by Ivey , Tasha
After all the years of tumultuous relationships, my family probably won't be too shocked, after all. In fact, I know my family will be supportive and welcome me home with open arms, just as they did the day that I came to live with them. My great aunt and uncle have been my guardians since I was in first grade. They took me in after my mom and dad were tragically killed in a car accident just a few weeks after my sixth birthday. Losing my parents was hard, but, luckily, I had a supportive family to pick me up and carry me through it.
The open road is not helping at all to clear my tempestuous mind. This long stretch of monotonous highway is doing nothing more than lulling me into a sleepy daze, considering the fact that I packed all night long. I have been on the road for a few hours, and I have yet to resolve anything. I even called Fawn along the way and explained everything that happened last night. She felt responsible for my heartache, which made me feel worse. I can't hold her liable for the fact that I drive many of the men I date into another woman's arms.
With that thought, all of the years of heartbreak and fears of my unknown future come flooding into me like a tidal wave, drowning me in despair and uncertainty. I am suddenly an emotional wreck, and I start sobbing uncontrollably. I jerk the car off the road haphazardly and skid to a stop, causing a plume of rust-colored dust to consume my car.
I can't go home like this. I am honestly not ready to face my family and tell them that I have failed again. I know my aunt and uncle will gladly allow me to move back in until I find another job and get on my feet, but that thought just humiliates me even more. I would feel like a teenager again. I need more time, a few more days to think this through before I deal with everyone back home. I just don't know where to go.
And, after a brief brainstorming session, I have the answer . . . my Nana's house.
My "Nana" is my Grandma Thelma, my mom's mom. My Grandpa Sam passed away a few years ago, so she has been alone all this time. She lives in Rock Cove, Virginia, which is a tiny, little town along the coast, and to top it off, you can see the beach from her back porch. That kind of serene escape is precisely what I need right now, and, and most importantly, Nana's house has always been a "judgment-free zone." Perfect.
I call her to make sure the sudden visit won't be a problem, and I pull the crumpled map out to see if I correctly remember how to get there. After a quick stop for some gas and an unhealthy amount of caffeine, I am well on my way.
For some reason, just the thought of going to Nana's makes me feel a little more at ease. I would spend a few weeks a year with her while I was growing up, and we developed quite a bond over the years. I love spending time with her. After just a few days there, I should have my head clear enough to go home and figure out how to start over again.
After a while, my surroundings begin to look familiar, and I know I am headed in the right direction. Soon, I will be standing in my Nana's doorway, and that thought makes my whole body buzz with nervous exhilaration. I'm so ready to be there to talk to her about everything going on in my life, and I know she'll help me figure it all out. She's never critical. She simply listens to everything you have to say, lets you know that she's there for you, and offers some kind words of advice. And she's not only like that with me, either. She's like that with everyone she meets, and everyone adores her.
"Rock Cove, five miles!" I squeal out loud to myself as I pass the faded metal sign. I'm beginning to get a little too excited, it seems.
Within minutes, I am sitting at the only stoplight in Rock Cove, which is situated in the town's center. I can see the bakery with fresh bread in the windows. I see a small café, which seems to be the only restaurant around. There's also the post office, a produce market, a general store, a hardware store, and several more buildings that I can't distinguish. It has quite the Mayberry feel to it, with its aged brick buildings and pedestrians chatting at every storefront. Once the light turns green, I ease my foot onto the gas pedal and roll my windows down, immediately smelling the salt in the air.
I am almost there.
I make a left turn onto the beachfront highway, knowing I only have two miles to go. To my right, I can finally see the ocean. Gorgeous beach homes—many, of which, are vacation rentals or summer homes— overlook the infinite expanse of blue water. Not many people live in these houses year-round, but Nana is one of the rare exceptions.
POP! THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!
What was that?
I struggle to get the car pulled over and jump out to inspect, and, to my horror, I realize that my front tire is flat. Not only is it flat, I can actually see the hole in it.
"Are you kidding me?" I yell aloud at the rapidly deflating tire after kicking it a few times.
"It doesn't really look like it's kidding," says an unfamiliar voice behind me.
Startled, I spin around a little too fast, nearly losing my balance. I look all around me, but I don't see anyone. I see an extravagant beach housewhich is probably worth more than all the houses on this highway collectivelywith a long driveway, some well-kept landscaping, and a gardener . . .
Oh, it was the gardener!
"Umm, he-hello," I stammer. "Sorry, it's been a bad day."
"Yeah, I can see that," he replies as he steps out from behind the shrubbery and dusts his hands off on the front of his formerly white t-shirt.
He looks a little discontented that I am interrupting his tedious work, but, even with the unpleasant look on his face, the sight of him is making my heart flutter. Only a rare, special kind of man can look attractive in filthy, tattered clothes with dirt smudges all over his face, and he is apparently one of them. Of course, leave it to me to find the grimy landscaper attractive. It just further proves that I consistently fall for the wrong men.
"Do you have a spare in your trunk?" he asks impatiently.
"Oh, umm, yes I do, but . . ."
His eyebrows furrow deeply. "But?"
