“Well, I imagine right now Brian Andersen is making them pay a pretty hefty price to film here, so I’m okay with it.”
“What about the Okra Festival? If she’s here, she’ll ruin it. She ruins everything.”
“It’s two weeks away. We can deal with that then.”
Jackson reached over and touched her arm, which, because she was angry and wound up, she pulled away. “You called me a coward, remember?” he asked. “When I wouldn’t talk to my sister?”
“Are you calling me a coward?”
“I’m saying you have a whole lot of unresolved issues with her that I think, for your own peace of mind, you should resolve. What if she finds you someplace you don’t want to leave? Are you going to let her chase you around all your life?”
She wanted to say yes; she wanted to hold on to this grudge, this anger. She wanted every protective shell she’d ever crafted to keep her safe and warm. But the truth was a very sharp spear, and it cut through all her bullshit.
When she collapsed onto the bed, her suitcase toppled to the floor. Jackson sat next to her and she groaned, embarrassed by her inability to keep her shit together.
“Go ahead, Monica,” he breathed in her ear. “Go ahead.”
He put his arm around her, his big hand cupping her shoulder, his fingers touching the skin of her arm beneath her shirtsleeve. The solid warmth of him made it worse, and her face crumpled in an effort to keep from crying.
Silently, he kissed her forehead, pulling her close. And Monica, her face averted, broke into tears.
Loud, messy, awful tears, and Jackson didn’t say anything. He didn’t shush her or calm her or in any way try to comfort away the storm that raged in her heart and head.
These new memories that had resurfaced while she was here, talking to people about that night Simone shot JJ, had made a mess of her. Of her strength and her anger toward her mom. They turned everything she knew by heart on its head. And she hated that.
Jackson seemed to understand, and he just let her rage until the rage was gone. All gone. And then she sat there, limp, next to him, held upright by his big hands. His strength.
Another first, she thought.
Orgasms, flowers, friendship, and now this. Jackson was her conquistador, the first foreign man on all her untouched shores, and he didn’t even know it.
“Thanks,” she whispered, using the hem of her shirt to wipe at her eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, and she laughed, all snotty and messy.
“For what?”
“For this morning, during the show. Standing beside me.”
She glanced up at him, somehow both embarrassed and emboldened by it all. Weird how vulnerability was addicting. It was so freeing not to pretend all the damn time. “You looked like you needed a friend.”
“I needed you, and you were the only person in the room who knew that. Thank you.”
“I’ve been avoiding you the last few days,” she confessed.
“I know. I … I’ve been avoiding you, too.”
She leaned away from him, from the intimacy and this budding … need of him.
“Maybe we should … stop, you know?” She gestured limply toward the bed.
“I don’t want to stop. I want to be with you, however long it lasts.”
In her lap her hands were knotted together, the knuckles like white flowers. A bouquet of bones.
I want to be with you.
Was there anything more lovely?
“I want to be with you, too,” she said and his hand covered her knuckles.
“You’re a bit of a mess, you know that, right?”
“Must be why we get along so well.”
He laughed, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re right.” Their broken edges seemed to fit together in a way they didn’t fit with anyone else.
Tired of talking, of thinking, she kissed him. It was familiar, that kiss, but at the same time unknown, as if beyond a familiar room there was a new wing and she was just stepping into it.
“Thank you,” she said against his lips, thinking of the way he’d handled her mother, how he’d backed her up, how he’d walked her home, talked her off the ledge, and let her cry with her pride intact.
“For what?”
“For being you.” Slowly she climbed up onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips. He put his hands on her ass, pulling her closer, and the heat between them built.
There was something about this man that turned her inside out, that made her … not herself. Or a different version of herself. And she was somehow grateful and horrified at the same time. But when he lifted her shirt over her head and looked at her with such adoring lust, it just felt so right.
Whoever she was, whoever he was—they worked together.
And she would take it while she could get it.
Wednesday morning, Monica had an appointment to speak to Mrs. Blakely, her mother’s sixth-grade teacher. She wanted to cancel the meeting because the outside world felt vaguely dangerous, as though her mother would pounce on her at any moment.
But instead she decided to practice a little fake-it-till-you-make-it confidence and headed out early to grab some breakfast before meeting Mrs. Blakely at the library, where she was a volunteer.
At Cora’s, the mood was still high from yesterday’s news. Cora had a free coffee special, and plenty of people were lingering at the counter. Monica even saw some strangers. An older couple sat at a booth by a window, taking pictures.
“Who are all these people?” Monica asked when she ordered.
“Folks from Memphis, mostly,” Cora said. “Came down because they saw the show.”
“Congrats, Cora—I didn’t get a chance to say anything yesterday, but you should be so proud of yourself.”
“I am. I am real proud.” Clouds passed over Cora’s eyes and Monica wondered if she was thinking about her father. Not wanting to bring up any bad thoughts on a day that should be just about celebrating the hard work the woman had done, Monica ordered what had become her usual, and when it was time to pay, insisted on paying.
