by T. K. Leigh
He says that now, but he doesn’t know the truth. My father saved my life. But me? I took a life.
“Let’s talk about something else.” I pull my hand from his. “The last thing I want to talk about on this thing is death, considering mine feels pretty fucking eminent,” I joke, lightening the tension.
“Do you not like to fly then?” he asks after a beat, not pressing me for more information about my past.
“Actually, I love it. But planes go through rigorous safety checks. This thing…” I wave my hands around, sucking in a breath when I see we’re circling in the late afternoon sky, the sun setting on the horizon turning the sky a beautiful pink hue. I swallow hard as we near the top, panic setting in.
Wes reaches over, clutching my hand in his. I rip my eyes toward his as a comforting smile tugs on his full lips.
“Just think about something else, Lo.”
“L-like what?” I ask, my stomach seeming to do backflips. I’m not sure if it’s from the motion of the Ferris wheel or the feeling of Wes’ skin against mine. Perhaps a bit of both.
“Whatever makes you happy.”
I push out a shaky laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re about to go all Julie Andrews on me and break into song.”
“Julie Andrews?” He scrunches his brow. “I don’t follow.”
“Yeah. That scene from The Sound of Music. When all the kids get freaked out because of a thunderstorm and run into her room, where she serenades them with ‘My Favorite Things’.”
“It’s been quite a few years since I’ve seen that movie, but don’t worry.” He flashes me a debonair smile. “I have absolutely no intention of breaking into song. Pretty sure that would have you scrambling to leap off this death trap, as you call it, heights be damned.”
I throw my head back, laughing harder than I have in quite a long time, despite being on a decrepit carnival ride where my next breath could very well be my last.
“Okay then. Singing’s out. Duly noted.” I pretend to make a note on an imaginary pad. “How about you tell me what makes you happy? Maybe it’ll work on me.”
“Perhaps.” He pinches his chin, deep in thought. When he opens his mouth, I expect some profound answer. Instead, he serenades me with the first verse of “My Favorite Things”.
I playfully jab him in the side with my elbow, the sound of our laughter carrying over the dings and alarms from nearby carnival games and rides. Then Wes slings an arm around my shoulders. A few days ago…hell, a few hours ago…I probably would have shrugged him off, wanting to keep the lines between us from becoming blurred. But I’m starting to realize we blurred those lines the second he risked his life to save mine all those weeks ago. In that one act, we became bound to each other, an impervious connection growing stronger with each minute we spend together. One we’re powerless to fight.
“This,” Wes murmurs into my ear, his warm breath on my skin causing goosebumps to break out.
I turn toward him, my mouth growing dry from the sincerity in his deep blue eyes. “What do you mean?” I ask, scared of the answer, yet also hoping it’s the one I want.
“This, Lo.” He inches toward me as he pushes several of my curls away from my face. “This right here makes me happy. Spending time with you.”
“This makes me happy, too,” I barely manage to squeak out.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
With agonizingly slow movements, he gradually erases the space between us. But what’s only a matter of inches feels like a mile as his breath dances on my lips, my mouth watering at the promise of his kiss.
For weeks, I’ve imagined how he would kiss. Would it be controlled and dominating, like the man he appeared to be during our first meeting? Or would it be soft and sincere, like the man I learned he could be during the times he listened to me talk about my past? Or would it be desperate and needy, like the way he’s currently peering at me, a man at the end of his rope?
My chest heaves, every synapse in my body firing when his lips faintly brush against the corner of my mouth. Before I can push forward or pull back, the Ferris wheel comes to an abrupt stop, jostling me, my forehead bumping his face.
“Shit.” I lean back, horrified as I watch Wes rub his nose. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Just…bad timing, I guess. Story of my life. Perpetually a dollar short and a day late, as Gampy would say.” He winks, then slides out of the bucket once the carnival worker unlocks the safety bar. “Shall we?” He extends his hand toward me.
