by Emilia Finn
I nod. That’s all I can manage as Tabby grabs onto the doorframe and Darla yanks anyway.
If the lighting was worse, and ominous music was playing, this would for sure be the last time I ever see her beautiful face. Her desperate eyes. Her nails scratching the wooden frame as Darla tugs.
I shrug and wave goodbye.
It’s my punishment for her, for not wanting me back. Petty, yes. But that’s where I’m at in this point of my life.
“Tab?” Mark’s voice scrapes along my brain. “Tab? Where’d you go?”
I stare at the phone for a moment. Considering. Wondering. Then I hit speaker, just so I can hear him clearer. But I don’t speak.
“Tab? I don’t know if you’ve hit bad reception there, but if you can hear me, I was just saying how I miss you.”
No you don’t.
“And I love you.”
Fuck you do!
“And when I get there, I want to talk to you about some stuff. Some pretty big stuff. It’s, uh…” He hesitates. “About our future.”
Fuck you!
“It’s really important, and I don’t wanna do it over the phone. So, dinner on Saturday night? We’ll go somewhere nice. Eat something fancy. Connect again,” his voice cracks. “I know things have been a little strained lately, but I can’t wait to see you.”
Fuck you, asshole.
I dart a finger forward and kill the call. I don’t want to listen to him spew his love and devotion and bullshit for the woman I l— Um… like. I don’t want to hear about his plans for their future. His plans to force her into a lifetime with him, all because he already has dibs.
If that motherfucker proposes on Saturday, she’ll say yes. I’m as certain of that as I am that the sun rises in the east. But her answer won’t have anything to do with love or happiness; it won’t be a sign of her passion or want for that relationship.
It’ll be because he’s comfortable, and she’s afraid of rocking boats.
“Fuck that.”
Pushing her phone beneath the pillows at the top of the bed, I stand and go to my bags in the corner. I have to take a shower and select a tie. Then I’m going to dinner with Tabitha Lawrence and a family of psychos.
Not a bad way to shake things up, really.
“Father says you work with animals.” The girl, the one from The Ring, sits across the table in a dress that covers her from chin to wrists to ankles. Her hair isn’t matted, but it also hasn’t been combed in the last few hours, and her eyes… well, they’re a cross between those of Satan’s daughter, and a mom who hasn’t slept in six straight months. “You’re a vet?”
“I am.” I sit where Reginald places me, in front of a setup that includes two plates, one bowl, three forks, but only two knives and a single spoon.
The plates are a matching set, and those beside mine are also a matching set. But that matching set and my matching set… do not match each other. It’s almost as though Darla scours secondhand stores and searches for complete settings, then she brings them home to the murder house and gives them a family to serve.
“Is, uh…” I look around the dining room. Reginald sits at the head of the table, his hands long ago stained dark, but he has showered since we last saw each other, and changed into a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt. “Where’s Darla and Tabitha?”
An hour ago, letting the woman take Tabby away was funny. Now, I genuinely wonder if my beautiful assistant has already been buried—in a barrel or otherwise.
“They’re the ladies of the home,” Reginald answers while fixing his napkin in his shirt. “They must make a grand entrance.”
“Oh…” I nod, nervous for some asinine reason. “Okay. So what time would a lady typically enter?”
“Whenever she’s ready, and not a moment sooner.” Reginald looks to his son. “Reggie, pass Daddy the salt, won’t you?”
“Yes, Father.” The boy grabs a cat-shaped saltshaker from beside the tureen of gravy that someone—Darla—already set out, but instead of passing it across the table, the kid stands from his seat and walks it around. “Here you go, Father.”
For fuck’s sake. What is wrong with these people?
“So why’re you in town?” the girl asks, drawing my eyes to her. “Not many folks come this way.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me this place isn’t booked out all year long?”
Not one person at this table picks up on my sarcasm.