"There's a slight problem," I explain, completely embarrassed. "My trunk is a little . . . full. I'm in the middle of moving, so everything I own is stuffed in that trunk."
After a few seconds of contemplating, he huffs. "Well, it looks like we have some unpacking to do. Unless, of course, you don't want me rifling through your things. In that case, you'd better just call"
"Oh no," I quickly interrupt. "I'd appreciate your help. My grandmother lives just up the road, but she's in no shape to help me change a tire."
We immediately get to work on emptying the random possessions from my trunk. Without either of us saying a word, we take out the bags and boxes, one by one, and put them in a disheveled pile on the side of the road. I almost feel violated as this strange man digs through all of my personal belongings, but I keep telling myself that he is just helping, and I'll soon be gone.
Finally, he reaches way into the back to retrieve the last box, and, of course, it would be an open box full of panties. Not the kind of undergarments men want to imagine you having, eithernude-colored, high-waisted, and far too big.
My seventy-year-old aunt bought them for me because she thought they were more "sensible" than those that she found in my laundry. They have been in there for about six months, so I completely forgot about them. I remember opening her gift and quickly shoving the box deep into my trunk the day I left for Baltimore, hoping that they would never surface again.
Seemingly, yet another one of my plans have failed.
He quickly turns and sets the box down over by the others, trying to hide his amusement, I can imagine. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, knowing that they are turning a vibrant shade of red. As he turns back around, I think I see a hint of a smile, but the scowl that was there before returns as soon as he notices me looking at him.
He finally frees the spare and frowns, suddenly jogging toward the garage adjoining the house. "I'll be right back," he yells over his shoulder.
Within seconds, he returns with a heavy-duty jack and a few more tools and quickly gets to work removing the damaged tire.
/> "I'm not going to get you into any trouble, am I?" I ask after a few minutes pass, making a futile attempt at small talk.
"What do you mean? Why would I be in trouble?"
"Well, I am keeping you from your work. I hope that the people you work for won't be upset that you stopped to help me out."
He chuckles. "No, my boss won't mind at all."
"Oh, good," I sigh. "If I would've called a tow truck, there's no telling how long I would be waiting. I'm so thankful you were out here."
"It's nothing, really." He stands up, dusts his hands off, and wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead. "You're all set."
He puts the old tire in the trunk, and we begin packing my things back in. As the last few things are crammed in and nothing more could possibly fit, I remember "the box." I don't recall putting it back in there, which means that he did. Twice now, this very ruggedly attractive man has seen my "granny panties." I feel the burning in my cheeks again as a disturbed look sweeps across my face.
"I don't think this last one is going to fit in there," he says, holding out another box.
I turn and blindly reach for the box while I attempt to shut the trunk—realizing too late that it's the box that he's holding. I gasp and immediately fumble for it, my unwieldy hands knocking it from his grasp just as a fierce gust of wind comes in off the ocean.
Suddenly, several pairs of the panties take flight—blowing into the highway, into the yard, and one is even proudly displaying itself on a road sign. To further my humiliation, the man immediately chases them down until they are all safely back in the box, and he jogs back to my car and places it in my backseat, acting as if he thought nothing of it.
Meanwhile, I stand here with my mouth hanging wide open, absolutely mortified.
This can't be happening . . .
"Looks like I'd better get back to my work now, if you don't mind," he says while picking up his tools.
"What do I owe you for helping me out?" I am unable to even look in his direction.
"Nothing at all," he says laughing quietly, a hint of a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Really, I owe you."
I look up, my eyes finally meeting his. "How so?"
"I needed a good laugh today," he chuckles, winking at me before he turns to walk away.
I feel my face flush, yet again. "Oh. Well, thanks."
He turns his head around, nods at me with a smile, and continues to walk back toward the house. I can hear him snickering the whole way.
I get into my car and speed away as fast as I can. I have never been more embarrassed in my life. I hope I don't run into him for the next few days that I'm here because I know I couldn't face him again. He probably went straight to everyone else at the house and told them all about my flying panties.
I am so caught up in what just happened and trying to get away, that I nearly pass Nana's house. I slam on my brakes and actually have to back up a bit in order to pull into the driveway. I am still quite flustered from my experience with the gardener, and I can't get that mocking smile out of my head. He is still laughing, no doubt.
Chapter Two — The Beauty and the Beast
Brooks:
I can't stop giggling like a teenage girl as I walk back up to the house. As soon as I see her car pull away, I literally start rolling on the ground laughing. I haven't laughed like this in quite some time. Even if only short-lived, I feel human again. I truly need that.
I find it hard to believe that, only an hour ago, I was yelling at a Goldenrod bush, taking all of my frustrations out on it, until that girl showed up, anyway. I felt sorry for her, but it's nice to see that someone, other than me, is having a bad day . . . week . . . year. I almost wanted to walk over and start assaulting that tire with her, not to say that would have made either of us feel better. My current situation certainly wouldn't have changed. I wonder what is going on in her life. Is it anything like mine?