“Yes.” I place my hand in his and he helps me down from this wheel of death, our fingers remaining locked as we make our way back to the frenzied atmosphere of the fair.
“Did you have fun, Uncle Wes?” Imogene asks, excitement oozing from her voice.
“It certainly looked like you were having fun.” Julia waggles her brows, which causes my cheeks to warm in embarrassment.
I’d been so immersed in Wes and our conversation, I’d all but forgotten Imogene and Julia were in the bucket right in front of us and could see everything. From the way he held my hand. To the way he slung his arm around my shoulders. To the way he nearly kissed me.
“And for the record…,” Julia continues, grinning deviously, “I wholeheartedly approve.”
Chapter Fourteen
Weston
I can’t stop holding her hand. Can’t stop brushing my thumb along her knuckles. Can’t stop wishing we had a few more seconds on that Ferris wheel so I could get a better idea of how her lips taste. Because I’m certain she wanted me to kiss her. And god, do I want to kiss her.
“Weston? Is that you?”
The familiar voice pulls me out of my daydream. It’s probably for the best. If I don’t stop thinking about kissing Londyn, I won’t be able to hide the need brimming inside me.
I slow my steps, searching for the source. When I spot a booth advertising Georgia’s best peach cobbler, my mouth salivates over the memory of Miss Clara’s peach cobbler.
“Oh, it is you!” The stocky woman wipes her hands on a dishtowel, then issues orders to a couple of teenagers working the booth before ducking underneath the counter and making her way toward us.
“Miss Clara,” Julia greets warmly as the woman approaches.
Her dark brown hair is now mostly gray, her skin has a few more wrinkles, and she probably carries a bit more weight, but her smile is as infectious and heartwarming as it was all those years ago whenever Gampy and Meemaw took us to her diner after church on Sundays.
She shifts her gaze to Julia’s petite frame. “You can’t be sweet little Julia, can you?”
“I’m not so sure Julia was ever sweet,” I joke, to which my sister jabs me in the stomach, making me nearly double over.
“Glad to see some things haven’t changed,” Miss Clara comments. “That you two still bicker like you did all those years ago. But you still love each other just the same.” Her lips kick up into a nostalgic smile, her eyes glassing over, probably remembering Meemaw and Gampy as she peers at two walking memories of the past. Then her gaze shifts downward. “And who is this beautiful child?”
“This is Imogene,” Julia says proudly. “My daughter.”
Miss Clara covers her heart with her hand, her chin trembling. “You named her after your meemaw.” She shakes her head, struggling to reel in her tears. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed since we lost them. It still affects Miss Clara. Just like it does Julia and me. Especially Julia.
“I did.”
“It’s a beautiful way to honor her memory. Such a tragedy what happened to them, but I know God welcomed them home with open arms.” She pulls her lips between her teeth as she glances between Julia and me, soaking in our changed appearance with the affection of a grandmother.
“Well, look at me getting all teary-eyed.” Her voice brightening, she swipes her cheeks. “I must be making a right fool out of myself, and in front of your…wife?” Her tone rises in pitch as she looks between Londyn and me.
> “No,” I say quickly. “Not my wife.” I blow out a nervous laugh and run a hand through my hair.
“Oh, well, after hearing about your engagement a few years ago, I’d assumed—”
“No. Not married,” I interrupt, sensing Londyn’s curious eyes on me.
I turn to her, struggling to come up with an explanation. Should I have told her about Brooklyn? Does it matter?
“Londyn,” I begin, so as to not stand with my proverbial foot in my mouth, “this is Miss Clara. She owns the diner in town that Gampy and Meemaw always took us to when we were kids. Miss Clara, this is Londyn, my…” I shake my head, unsure how to explain who Londyn is to me. Designer seems too…impersonal. But I suppose that’s what she is. “Interior designer,” I finally say.
“I see.” Miss Clara grins, a devilish glint in her eyes, obviously discerning there’s more between us than designer and client. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet you, Londyn.” She extends her hand.