Jackson had more than made up for the fight they’d had.
Monica sat in a far corner booth with her muffin and coffee and opened up her notebook to go over her questions for her mom’s sixth-grade teacher.
“Can I sit down?”
Monica froze at the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d been prepared for this, in a deep internal place. But that didn’t quite stop the panic from taking root in her lungs and heart.
“Where’s your camera crew?” Monica asked, surprised to see her mother alone, carrying a small teapot and mug. Nearly everyone in the restaurant was watching them; some were trying to hide their interest, while others blatantly stared.
“Yesterday I paid huge fees in permits to apparently be unable to film just about everywhere in town. Including here.”
Monica smiled, and Simone mistakenly took that as invitation enough to sit. As soon as the teapot hit the table, Monica began gathering her things. The instinct to flee her mother’s presence was deeply ingrained.
“I have to go,” Monica said. “I’m actually interviewing your sixth-grade teacher today.”
Simone’s face made a powerful and stunning transformation, and for one long heartbeat she actually looked her age. It was so astonishing that Monica stared for a moment, her notes forgotten.
“Then you are working on the book.”
“Sent the first three chapters to my editor yesterday.”
Simone slowly filled her teacup, and the pale brown liquid steamed into the air between them. Monica didn’t know her mother drank tea.
“And it’s going well?” Simone asked.
“People have plenty to say.”
“Why don’t you interview me?” Simone asked. Monica gaped at her mother, her internal plates shifting and grinding to accommodate her astonishment. “Your book is about getting an accurate portrayal of the events from that night. It seems remiss of you not to interview
me.”
“You’re actually willing to talk to me about it?”
Simone opened her mouth and shut it again, staring at the steam from her cup. She nodded.
“You’ve never—”
“I know.”
Silence rippled and pulsed between them. Talking to her mother about the night she shot JJ would be like running to the closet and letting out all the monsters. Those events, those memories, that pain—all of it would be let loose on the world, and that could only bring disaster.
But there were other answers she wanted, answers to the questions born in the years after the murders. In those hours alone beside her mother’s bed, under those fluttering curtains, so scared nothing would ever be right again.
“Can I ask you questions about the years after the murder?”
Simone looked up, a wrinkle between her eyes as if she didn’t remember an “after.”
“London,” Monica said. “Greece. France.”
“If you’d like.”
Monica laughed, not holding back on the scorn she had for the woman across from her. “Yes. I’d like.”
“Then fine.” Simone stiffened at Monica’s laughter. “Come over today.”
“Tomorrow,” she said, giving herself a day to put together her thoughts. To assemble a battle plan. But mostly, to keep her mother waiting. To punish her in whatever large and small ways she had available. “Here.”
“I won’t discuss it in public. You can come to the house I’ve rented. Across from those art camps you spoke so highly of on America Today. A teacher, really?”
Her mother actually sounded … proud. And Monica didn’t know what to do with that, so she ignored it. “All right, what time—”
“You can come for lunch.”
“This is not social. Or friendly. I’m not interested in having lunch with you.”
Simone, already so pale, went a bit lighter; even her lips paled. “Fine, come at four. So I can have a drink and you can judge me.”
Monica wrote it down and gathered her things. “I’ll see you then.”
Without another word she left, rattled that she’d agreed to this, worried about what it might mean to her, unsure of how to handle the interview, and feeling, all in all, pretty upside down in the wake of her mother’s arrival.
But at the door she turned, for no reason she could name, and looked back at her mother, who was looking down into her teacup and smiling.
* * *
Wednesday night, Jackson waited up for Gwen to come home. He’d been doing that more often than not. Initially it had been to check if she was drinking, but now it was becoming a habit, and it felt good to see her before going to bed. Obviously, he’d let too much distance grow between them and he didn’t know quite how to shrink it, but he would do what he could to keep it from growing.
So he sat in the front parlor, trying to get comfortable on the really uncomfortable couch there, and texted Monica while he waited.
What are you wearing? he texted.
What you saw me in not five hours ago.
He shifted on the couch, remembering what they’d been doing five hours ago. And exactly what she hadn’t been wearing.
Correction, she texted, what you saw me in before you took it off me.
I really do love that Tweety Bird.
It was a Metallica concert tee shirt, dummy, and you just like what’s under any shirt I’m wearing.
He smiled, his big fingers inaccurate on the keypad, but he was learning. He was learning lots of things, thanks to Monica. Before he could hit send on the dirty text he was sending to his non-girlfriend girlfriend, the front door opened and Gwen walked in.
When she saw him, she sighed. “Again? I told you, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic.”
“And I told you, trust is something you have to earn back.”
She rolled her eyes as she shuffled into the room. “I liked you better when you barely paid attention.”
For some reason, the words blew holes through him. Giant holes where his heart had been. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I always paid attention.”
