thought made me gasp for breath.
“Jennifer?”
I felt the car shift, turn as he pulled into my driveway, heard the leather creak as he shifted in the driver’s seat.
New tears escaped my eyelids and I sniffled, my hands coming to my face. “I think I’ve lost him.”
Jackson sighed, it sounded pained. “Come on. Cletus ain’t that stupid.”
Dropping my hands, I opened my door to leave as soon as he’d pulled into the parking spot out front. I needed to get inside the house, get rid of Jackson, and call Cletus.
I needed to hear his voice and talk to him about all the truths he’d poured out among the lies. I needed to apologize once and for all and never give him a reason to feel like an afterthought ever again.
Jackson trailed after me as I jogged to the porch. “If you’re willing to forgive him for being an ass tonight, I can’t imagine he’ll waste the chance.”
“You don’t know that,” I mumbled, holding out an impatient hand for the keys.
“I do know. Believe me, I do.” He passed them over and took a step back, giving me space to open the door. “He loves you. He was just upset about the banjo, that’s all. But he’ll get over it. If it were me, I’d be over here first thing tomorrow, begging for forgiveness. And, like I said, Cletus ain’t stupid. He’s odd, but not stupid.”
The door unlocked, I pushed my way inside and tossed the keys back at Jackson. “Here, take my car home. I’ll figure out how to get it later.” I moved to shut the door, but then opened it again quickly to say, “Thank you for everything, and I’m so sorry Cletus said those things about you. You’re a good friend.”
Before he could respond, I shut the door, locked all the dead bolts, and rummaged in my purse for my phone. Finding it, I dropped the bag, nearly tripping over the dang thing as I stumbled to the couch, unlocking my cell on the way and texting,
Jenn: CALL ME RIGHT NOW!
Not waiting for him to respond, I dialed his number, biting my thumbnail until the line connected.
He picked up on the second ring. “Jenn.”
“Cletus,” I said, stinging emotion rushing to my nose and eyes, choking me. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Whoa, wait. Wait a minute. Jenn, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
Holding my middle, I rocked back and forth. “I don’t?”
“No. You were fantastic. Heck, I believed you.” He made a short sound, like a sigh, but more exhausted. “I am mighty relieved that’s over.”
I expected relief to flow through me, I expected to feel better, and I did. And yet . . .
“What you said,” I croaked, telling myself to breathe.
He paused, as though thinking. “Wait, what did I say?”
“About feeling like an afterthought.”
Cletus grunted. “Jenn—”
“And you wouldn’t look at me.”
“If I’d looked at you, I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.” His tone gentle, his voice deep and reassuring, I sensed his frustration, but also his worry. “Didn’t you see my message?”
“I saw it.”
“I told you, everything I said would be a lie.”
“So you don’t feel like an afterthought? You’re not angry about me being late for the jam session all through December and—”
“We already resolved this.”
I shot to my feet. “Did we?”
“Yes. Last week, we talked it through. You said you’d make me a priority, and I trust you to keep your word. I consider it resolved, and you should too.”
My was head all over the place. “But have I made you a priority?”
He hesitated, again like he was thinking things over. “Jenn—”
“Can you trust me? Can you? Because I don’t know.”
“Honey—”
“I never should’ve asked this of you. I should’ve just let the authorities handle my father. I keep messing things up.”
“You don’t.”
“I do!”
“No. You have a big heart. I would never trade your mammoth, irrationally generous heart for a smaller, more frugal one. I love every square kilometer of it.”
A laugh tumbled from my lips and I lowered to the couch. “Really? It’s that big?”
“It should have its own zip code. And it’s my third favorite thing about you.”
Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the cushions, some of the tension I’d been carrying since last night dissipated, leaving my limbs. “One of these days you’re going to tell me what your favorite thing about me is.”
“Oh, absolutely. But not right now.” The gruffness in his tone made me smile for some reason.
