by T. K. Leigh
“Can’t they come with us?” Imogene asks, her expression pleading.
“Oh, sweetie. They’re busy working on the house right now. But maybe—”
“We can go,” Londyn interjects.
Julia and I both fling our eyes to her. I’m not sure who’s more surprised. My sister or me.
“If you don’t mind, that is,” she continues. “We did finish several hours ahead of schedule.”
“Thanks to your expertise,” I remind her. “If I had to do this on my own, I’d probably still be Googling the proper way to apply wallpaper. Hell, I undoubtedly would have ditched the idea and went with paint instead.”
“And you would have chosen the worst color for this room,” she retorts with a smile.
“Most definitely,” Julia agrees, the two of them having a laugh at my expense. I won’t complain, though. Not when I finally see the spark back in Londyn’s eyes.
“What do you say, boss?” Londyn asks.
I inwardly cringe at the term. She’s referred to me as “boss” a few times, always immediately following a more…personal moment between us, as if it’s a reminder of who I’m supposed to be to her.
“Think we can cut off work early tonight and spend some time with your sister and niece?” She lowers her voice. “Julia might like the company.”
She doesn’t have to say another word for me to understand. I should have been the first to offer to go with Julia. Even if the likelihood of running into anyone who will recognize us is probably low, I wouldn’t want her to go and something to happen.
“You know what? I think that’s a great idea. We’ll all go.”
Imogene cheers, jumping up and down, as Julia mouths, Thank you.
“Do you mind if I take a few minutes to freshen up?” Londyn asks. “Maybe shower this awful humidity off me?”
“Sure. Take your time.” I smile, my gaze following her as she grabs her duffle bag and heads down the hallway.
“She’s got a change of clothes?” Julia sidles up next to me. Her voice has a teasing quality to it that’s reminiscent of our teenage years when she’d pester me about girls I had a crush on.
“She started bringing a change of clothes a few weeks back.”
“Any reason for that?”
“The heat’s been brutal, so once the upstairs bathrooms were completed, she’s been taking a shower after finishing up for the day.”
Julia tilts her head, her eyes alight with mischief. “Why would she need to do that if she’s just going home? Doesn’t she have a shower there?”
“Of course she does.” I pinch my lips together, averting my gaze. But I know my sister. She’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to this kind of thing, especially about anything to do with Londyn.
For weeks, she’s been nagging me for more information, encouraging me to finally make a move and ask her out. She won’t let up until she knows everything. So instead of admitting I’ve spent the past several weeks fantasizing about kissing Londyn, I throw her a tiny bone.
“We’ve been having dinner together.”
“Is that right?”
I roll my eyes. “Not like you’re thinking. It’s a long drive back to Atlanta—”
“Not that long,” she interjects. “Just a little over an hour, depending on traffic.”
“Regardless, the least I can do is feed her before she drives back.”
“Feed her what exactly?” She waggles her brows.
I push past her, heading up to the master bedroom to get ready. “You’re sick.”
Her laughter fills the space. “But you still love me.”
“Debatable.”
Chapter Thirteen
Londyn
The sights and sounds of the county fairs of my childhood surround me as I stroll beside Julia through trampled grass. Wes and Imogene walk several feet in front of us, their hands clasped together, her laughter echoing in the late afternoon air.
Since we arrived here a half-hour ago, I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off Wes and the way he is with Imogene. Over the past few months, I’ve witnessed their interactions, but not for prolonged periods of time. Not like this. The affection he has for the little girl is evident. And it’s clear she worships the ground he walks on.
“He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her,” Julia says, reading my thoughts.
I lift my eyes to hers, smiling.
“And to me,” she adds, glancing down at her feet. A bit of vulnerability surrounds her, which is unlike the strong-willed woman I’ve gotten to know.
“You two seem to have a really close relationship.”
“We’ve certainly had our fair share of disagreements. What siblings don’t?” She laughs, her expression lightening for a moment before turning serious. “But he’s always been there when it mattered.” She pauses before continuing. “Did Wes mention I’m not his real sister? Not by blood anyway.”
I blink, slowing my steps as I wrap my brain around this revelation. I don’t know why it catches me so off guard. Wes and Julia look nothing alike, so it shouldn’t come as such a shock. Now I’m even more intrigued to learn about this part of her… And Wes.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Which is so like him.” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “When we were kids and someone brought up the fact I wasn’t born into his family, that I’m not a true Bradford, he’d kindly but firmly remind them I’m his sister, regardless that we don’t share the same DNA. But that’s just the type of person Wes is. Kind. Loyal. Protective.”
“Were you adopted at birth?”
“I was about Imogene’s age.” She shoves her hands into her pockets. “My birth mom had a drug problem that eventually got the better of her. I think I was taken away from her when I was four or so. I bounced from foster home to foster home for a while. I guess being raised by a drug addict for four years had some psychological effects a lot of families weren’t prepared for. But once my mom overdosed, it made me eligible for adoption. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d ever be adopted. I’d once overheard my social worker saying that the older kids got, the harder it was to find a family willing to raise them. Not completely impossible, but many potential adoptive parents prefer a baby. Not a maladjusted six-year-old with emotional problems.” She smiles sadly.