“Um… Tabby and I are here for work. We had planned to drive into town tomorrow for an auction, but since the truck is out of commission—”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Reginald drones. “I shoulda asked you when it was convenient for me to pull ‘er apart.”
“Not your fault,” I lie. “Most couples who come to a bed-and-breakfast tend to wanna stay in and rest. How were you supposed to know we’d need that truck?”
“If we had a spare, I’d lend it to ya,” he responds. “True I would.”
“Oh.” I wave him off. “It’s fine. This was the universe’s way of telling me and Mrs. Rosa to slow down, dontcha think?”
“Sometimes you need that.” Reginald sprinkles salt onto his plate, only to lick his finger and use it to pick the granules up again. He’s so hungry, he’s choosing to chow down on salt. “It’s important to rest and find your roots.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Ahem.” An attempt at a subtle, but actually quite aggressive, throat-clearing comes from the doorway and draws everyone’s eyes to Darla in her dinner best.
She wears a dress much like her daughter’s: full coverage, long sleeves, floor-length. She tied her hair in a severe bun at the top of her head, and her lipstick is… well… it ain’t like how women like Carmel do it.
“I would like to present to you all, Mrs. Tabitha Rosa.”
My heart stutters at Darla’s announcement. That name, false as it may be, still makes my breath quicken. Then Darla steps aside, and Tabby comes front and center for all to see.
Reginald and the kids sit taller, their smiles stretch, when I’m not sure I’ve seen them do that before.
Tabby will never know any of this, though, because her eyes are down, her cheeks flaming from the blush she hates.
With my lips bitten closed to the point of pain, I study her and the gown she’s been presented in. The fabric is a grayish-blue, much like her eyes, floor-length, like everyone else’s, and covers every single curve until she’s nothing more than an amorphous blob.
Laughter tickles my throat. Hysterics taunt from deep inside my chest. And when I look down her ensemble to find pockets, flaccid and dropping open, I have to grind my teeth against my tongue or risk death.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” Darla gestures to the only untouched place setting, right beside me. “And I’ll bring dinner out.”
Doing as she’s told, Tabby makes her way around the table while her eyes remain glued to the floor. The hem of her dress stops well above her ankles; the perils of being taller than the average woman.
“Don’t say a single word,” she growls when she stops at her seat. Her voice is low, only for me. “Not one single word.”
“I really like the way Darla sewed doilies for pockets,” I choke out. “And your collar… also made of doilies.”
“I will kill you.” She pulls her chair out, slowly, so the feet loudly scrape against the floor.
In reality, it was probably my responsibility to get the chair for her, but if I stand, everyone will know I now have a sick fetish for needlework and ugly dresses.
This is all new to me, and hell, a man should be forgiven for needing a second to process.
“You look beautiful, Tabby.” The second she’s sitting, I lean in and press a chuckling kiss to her cheek. “Wifey.”
“I will kill you in your sleep,” she hisses.
“I like that I can see your ankles.” I push on. “They’re sexy.”
“Shut up,” she snaps. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
<
br /> “But seriously. Whatever perfume Darla spritzed on you…” I wait for her to meet my eyes before I wink. “Perfect.”
“I hate y—”
“I’ve prepared meatloaf for dinner.” Darla sashays into the room with a tray wider than my body, shoulder to shoulder.
Her family pays absolute attention to her. Their adoration and love is palpable and reminds me of my family—but without the crazy killer vibes.
Mostly.
“That looks fantastic, Darla.” I reach out to help the woman lower her too-large tray to the middle of the table.
Once it’s down, she wipes her hands on a half-apron and smiles. “Thank you. It’s a family recipe passed down through many generations.”
“Well, that’s ni—”
“They’ve all passed on now, of course.” Just like we’re in a fucking slasher movie, she picks up a glinting, long-bladed knife and grins. “The passage of time is a cruel thing.” And with that, she turns to Reginald. “Will you cut, honey?”
Hurrying to stand, Reginald takes the knife and starts working it through a giant slab of bacon-wrapped meat.