She laughed outright and if it hadn’t been at his expense, he would have been happy to see her smiling. But since she was laughing at him, he only got angry. “You know,” he said, “if you didn’t keep secrets, I wouldn’t have to check up on you.”
“Me?” she cried. “I’m keeping secrets?”
“You were drinking, Gwen.”
“Yeah, and when were you going to tell me about Monica?”
He blinked. “What about her?”
“Please—the whole town knows you guys are like together. I had twenty people ask me today if you guys were getting married.”
“Getting … what? That’s ridiculous.”
“You were on TV, Jackson, practically making out!”
What Vanessa had taped at the float meeting was making its way through the gossip mill. This was the second edge of that particular sword. Using Monica for votes was one thing, but admitting it, in light of their real relationship? Tricky.
“Then there’s nothing going on?” She crossed her arms over her chest as if she were in charge of his inquisition, and he didn’t like it.
“There’s nothing going on that’s any of your business.”
For a moment she looked like she’d been punched in the stomach, and he realized how awful his words sounded. How ostracizing.
“Gwen—”
“No, it’s fine. Totally fine. I get it.” She walked up to him and blew in his face. She smelled like gum and Doritos, a slightly nauseating combination. “Not drinking, see?”
She turned and walked away through the shadows, and she was almost gone before he found his voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with me and Monica,” he said, and she paused by the stairs. “She’s leaving, you know. She’s not … she’s not going to stay.”
“Neither are you,” she said, her eyes unreadable, glittering gems in the half-light.
“No, you’re right.”
“So it’s just a thing?” she asked, somehow giving “thing” all kinds of weight and meaning, but not the right kind of weight and meaning.
“Yeah,” he agreed, though it didn’t quite feel right. “It’s just a thing.”
She shrugged and went up one step. “Hey,” he said, suddenly desperate to stop her. Suddenly desperate to turn back whatever clock he could. “You need a dress for the pageant, don’t you? Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow?”
“No thanks, I’ve already got an idea. Shelby’s helping me with it.”
Anyone but him. That used to be a relief to him, but now it hurt. “Oh, well, you know, if you need shoes or anything …”
“I’ll let you know.” She smiled at him, and for a moment the bubble between them burst and they were as close as they ever had been, and he realized—painfully—that wasn’t all that close.
Chapter 20
Thursday at four p.m., Monica stood on the gravel path outside the white farmhouse her mother had rented armed with her laptop and questions, her belligerence and anger. All the slights and hurts from her childhood she had shored around herself like a barricade.
She’d even brought Reba in her fanciest collar.
Try, Mom, she thought, just try and get past this.
But somehow, with all that stuff, she couldn’t quite make it up the stairs.
Beside her, Reba barked.
The front door opened and Monica’s skin broke out into a heavy sweat. It wasn’t Simone standing there, but a short man. Balding, with glasses. He looked like a turtle. A small turtle.
“Hello Monica,” he said.
Because she was marginally poisoned by her own venom, Monica sneered. “Who the hell are you?”
The man glanced over his shoulder and then back at Monica. “I’m Simone’s husband,” he said.
And that was enough for Monica.
“Tell her the interview is canceled,” she said and turned on her heel, walking away from … holy
shit, her stepfather.
She couldn’t go back to her hotel in this mood. It was too much to go to Jackson now, asking too much after the other day with the tears and the sex. And every day since, with the sex and the talking.
But she didn’t want to be alone.
Unable to do anything but keep moving, she walked right across the street to Shelby’s place. Past the house, with the rusting gutters, to the barn in the back.
Where she hoped there might be a drink. And a friend.
Late Thursday afternoon, Shelby stared at the email from Dean on the screen. I don’t like that you haven’t responded to my emails.
Quickly, she deleted it, feeling dirty and threatened. But getting rid of the message didn’t make the feeling go away.
You’re overreacting, she told herself, pushing away from the computer and then standing up from her desk because she suddenly needed more room, more distance between herself and that email. And that stupid, stupid mistake she’d made.
There was every chance that Dean was trying to just be friendly. But those words echoed in her head with Dean’s patronizing tone, the vaguely threatening way he spoke. But maybe that was all colored with the way they’d had sex.
Oh, what is wrong with me? she wondered. And now she was late for the pageant meeting. It was dress-fitting night, and she’d promised to come help hem and make minor alterations.
She grabbed her sewing kit from her supply closet.
“Shelby?” Shelby, who thought she recognized Monica’s voice but couldn’t quite believe it, nearly sprinted into the other room.
It was Monica. But Monica as she’d never seen her. Gone was the bravado and the attitude, leaving just the hard life she’d lived up until this moment.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Do you need a seat?”
“No, I need a drink. You still have that bottle?”
“I do.” She ran back into her office, grabbed the bottle from the bottom drawer of her desk, and texted Janice that she was going to be a little late for the fittings.
“What’s going on?” Shelby asked, pouring Monica a shot into her Best Teacher in the World mug. She had about seventeen of those mugs.
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