“How did Wes’ parents become interested? Based on the little I’ve picked up from you and Wes, they don’t seem like the type of people who’d do anything that didn’t benefit them.”
“You’re right about that. Apparently, one of Lydia’s friends decided to become a foster mom in order to look…charitable. These women suffer from what I like to call one-up syndrome. They’re constantly looking for a way to out-do one another. So if Lydia wanted to one-up her so-called friend who decided to foster, she needed to adopt. On paper, Lydia and James are the perfect candidates. Wealthy. Great neighborhood. A private school education. Able to afford the therapy I required. But that’s all the Bradfords are. Perfect on paper. When you get a peek into the family’s private life, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
“I take it you didn’t exactly like life as a Bradford.”
“I tried. I really did. I was so worried about messing up. Worried they’d decide they didn’t want me. So for years, I did everything to be the perfect daughter I thought Lydia wanted. Just like Wes. All his life, he had unrealistic expectations placed on his shoulders to be the perfect son. The perfect student. The perfect, well…everything. But I eventually broke free. Met someone who…” She hesitates, pulling her lip between her teeth in contemplation. Then she shakes her head. “Well, someone who made me realize I’m enough as I am, more or less.”
“And Wes? Has he realized that?” I ask, although I fear I already know the answer.
“I don’t think he has,” she says with a sigh. “He still tends to carry the weight of the world on his back. Which was why buying back Meemaw and Gampy’s place was so important.” Her face lights up when Imogene glances back at us
, beaming enthusiastically as we approach a few carnival rides I’m convinced she’s about to drag Julia on. “Why it was important to us. I hope he’s able to feel what we did all those years ago whenever we spent time there.”
“And what’s that?”
“It’s the only place either of us could feel normal, could feel love.”
“You didn’t have that with your adoptive parents?”
“Not even close.” She pauses, then adds, “Neither did Wes.”
I stop walking, those three words hitting me harder than they should. I knew he didn’t have the best relationship with them as an adult. But to never feel a parent’s love, even as a young child? I couldn’t imagine. My life may not have turned out like I’d envisioned, but at least I knew my mother’s love. Felt my mother’s love. My heart breaks for the little boy who never experienced that. Whose mother probably only got pregnant because another woman in her social circle was.
“Mama! Mama!” Imogene’s excited voice cuts through, and I look to see her tugging on Julia’s hand. “Can we go on the Ferris wheel?”
“You know it goes pretty high.”
She scoffs. “That’s okay. Uncle Wes told me I’m fearless.”
“And that you are, my love.” Julia tousles her daughter’s hair, then looks at me. “Guess I’m going on the Ferris wheel.” She feigns enthusiasm. “Joy of joys.”
She allows Imogene to pull her along the dusty field, past various carnival games offering large stuffed animals as prizes, and toward the ticket booth. Julia purchases the necessary number of tickets as Wes and I stand off to the side. I crane my head back, the setting sun making it difficult to see the top of the Ferris wheel.
“Aren’t you guys coming?”
I tear my eyes forward, praying the voice that sounds alarmingly like Imogene’s doesn’t actually belong to her. Unfortunately, my prayers go unanswered, as they have most of my life.
“I—” I glance between her and the Ferris wheel, heat covering my cheeks as dread sets in.
“Please?” Imogene clasps her hands together, her eyes imploring me.
It’s official. The little girl is some sort of witch, because when she peers at me like that, I am powerless to tell her no, regardless of the sweat forming on my nape over the idea of being suspended in the sky on that thing.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Wes whispers into my ear.
“A master at her craft, it seems.”
“What do you say? Want to go for a ride?” He extends his hand toward me.
I look from him, to the spinning circle of death, then back, unease visible on my expression.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.” He grabs my hand and drags me toward the ticket booth, buying two.
“I’m not sure I’d call getting on a ride that’s been disassembled and reassembled dozens of times in a year by minimum wage workers fun. Have these even been inspected?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never gone to a carnival before.” He returns his change to his wallet, then places his hand on my back, steering me into line behind Imogene and Julia. “Or is that not something a preacher’s daughter does?”
“I’ve been to carnivals. When I was younger. When I didn’t realize how unsafe these things are.”
He smirks, acting as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if we’re not about to get on a treacherous carnival ride and pray we don’t plummet dozens of feet to our death.
“True, but if we do die, at least we’ll have a good death story.”
“I’d rather have an interesting life story. Like, here lies Londyn Bennett. She died at the ripe ol’ age of 108. She attributed her longevity to a daily dose of bad reality television, an overabundance of carbs, and not riding on rickety-ass carnival rides.”
His eyes light up in amusement. Then he leans into the crook of my neck. I go still, barely breathing, his proximity enthralling, exhilarating, and so wanted, yet equally petrifying at the same time.
“Come on, Lo. Live a little.”
A shiver trickles down my spine, my limbs weakening. How can I tell him no when my childhood nickname on his tongue sounds so satisfying? So pleasing? So captivating?