I sunk deeper into the cushions. “Are you sure, absolutely positive, that you’re not still upset with me about December? Because I—”
“I am not upset with you about December, or anything else. You are perfect.”
“I am not perfect.” Again, I smiled.
“You are to me.”
“Then, can I ask, why did you bring it up tonight?”
“If we wanted our fight to be believable, an old true argument was preferable to a new fake drama.” Cletus’s explanation sounded so reasonable, and I blinked, startled, seeing the wisdom in his words.
Except— “Well then, what about that stuff with Jackson?”
“Oh. That was a new fake drama, total improv, didn’t plan on that. But the opportunity presented itself, an exploitable stroke of luck, as it were.” He sounded almost proud. “Gives folks something juicy to talk about, that way we know the news will spread and reach your—reach Kip Sylvester.”
“That’s true. But I wish . . .” I rubbed my forehead against a headache beginning to form.
“What? What do you wish?” he asked softly.
“Your banjo, Cletus.” Tears began to well up again, guilt flaring.
“Oh! No, Jenn. I didn’t share any particulars—why I needed him to play the part—but Evans was an accomplice. My banjo is safe and sound.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
“Besides, what would Evans do with a banjo? He played the bassoon in high school. Can’t blow on a banjo.”
I chuckled, finally feeling true relief. “No, can’t blow on a banjo.”
Comfortable silence fell between us, my tired brain turning sluggish, drowsy. But I still ached, a dull, constant pain.
“I love you, Jenn,” he said, his tone serious and stark. “And I miss you.”
My heart spasmed, the ache intensifying. “I love you. I miss you.”
He was quiet for a stretch, and I sensed he debated his next words carefully. “You should get some sleep. You’ll, uh, need your rest for tomorrow.”
Crap.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I had to pick a fight with my momma, in front of everyone. But unlike Cletus, she would have no idea it was fake.
Chapter Eighteen
“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
― Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
*Cletus*
I spent early Saturday morning moving a barn to the Winston homestead, the afternoon moving twenty cows from Miller Farm into the barn, and the rest of the day avoiding my family because I didn’t wish to lie to them outr
ight. When avoidance didn’t work, I deployed evasive maneuvers.
Them: “Do you want to talk about it?”
Me: “Talk about what?”
Them: “What happened with Jenn last night.”
Me: “What happened with Jenn?”
Them: “Cletus.”
Me: “That is my name.”
Them: “If you don’t wish to discuss it, just say so.”
Me: “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Them: “Let me know if you want to talk.”
Me: “I shall.”
Them: “I really think you should talk about it.”
Me: “Talk about what?”
And so forth, until they lost their patience and departed. I didn’t wish to lie to my siblings, therefore I avoided and evaded, but there was no evading Diane Donner and her BMW barreling down the gravel driveway just before sunset.
“Cletus! Oh, Cletus.” Diane covered her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tossed herself out of her car, running toward me as I reluctantly descended the porch steps.
“Ms. Donner. What has happened—”
“You’ll never guess—oh, my heart is broken.” Upon reaching me, she threw her arms around my neck and cried in earnest just . . . all over my clothes. Snot and salt water on my clean shirt.
“There, there.” I patted her back. I did not excel at comforting sad people. My brother Beau once accused me of sounding like that impertinent artificial intelligence, Amazon Echo, when attempting to provide solace. But I did have the presence of mind to offer, “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll make you tea?”
“The things she said, the terrible things.” She pulled away, wiping at her eyes, while I surveyed the damage done to my shirt. “She called me selfish, said I manipulated her all the time, said she was tired of being treated like a doormat for me to wipe my feet on.”
“Did she?” I led Diane to the porch swing, settled her amongst the pillows and offered her a blanket because that seemed appropriate. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help wishing I’d been there. Even if Jenn hadn’t meant a stitch of what she’d said, and even though it must’ve been difficult for Jenn to do it, I couldn’t help but think Diane would be better for hearing the words.