Wild Child: A Novel

by Molly O'Keefe

  “It’s okay, Jackson,” Gwen breathed.

  “No.” He shook his head; his eyelids felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds. “It’s not. I didn’t give up my life for you—”

  “You did. We both know it. And I’m sorry, but … it’s not my fault.”

  He gasped in awe. In awe of this amazing girl with the strength to see that. He wiped his eyes, unable to speak.

  “I’m sorry I called you stupid,” she said.

  “Well, you were right. I was so stupid toward you. Toward this whole town. And I know it’s late and I know you’re going off to school—”

  “You’re leaving too.”

  Right. His big plans. They seemed so shallow now. Sex with nameless women? Was he sixteen?

  “Actually,” he said. “I think … I think I might finish law school.”

  “At Ole Miss?” She sounded horrified.

  “That would bother you?”

  He was braced for a sigh, a shrug, a “whatever.” He didn’t know how he’d react if she did that, but he was braced for it. “Okay,” she said without a sigh or a shrug. Her eyes were square on his. “We can try.”

  It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t redemption or forgiveness for his mistakes, but it was a start. He’d take it.

  “We’ve still got some time. Maybe, after the election, before school, maybe we could take a road trip together. Go see some sights.”

  “What kind of sights?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Washington, DC? I’ve always wanted to see the Smithsonian.”

  Really? “You bet.”

  She smiled. “I’m just kidding. How about the Grand Canyon?”

  “Much better idea.”

  “What about Monica?” she asked.

  The joy stilled in his chest—a fragile ball in danger of breaking. “What about her?”

  “She should come. It would be good.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?” he said, pushing aside her concern, her question. But then he groaned and buried his head in his hands. “I was pretty stupid toward her, too.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She told you?”

  “We’re … we’re friends.” Gwen shrugged. “She says she’s glad she loves you, that it changed her life. But you can tell she’s sad.”

  The recrimination in his sister’s voice was salt in a wound he didn’t realize he had. “I didn’t want to make her sad.”

  “Then don’t,” Gwen said, as if it were all that simple. “I’m starving. You want some cereal?” Gwen walked out of the room but Jackson was rooted to the spot, heavy and immobile.

  Then don’t. It was just that easy.

  He sat there, moving aside boulders and obstacles put in place dozens of years ago, to get to the truth. His truth.

  I don’t have to leave this town to be happy.

  I just have to be with Monica.

  Was this love? It felt selfish; it felt like half of the equation. Wanting her around because she made him happy seemed one-sided. That she brought color and texture to his life seemed unfair. What did he bring to hers?

  He suddenly felt hollow—unsure even of who he was. He’d compromised himself in the face of so many expectations and fears that he didn’t even know what about him was worth loving.

  Chapter 25

  Shelby was at the parade start early, helping the Girl Scout troop get ready. Stuffing tissue-paper flowers back into the municipal float.

  “Thank God it stopped raining, huh?” she asked the fire chief, who agreed.

  Her art-camp kids were out in mismatched costumes, carrying banners and signs covered in glitter and stickers.

  “You guys look great!” she said, helping a ninja with his mask.

  Gwen, her crown perched on her loose hair and her face clear of all makeup, sat in the convertible donated by Sawicki Motors. Jackson sat beside her, dumping candy into baskets to throw at the kids.

  “Something is different about you,” Shelby said, tucking the edge of Gwen’s strapless bra beneath the edge of the golden dress.

  “No makeup,” Jackson said. “Miss Okra is au naturel.”

  That wasn’t it at all, but Shelby nodded. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” Gwen said.

  Jackson leaned behind his sister and grabbed Shelby’s hand. Shelby was so surprised, she just stared. “Thank you,” he said. “For how you helped her … that math thing?”

  “Gwen’s idea,” Shelby said, delighted that something had been knocked loose between the two Davieses. “I just helped with the details.”

  “I think … I think you helped us both. More than you know.”

  The motorcade started and Jackson rocked back, catching himself against the trunk of the car.

  Gwen grabbed ahold of him. “We can’t lose the mayor now!” She laughed, and they both waved as they drove away.

  Wow, Shelby thought as she watched them go by with the rest of the parade. Talk about unexpected!

  Finally it was just her, the sirens and the marching band fading into the distance.

  “Hello.”

  She whirled around at the familiar voice, her heart sinking. “Dean!” she cried, stunned to see that handsome face, ruined by that smug, knowing grin. “Are you here for the taping?” Her heart soared. “Did we win? Is that why you’re here—”

  “America is deciding that.” He stepped toward her and she fought the urge to step back, so repelled by him. He was still physically attractive enough—but that smile. It made her feel dirty. Slimy. Oh God, honestly, what had she been thinking, letting this man touch her?

  “I came to see you,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “You sound so surprised. Why haven’t you been returning my emails?”

  “Why … why would I?” His eyebrows clashed. “We were a fling, Dean. Just … just a … fling.”

  “What if I want more?” More. More? Oh. Her stomach turned. “There’s a good chance Bishop could win this, and then I’ll be moving here and we can …” He reached for her, his hand glancing off her shoulder before she ducked away.