“Okay,” I whimper.
“That’s my girl.”
I don’t even have to look at him to see the smile crossing his mouth, able to hear it in his voice.
“Let’s go.” He tugs me forward, and I snap out of the spell his words and proximity had cast over me.
When I see we’re at the front of the line, a chill envelopes me, my stomach roiling. I’d hoped to have a few more minutes to mentally prepare myself, but I barely even have a few seconds, my anxiety increasing as Wes hands our tickets to a bearded man working this wheel of doom.
Imogene waves excitedly from their carriage as Wes leads me toward the one directly behind them, the safety bar dangling open. She’s only six, yet doesn’t seem to be scared. If she can be fearless, so can I. At least that’s what I tell myself as I allow the carnival worker to lock Wes and me inside.
I face forward, not looking up or down, and blow out a breath. When we lurch forward, I clutch the bar in a vice-like grip, my knuckles turning white.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter under my breath as the ground moves beneath us. Thankfully, we come to a hard stop just a few seconds later.
“I never would have pegged you for someone who was scared of heights.” Wes chuckles. “Not after seeing you jump up and down ladders like a damn trapeze artist these past few weeks.”
“I’m not scared of heights.” I loosen my hold to flex the stiff muscles in my fingers. “Just falling from heights because of some completely preventable malfunction.”
“You won’t fall.” He fixes me with a serious look.
“You can’t guarantee that.”
He shrugs. “You’re right. I can’t.”
“Way to make me feel good about this decision.” I laugh nervously, doing my best to focus straight ahead and not down. We’re probably only ten feet off the ground, but as far as I’m concerned, it may as well be ten miles.
“I do what I can.”
When we begin moving once more, I instinctively grab onto his hand, squeezing.
“Damn, Londyn. You’re going to break my fingers if you keep that up.”
I shoot him a glare. “You deserve it for dragging me onto this death trap.” When we stop a few seconds later, I relax my grip, smiling to myself when he shakes out his hand with a wince. “And you can call me Lo if you want. That’s what my mom called me.”
He shifts toward me the best he can when trapped in this tiny, open-air bucket. “What was she like?”
I stare into space, imagining her smile as she sang to me. “Beautiful. She had the most amazing voice.”
“She was a singer?”
I nod. “Not professionally, but she could have been. She was always smiling. And her laugh…” I sigh, remembering her vivacious laughter that filled our home every day. “We didn’t have a huge house, and there were some months I could tell money was tight, but I never doubted her love for me.”
I can sense Wes’ hesitation before he asks his next question. “What happened to her? You’d mentioned she died when you were young.”
I don’t say anything right away, torn. For years, I’ve barricaded myself behind a wall, not sharing my past with anyone, unsure whom I could trust. From the beginning, I sensed Wes was…different. Which is probably why I actually want him to know this part of me. Want him to see who I really am. Want him to understand where I come from, why I am the way I am.
“I was seven when she was killed.”
“How?”
“Wrong place. Wrong time.” I meet his gaze. “Do you remember hearing about a church shooting in Virginia twenty years ago? It was a pretty big deal since it was right after Columbine.”
He nods, the motion almost imperceptible.
“That was my father’s church.”
“Londyn…” His voice is laden with sympat
hy and something else. Heartache. But how could that be? He didn’t know me then. Didn’t know my mother. Still, the pain in his expression is real. There’s no mistaking it. He’s not just acting this way because he thinks it’s what I need, as he so often did all those years ago. Wes’ reaction is honest. Maybe I can trust him with more than what I’ve allowed him to see.
I face forward again, staring into the distance. They say people who have witnessed a traumatic event can often recall the tiniest details, even decades later. Just like I can still remember what I was wearing. Still remember the math problem I was working on. Still remember what song they were rehearsing when gunshots rang out.
“She led the choir and was holding a rehearsal. Sometimes I’d sit in a pew and listen. That night, I decided to sit in my father’s office and do homework while he worked on his sermon for the week.” I swallow hard. “There were screams. Shouts. Gunshots. I distinctly remember my father jumping to his feet, torn between protecting me and helping his choir. In the end, he grabbed me, rushed me out the back entrance, and hid me in the car, all the while listening to the gunshots taking more and more lives. In the end, twelve people died. Another six were gravely injured but survived. I was young when it happened, but not too young to realize my father might have been able to save some of those people, maybe even my mother, if he hadn’t rushed me to safety.”
“You can’t think that way,” Wes urges, his gaze intense. “I’m not a parent, but there’s no doubt I’d do the same thing if it were Imogene. No question.”
“It’s always messed with my head a bit. It’s why I always strove to do everything to make my father proud, do whatever he asked, make him think he didn’t make a mistake in saving my life instead of someone else’s. So when I say I’ve struggled with guilt these past several years since I left the church, left him, that’s what I’m dealing with.”
“Why did you leave the church?” he asks. “What happened to make you walk away? It sounds like you were close with your father at one time.”
“I was. I…” I chew on my lower lip.
He covers my hand with his. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I won’t think any less of you.”