“So, will it be a bother for you to miss your work thing tomorrow?” He sets a slice of meatloaf on my plate and meets my eyes. “You’re the boss, right? So it won’t matter?”
“It won’t matter.” I glance down at my place setting and select a knife and fork. Fucked if I know which one is correct, but in my world, a fork is a damn fork. “I’m my own boss, and I promise not to punish myself for taking an extended weekend.”
“Wait.” Tabby pushes forward to look into my eyes. “We’re not going tomorrow?”
“The truck’s out of commission, babe.” I flash a wide grin and slice off a small corner of the beef. Is it poison? Will I die? Will Tabby die if I offer it to her? “There are no rentals close enough, and our hosts don’t have a spare. So I guess we’re stuck.”
“But we came here specifically to attend tomorrow’s auction.”
“Now we’re here specifically to bed-and-breakfast,” I counter with a grin. “That is why you booked us a B&B, no?”
“No, we… we…” She stammers and presses a hand to her flaming cheek. “We had very specific things we had to do over these two days.”
“All of which could probably be done remotely, right? You said so yourself.”
While Reginald continues to serve, and Darla takes her seat, Tabby grits her teeth and grabs my leg under the table.
I have a single second to think it might be a good sign, a come get me, big boy. But then she digs her nails in around my kneecap and succeeds in making me jump and jostle the whole wooden structure we’re seated around.
“Ow,” I whimper and bite the sound down while the murder family study us as though we are the strange ones. “Bumped my leg.”
“I think it’s very important we attend our commitments tomorrow, boss.”
“Isn’t it just the cutest thing that they work together,” Darla chatters enthusiastically. “Did you meet at work, then become a couple? Or were you a couple first?”
“To be honest…” Tabitha’s nails remain embedded in my leg, but she turns to our hostess and forces a sweet smile. “We didn’t like each other very much when we met. In fact,” she squeezes again, “Beckett was dating someone else. Several someone elses,” she adds for fun. “He was what we would call a ladies’ man.”
“Even the biggest fall eventually,” Darla sighs. “That’s our role in the world, no? The cross women must bear. To find our barely evolved cave-dweller and teach him to love fully.”
Surprised, Tabby shakes her head. “Ah, no. I can’t say I agree.” And because she likes to punish me, she squeezes again. “I think it’s a woman’s job to respect herself enough to not let a man sweet-talk his way into her world simply because he knows the right words to say.”
“Oh, you’re not a romantic?” Darla coos. “That’s a shame.”
“On the contrary,” Tabby counters. “Respecting myself and finding a man who will respect me just as much are the most romantic notions I can think of. Casual fun and having sweet lines at the ready, to me, aren’t what make something solid.”
“But is it sweet-talk,” I press my hand over hers beneath the table, “when a man knows what dessert you like? What brand lady products you prefer? Or is that real talk?”
“It’s a player who knows to check the office trashcan one week a month.”
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes. Looking to Darla, I let my lips quirk high. “Tabby gets defensive sometimes. But deep down, she adores what we have.”
“No, I—”
“Fun fact, Tabby was dating someone else when we met too.”
“Oh, you were?” Reginald draws our attention around to him. “I know this conversation is going to remain child-friendly.”
“It absolutely is.” I smile at the kids. “The man she was dating before was only a friend. Platonic and definitely not living together.”
“That’s right, children.” Darla picks up a bowl of salad and goes to work placing colorful ingredients on her plate. “We don’t leave our parents’ home until we’re married to our one and only. Just like your father and I.”
“Exactly.” I slide my fingers between Tabby’s and squeeze, and when she realizes what I’ve done, I hold on when she tries to whip her hand away.
“Not everyone makes good choices all the time,” I continue, “and not everyone saves every single thing for their one and only. Humans make mistakes, of course. It’s natural.” I meet Tabby’s gray eyes. “But when someone knows who they want, it’s only a mistake if they don’t let the other half know.”