“You, too,” Londyn says as they shake.
“I won’t keep y’all from your fun. I’m sure Miss Imogene here would much rather go on the rides than stand here and talk to some old lady. How long are y’all here? Or did you just drive in for the fair?”
“Actually, Wes bought Meemaw and Gampy’s old place,” Julia explains, her eyes filled with pride. “Stumbled on it on the auction block and made sure he got it back. Returned it to the rightful owners. We’re renovating it, with Londyn’s help. Well, more like she’s helping Wes. Home improvement and me don’t really mix.” She laughs.
“Is that right? So you’re going to be spending time here in town then?”
“Once the remodel’s done, yes,” I reply. “Might take a few more months, but we’re getting there.” I flash Londyn a smile.
“Well, bless my soul.” Miss Clara exhales a satisfied sigh. “This is fantastic news. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for y’all at the diner. I’ll even seat you at your gampy’s favorite booth.”
“That sounds fantastic.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Great seeing you, Miss Clara.” When I pull back, she brings her hands to my arms, squeezing my biceps.
“You, too, Weston dear. Really great to see you.” She drops her hold on me and pulls Julia in for a hug. “So wonderful to see your beautiful smile again, darling.” She holds her for another beat before releasing her, looking down at Imogene. “You behave for your mama and uncle. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Imogene answers politely.
“I’ll be seeing you around.” Miss Clara waves as she retreats through the crowd, sidestepping children carrying cotton candy and caramel apples. She looks back over her shoulder. “And nice to meet you, Londyn. I hope to see much more of you sometime soon.”
“Me, too,” Londyn replies as Miss Clara ducks back into her booth.
“Come on, Mama. Let’s play some games.” Imogene grabs Julia’s hand and tugs her toward the booths overflowing with stuffed animals of all sizes. Londyn and I follow.
“She seemed sweet,” she comments after a few silent moments as I toil over which bomb to address first. Do I start with how my grandparents died? Or should I discuss the fact I was once hours away from being married? Neither of them are events I enjoy talking about.
“She’s probably the kindest and most generous person in this town.”
“You can tell she holds your grandparents in very high esteem.”
Her hand brushes against mine, sending a rush of excitement through me. Needing to feel her skin, I link a pinky with hers to test the waters, unsure if she’s upset I hadn’t told her about my engagement. When she doesn’t pull away, I intertwine the rest of my fingers with hers.
“She’s one of the good ones. She’d always remain in the diner after it closed at night to prepare meals for some of the area children who didn’t get fed at home, especially during summer when school was out of session. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she still does it. It’s why she got along so well with my grandparents. She was a giver. Like them.”
“Like you, too,” Londyn offers.
I part my lips as I contemplate her statement. I’ve never considered myself a giver. Not like my grandparents, who devoted their entire lives to helping people. I do what I can, but it doesn’t come remotely close to what Gampy and Meemaw did during their lifetimes.
“Don’t even try to say you’re not,” she argues. “That day you helped me in the rain, I saw you with Omar. You gave him the coffee and pastry bag you’d had at the coffee shop. Which makes me think either you gave him your own coffee and danish, or you bought them specifically for him. I could be wrong, but I’m leaning toward it being the latter.”
“It’s not his fault he’s homeless. He’s a vet. Fought in Vietnam, for crying out loud. He deserves better than what he got.”
“Like I said.” She smiles up at me and squeezes my hand. “You’re a giver.”
“Can we play that game?” Imogene asks from up ahead.
I turn my attention forward, watching her dart toward a booth that’s framed by dozens of stuffed animals, many of them close replications of Disney characters. Along the back wall are several stations of milk bottles arranged in a pyramid. I remember this being popular when I was a kid. I’d assumed these games would have advanced with technology. I guess that’s the reason baseball is considered America’s pastime. It’s timeless. Just like this game of requiring someone to knock down the bottles with a baseball.
“Sure, sweetie.” Julia hands the man the requisite cash to cover the cost of six balls, then kneels, giving Imogene some tips on how to throw a baseball.