I heard the thumping of her tire right before she pulled over in front of my house, so I immediately stood up and dusted myself off, knowing that I would likely be changing it. As she jumped out of her car, the first thing I noticed was how attractive she was, and my eyes darted to the passenger side of her car, expecting a woman that beautiful to have a boyfriend or husband along with her. No one was there. Watching her kick the tire and scream at it was quite entertaining, and I couldn't help but replying to her plea. By the look on her face, I'm pretty sure I startled her, but her turning around allowed me to get a better look.
Her long, dark brown hair swung around as she turned, blanketing her right shoulder in a silky sheet. Her face was thin, but the structure of it was like that of a goddess: pronounced cheekbones, full lips, and glistening green eyes. I could instantly tell, though, that she had been troubled long before her tire went flat; I could see dried streaks of mascara under her soft eyes. I knew exactly how she felt.
I'm positive I didn't help her to feel any better either. I'm typically an incredibly pleasant guy, but the last few weeks have not exactly helped my demeanor. I could tell that I wasn't being overly friendly by any stretch of the imagination, but at least I helped with the tire, right? She was very easy to like, even with her saddened expression. She displayed such a kind and genuine personalitya quality that I rarely see in the women in my social circle.
Just as we finished cleaning her trunk out so I could get the spare, she gasped at what I was holding. I didn't even realize what it was, at first, but I could see that it really embarrassed her. In fact, I didn't even know they were panties until I had turned to put the box down with the others. I wanted to laugh, but I knew she was humiliated enough, so I attempted to act as if I didn't notice.
After I was finished replacing the tire, we crammed everything back in the trunk, box by box. I intentionally avoided that one box that made her so uncomfortable, but she was too focused on making sure everything fit in the trunk to notice that it was still on the ground. Reluctantly, I picked it up to hand to her, and I noticed a gift tag stuck on the side. It said, "To Laura, From: Aunt Judy, with love."
Her name is Laura. I thought. And I didn't think those were quite her style.
I had to stop myself from looking at her backside to see if I could determine what her style was. I held the box out to her, and again, she was mortified. She grabbed at the box, obviously trying not to look at it, and I lost my grip. A few little storm clouds were blowing in, and the winds were beginning to pick up with absolutely perfect timing. Just as the oversized, parachute-like lingerie spilled out of the box, the wind gusted with such force that they took to it like kites. If I ever decide to make a kite, I'll know exactly what kind of material to use, at least.
Forgetting for a moment what I was in pursuit of, the knight in shining armor in me kicked in, and I ran after the panties to retrieve them, feeling slightly perverted. She didn't take long to leave after that incident, which made me wish that I hadn't changed the tire so quickly.
I was just starting to warm up to her, but I can't blame her for running off so fast. I'm sure it was weird for her to have the lowly gardener looking at her panties; I still can't believe she assumed that I just work here. But, based on the way I'm dressed today, I can see the reason for her immediate assumption.
Interrupting my thoughts, my fiancée, Jacqueline, steps outside and immediately swats at the tiny gnats swarming around her heavily perfumed skin. "I don't know why you insist on doing all of that yard work. You know the landscapers will be back next week."
"It's not beneath me to do physical labor," I reply as I wipe away a trickle of sweat just before it reaches my eye. "Now that someone is living here, there's no need to have the landscapers back until we leave. I prefer to do it myself."
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Just be sure you keep your rough hands off of me until I get you a manicure. Oh, and who was that out there you were talking to a minute ago? And what are those tools for?"
"That woman had a flat tire, so I changed it." Right before I hand
led all of her panties. "And you can forget about the manicure."
Jacqueline laughs mockingly. "You mean to tell me that you think you are a mechanic now?"
"Look, she needed help, so I helped her. People do still do that, you know. You should try it sometime."
"Oh, Joshua, I aspire to be as perfect and saintly as you someday," she gushes dramatically, just before pretending to stick her finger down her throat to gag herself and slamming the door.
Joshua.
She sure knows how to get under my skin. I hate it when anyone calls me Joshua, but she insists that it sounds more dignified than Brooks. I was named Joshua Brooks Tucker, Jr. after my father. My father always preferred the moniker "JB," since he never cared for either name. I have told Jacqueline at least a dozen times that I detest being called Joshua, but she doesn't care. That's how she isself-absorbed and doesn't care about anyone else's feelings. If she decided that God himself should be called something different, she would do it.
I know I haven't been at all pleasant with Jacqueline lately, but I haven't always been that way. I have known Jacqueline Martens my whole life, and she was once a compassionate, affable girl. I actually developed a crush on her when I was approaching my early teen years, and, over those next few years, I was crazy about her.
Inevitably, though, when she was about 16, she finally realized that her family was wealthy, and she acted like it. All she could talk about then was her ever-increasing social status, everything she had recently purchased, and how much better she was than her friends were. I began losing interest in her at that point, but we still had to see each other often.
Our fathers were best friends in college, and they have always maintained that friendship. Even though they own competing oil companies, they somehow manage to put the rivalry behind them and remain close. Our families spent a lot of time together while I was growing up, and they still do. Most of the vacations that we went on included the Martens family, so I could never escape from Jacqueline; although, I didn't always complain about it.