“The other half?” Samara sighs, much like her mother. “You’re speaking of hearts and souls.”
“Two halves make one whole,” I confirm. “It’s not guaranteed. Nothing in life is, but the adventure is the whole point, right?”
“Not if the other half thinks you’re full of doo-doo and talking out your backside.” Tabby wrestles my hand under the table and works for freedom. “Sometimes, doo-doo is just doo-doo.”
“Well.” Reginald clears his throat and scrapes cutlery along his plate. “Doo-doo and backside talk is probably more appropriate for private discussions. Mom?” He looks at his wife. “Dinner is delicious. Thank you.”
Tabby storms ahead of me the moment we’re released from the dinner table. Her skirts swishing, her doilies begging to be put out of their misery. She bolts along the hall faster than Samara, who seems to want to hang out, then into our room. She tries to slam the door shut in my face, only to snarl when it bounces off my raised hand.
“I’m not sleeping in the barn,” I growl and follow her in.
Turning back, I smile for the creepy little girl and close the door, then I spin to find Tabby pacing the room, personifying a tornado as she tosses things around.
Though, her version of a tornado actually ends with her making the space cleaner than it was before she began.
“Tabby, you need to s—”
“I don’t want to play this game with you, Beckett! I don’t want to like you. I don’t want to touch you. I don’t want to feel your eyes on me every time I walk. And I don’t want my feelings hurt because I’m a mouse and you’re a mean tomcat.”
My heart thuds inside my chest as I slowly step forward. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I don’t want th—”
“I’m twenty-five years old,” she explodes. “I’ve got a career I love. Not a job I love,” she adds on a too-loud shout. “But a career. One I’ll get back to eventually. I met my boyfriend when I was only twenty. That’s basically nineteen, which means I was still a teenager, looking at other teenagers for companionship. Now I’m a grown woman, and you’re a man!”
“Yes.” I take a slow step forward. Tabby’s face is deathly white, her eyes wide and watery. “I am a man.”
“I’m not jumping into the dating pool again! I’m not looking to meet men, when I only have experience meeting boys.”
> “So, you want to get onto a dating app and set your requests for twenty and under?”
“No! I don’t want to date at all. I have a boyfriend, Beckett. A boyfriend who I’m very much loyal to. A boyfriend I lo—”
“Don’t say love!” I shout and succeed in shutting her up. If she’s allowed to shout, then so am I. And if she’s allowed to be unkind, then hell, here I come. “You can say you’re in a relationship. Cool. You can say you’re loyal. Great. That’s what I like about you. You can say you’re scared. Don’t worry. So am I!”
At that, Tabby’s eyes bore into mine.
“You can say that dating men is brand new to you, and terrifying. I’ll accept that, since I know you. I know how sweet and quiet and kind you are. I know some things intimidate you, and other things make your spine snap straight. I know that the idea of dating men is scary, but I also know that, from the moment we met, you’ve not once been intimidated by me. From the moment you smeared lipstick on my front door, you’ve been charging ahead, saying what you think, doing what you want, and not giving a single shit about me or my fear.”
“You’re scared?” Tabby’s voice breaks, and when it does, her hand comes up—doily-covered sleeve and all—and wipes beneath her nose. “Really?”
“Yes! How can I not be? You’re fucking terrifying. You already know my cards. You know I want you. You know I need you. You know I would do just about any damn thing to keep you. You’re not worried about rejection here.”
“Beck, I—”
“But I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve, shouting all my feelings into the fucking void, and all you do in return is tell me no. You shower me in reasons why I’m not good enough. You remind me every two fucking seconds why I can’t compete. And the fucking kicker is, compete with what? The guy who wasn’t here for two months?” I thrust a hand toward the door, toward our hometown. “He had you, Tab. He had you, body and soul, but he let you go. No matter how many times you asked him to follow, he’s not doing it.”