“So it’s true.”
I hear the voice from behind me, but I don’t immediately pay any attention, too immersed in watching Imogene wind up and throw the baseball with more heat than I thought she could at her age. Truth be told, her aim is pretty spot-on, too, only an inch shy of hitting the bottles. More proof that she is most certainly her mother’s daughter. Julia was always more interested in sports than makeup and fashion, much to my mother’s horror.
When I feel a tap on my shoulder, I drop my hold on Londyn’s hand and spin around, coming face-to-face with a ghost from my past. I’m surprised I even recognize Grady Stowe, an asshole whose nose I once broke when I overheard him talking about Julia in a way I didn’t think appropriate or respectful. I have a feeling he probably still hasn’t learned that lesson. His red hair has prematurely thinned, creating a bald spot on the top of his head. His stomach bears evidence of years of drinking beer, his overall unkempt state giving the impression he’s not married. A fact I confirm when I notice his barren ring finger.
Then again, I’m not one to talk. I’ve never been married, either.
“Can I help you?”
“I said… So it’s true.”
“What’s true?” I ask firmly, widening my stance and crossing my arms.
He licks his lips, stealing a glimpse at Londyn. Instinct kicks in and I step in front of her, blocking her. Not out of shame or embarrassment, but to protect her from whatever Grady wants, why he felt the need to approach me when we haven’t spoken in ages.
Even when I spent my summers here, I was never exactly friendly with Grady. He was, as my Gampy called it, bad news. The whole family routinely got into trouble and were frequent visitors to the local jail. It wouldn’t come as a shock to learn Grady followed in his father’s footsteps and has made a career out of stealing to make a buck instead of earning one the honest way.
“That you turned out like your grandfather.” His lip curls as he peers over my shoulder, sneering at Londyn in disgust.
I’ve never understood how someone could hate another person based on their appearance, something they have no control over. It’s why I never understood my parents all that much. Their entire existence revolved around judging people. If you didn’t wear the right clothes, didn’t get invited to the right events, didn’t have the right friends, you were too insignificant for them to waste their time on. I still don�
��t know how two people as loving and generous as my grandparents could raise someone as spiteful and judgmental as my mother. Then again, as Meemaw often told me, some people lose sight of who they are when money’s involved.
Grady pushes up his shirt sleeves, revealing what appears to be a rudimentary tattoo in the shape of a swastika on his right arm, which he probably got in prison.
Great.
“That you turned into a nigger-lover, too.”
Suddenly, everything falls quiet. I no longer hear the dinging from the carnival games. Or the constant chatter of people lining up for food. Or the motors on the nearby rides. It’s like I’m in a tunnel. Just me, Grady, and my anger at the derogatory word, one I can’t even stomach to repeat.
Oblivious to the crowd growing around us, I reel back, looking forward to the feel of Grady’s flesh meeting my fist. But I’m stopped mere inches shy of his chin, a strong pull on my elbow preventing me from making contact.
“Stop,” Londyn orders, jumping between us. Her voice is firm, lips pinched into a tight line, eyes pleading with me not to do this.
“But—”
“No. It’s what he wants, Wes. I’ve dealt with people like him all my life.” She shoots a spiteful look in Grady’s direction. “Small-minded pricks who only stand for something easy, like hate. Don’t stoop to his level. You’re too good a person to do that.”
My gaze floats between Grady and Londyn, then to the assembled crowd. But that’s not what causes me to reconsider. It’s the expression of fear on little Imogene’s face as she peeks out from behind her mother. My heart squeezes that she had to see this. That she had to witness hate, something no child should ever have to experience.
I briefly close my eyes in resignation, lowering my fist. “Okay.”
“Pansy,” Grady remarks under his breath as I retreat.
Stopping abruptly, I advance toward him, wiping the cocky, self-satisfied smirk off his face in one swift motion. I get nose-to-nose with him, nostrils flaring, jaw tense.