  “Listen, Dean. Even if we win and you move back here … there’s no ‘more’ for us.”

  “You said that before, remember?” He smiled. “And you changed your mind.”

  Images of herself on her hands and knees on the floor of her barn roared through her. Trying so hard to feel alive and sexy and desirable to a man she didn’t like.

  “I won’t. Dean, I’m serious. I don’t like you.”

  His face turned stormy. Not unlike one of the toddlers in her moms-and-kids class when she took away the glitter. “You liked me plenty when you had my dick in your mouth.”

  She recoiled, from the memory, his words, him. “Don’t … don’t talk to me that way, Dean. Not here. I want you to leave.”

  “Not many people tell me no, Shelby.”

  Her cell phone in her pocket buzzed and she fished it out, grateful to have a reason to get out of this conversation, away from his slightly poisonous presence.

  “I have to go,” she said, stepping backward, away from him.

  “We’re not done,” he told her.

  “Yes, Dean. We are.”

  The rain from last night had left puddles on the sidewalk, and Reba did not like getting wet. Fearing she’d be late, Monica picked Reba up and carried her in her arms across the street to the square, where the street festival was set up.

  Oh my God. I’ve become one of those women who carry their dog.

  Of all the small and large changes in her life since coming to Bishop, this seemed the most dire.

  The parade had ended, and everyone filled the square. Businesses had closed for the day and it seemed like the whole town was out in force. It was early for chili, but that didn’t stop people from eating it. Vanessa and Matt from America Today, with a pretty, dark-haired reporter, were setting up in the only empty corner of the square.

  “We go live in twenty minutes, everyone!�
�� Vanessa yelled.

  The crowd buzzed with a pained excitement.

  “Monica.” Jackson’s voice sent ripples across her skin; it was as if he’d touched her, and she backed away from him, from his boyish grin and stern eyebrows. Too late, as it happened—her heart had already been sacrificed—but a girl had to wise up eventually.

  “Good turnout,” she said, putting Reba down in the grass. “You must be thrilled.”

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” He surveyed his kingdom with a half-smile, as if slightly surprised to see it all sprung up around him. She took the moment to drink him in with thirsty eyes. “Your mom is here,” he said.

  “What?” She stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd, to catch a glimpse of white-blond hair. “That’s ballsy even for her. Is she … is she taping or something?”

  “I don’t think so. Look, Monica.” He dropped his voice and stepped closer, and every muscle in her body clenched.

  “Hey!” Vanessa cried, approaching with the camera on her shoulder. “If it isn’t the lovebirds!”

  Monica and Jackson both turned to glare at her. “Ohh,” she said, stepping back. “Not playing it up for the cameras anymore, I see. Too bad. Matt, let’s go get some footage of Cora and her chili.”

  Vanessa and Matt walked away and Monica stood there, a terrible realization dawning.

  And I will do anything to see that happen, Monica. Anything. I will lie, beg …

  “Are you kidding me?” she yelled.

  “I swear I wasn’t playing up anything,” he said, knowing exactly what she meant, which was pretty damning in her eyes. “Everything I felt for you was real.”

  “Really?” she asked, on a painful laugh. “Everything? Lucky me.”

  She thought of that footage of them during the parade build, the footage that everyone saw and commented on and that she’d spent so much time denying. And he’d been silent about it.

  It was as if the world had been ripped away under her feet and she couldn’t breathe.

  “If this was part of your plan, to use me like this—to use what we had, what I thought—” She stopped, her throat ruined, her stomach in knots.

  He winced. “I didn’t not use you.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  His sigh said too much and she couldn’t look at him anymore. I am such a stupid idiot.

  “It means, if they thought our relationship would get votes … I let them use our relationship.”

  Her anger made her nauseous. Or maybe that was him. “Who are you, Jackson? Do you even know, really?”

  “Listen to me,” he said, reaching for her wrists. He touched her, briefly, and her body went up in flames before she could step away. “I don’t care about this contest anymore. I don’t—”

  She laughed, yanking her hands away. “Now I know you’re lying. I need to go.” What she had to do, she wasn’t sure. But she knew she had to get away from him.

  Blindly, she walked past the tents, the crowds, to the edge of the festivities where she could finally catch her breath. She braced her hand against a tree, the only thing solid on earth. The only thing she could count on was this damn tree.

  “Monica?” It was her mother, wearing a summer dress of red and blue and white Indian-print fabric. She looked normal. Beautiful, but normal.

  Monica groaned and put her head down on the bark. If only it could be just her and the tree. Forever. Shelby could visit her here. Gwen. But no one else got to come to the tree.

  “Are you … okay?”

  She couldn’t even flinch away from Simone’s touch against her back.

  “No.”

  “What can I do?”

  Monica sighed and lifted her head, struggling to find firm ground inside herself. “Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do—I’m just another sad example of a woman falling for something in a man that isn’t really there.”

  Simone’s smile was an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge on just that subject.

  From the corner of her eye, Monica saw Vanessa approach, the camera on her shoulder. Simone saw it too and swore under her breath. “I’ll … I’ll go.”

  She took a few steps backward, as if waiting for Monica to tell her to stay, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t have this day trumped by their strange mother/daughter reunion. There were so many holes in their relationship, she didn’t know how to mend it, or what could possibly do the job. Or, frankly, if she was even interested in mending anything. But one thing was for certain: if she was ever going to be interested, some of Simone’s garbage had to be swept out of the way.

  “Simone!” she called. “You want to do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Quit the show. Stop it.”

  Simone nodded. “Done.” And then she was gone, off the grass onto the sidewalk leading her to the house she’d made into an unlikely home.

  Whether Monica was surprised or happy or worried by her mother’s easy agreement, she wasn’t sure. Nothing felt sure.

  Over the crowd, near the fountain, she saw Jackson helping Sean set up the television and speakers so everyone could watch the results on the square. He must have felt her attention because he glanced up, right at her.

  And she knew—more than at any other time in her life—that when she left this place without him, she would truly be homeless.

  “All right!” Vanessa shouted, rounding up some of the key players in front of the square. “I need Jackson and Shelby over here. Monica, you come too. Cora. Everyone over here—we’re live in five minutes.”

  Monica stood next to Shelby, and when Jackson came to stand beside her, he felt her nearness like a nuclear blast, a gale-force wind.

  What kind of man am I? Her words were pinging through his body, putting holes in the walls, scratching the floors. Making a mess. He thought of every single time he’d stayed silent when Dean was being disgusting, when he wondered, what would a better man would do?

  The answer was—the opposite of what he did.

  Jackson was ready to be done with this fantasy version of himself and equally ready to be done with the version of himself that was what everyone expected him to be.

  Jackson was ready to be the kind of man who deserved Monica.

  “Here’s how this works,” Vanessa said. “We’re going to do a live pan of the event. Anne here,” Vanessa pointed to the reporter, “is going to do a quick recap. Jackson is going to give one last pitch to the American public about why they should vote for Bishop, and then we break. America has one hour to vote. In two hours the results are revealed at the end of the show. We’ll have a reaction shot and should you win, some interviews. We good?” Vanessa asked.

  Everyone dutifully nodded.

  “Monica,” Jackson whispered, leaning toward her ear. “I really need to talk to you.”

  “I think it can wait,” she said, giving him her best hairy eyeball.

  “It can’t.” He touched her hand and he could tell she almost reached out to slap it away. She looked pointedly at the cameras.

  “I don’t care about the cameras, Monica. I don’t care who is watching or what they think.” He didn’t bother to whisper, and his words pretty much guaranteed everyone was watching.

  “Jackson … please.”

  “I love you.”

  “What?” Her purple eyes were wide and angry and beneath the anger … she was wounded.

  “I love you.” He stood as naked as he could be in front of her. No smile, no charm. Just him and his faults and his promises and his beating heart.

  “Is this … is this for the cameras?”

  Oh, the hurt on her face. It destroyed him, destroyed him to know he’d caused it. He shook his head. “I’ve wasted so much time trying to be everything to everybody and dreaming about some future version of myself that I stopped caring about who I was. That’s over. I care about you. About Gwen. About … my family. And I know it’s late and I’ve messed up and I still don’t really understand how you can love me, wh
at part of me I’ve shown you that’s worth the faith you’ve given me. But I love you. And I want to be the kind of man you can love.”

  “Holy shit. Is that Dean?” Cora whispered and glanced back at Jackson.

  “Where?”

  Cora pointed toward the fountain where, yes, in fact Dean was walking across the grass toward them. “Does this mean …?” Cora’s smile was hopeful. Beautiful. Everyone began to murmur behind them, a whispering, gasping celebration gathering steam.

  Vanessa, however, did not look celebratory. “What the hell is he doing here?” she asked.

  “This isn’t planned?” Jackson asked, going razor sharp in a moment.

  Shelby moaned and Monica put her arm around her friend. “What’s going on?” Monica whispered.

  “He’s here for me,” Shelby said, and Jackson turned to face them.

  “You?” he asked.

  “We … had a thing.”

  “Again, with the thing,” he muttered. He looked at Monica, the arm around Shelby’s back. His Island Girl, his lone wolf, had managed to gather quite a group of friends around herself. It took courage to reach out to people. And she’d found that courage, and he’d love her for no other reason but that she’d taught him to have that courage too.

  For him, it was no risk to be what people thought he should be. The risk was being himself.

  “You knew about this too?” he asked.

  Monica nodded.

  “Honestly, we’re going to have to have a discussion about all the secrets you were keeping for this town.”

  Monica couldn’t say anything because Dean was right beside them, red-faced, his hands in fists at his sides. The frustrated lover was not an attractive role for the man.

  “Dean,” Vanessa said, wide-eyed and impatient. “What the hell, man? We’re live in ninety seconds.”

  “I know. I just … Shelby? Can I talk to you?”

  “No.” Shelby shook her head. “You can’t. I said what I had to say.”

  “Well, I haven’t.” Dean grabbed her arm and before Jackson could step in, Monica knocked Dean’s hand away.

  “Don’t touch her,” Monica said.

  “Dean!” Vanessa cried. “You will ruin the shot and the whole damn contest. Get out of here!”