True Divide

by Liora Blake

  Given that he’s not sporting a proper pilot’s hat, and seems to have made himself at home here chatting up Devon, he’s not much for professionalism and probably spent too much time flirting with her to focus properly on getting the plane in working order. Shouldn’t he be back at his plane already? Doing whatever slacker private pilots do before flying back to LA? A little more efficiency and a little less drooling on the pilot’s part, and they might have gotten here in time for Trevor to welcome his first baby into the world.

  Devon is wearing a skintight black tank top paired with black yoga pants, because that is what she always wears. Not even for the reason most normal women wear yoga pants, because we’re feeling too lazy or bloated to put on regular pants. In her case, it’s because she does approximately nine hundred hours of yoga a week. Hot yoga, power yoga, blah, blah, blah. She even sucked Kate into the vortex and now they both have those lean, ripped yoga arms that don’t wing around when you wave at someone. The rest of Devon’s body matches her arms, no flimflamming anywhere. She’s beautiful and self-assured in the way some women are, those who take space in the world without apology and never hesitate to expect respect. It’s a quality I’ve worked on for the last few years, figuring out how to be more for myself and nothing less for anyone else—but for Devon, it seems to come naturally. The freedom that comes with that must be so damn liberating.

  Her green eyes flicker over to mine, coolly composed, and I see her stretch one arm out and shove her fingers into the back pocket of Simon’s jeans, where he stands less than a foot away, talking to Damien. Without even turning to look at her, he reaches back and untucks her hand, then wraps his fingers in hers. Another glance from Devon my way, to make it absolutely clear that she’s marked him as private property for her enjoyment only.

  Jesus. Duly noted. Like I was even planning to try to seduce him, anyway.

  OK, fine. Maybe a small, tiny, practically imperceptible part of me would consider it. Maybe I wanted to have a man look at me like that again, the way Simon did that night at Trevor and Kate’s wedding. Even for a couple of hours. Because it’s been a long time since I indulged in the distraction of a man and some flirting that may or may not lead anywhere. And I miss it. I miss letting a guy focus on me, doing all those things men do that make it seem as if you’re all that matters. A few hours wasted that way might convince me that being both desirable and self-reliant isn’t just a ridiculous fantasy.

  Sharon sidles up next to me, gently tugging on the end of my shirtsleeve and allowing my attention to focus elsewhere. “How is she? Better?”

  Nodding, I smile a little and let everything else fade away. Perhaps now I can escape the cloud of heavy-handed emotional stuff in this hospital for a moment and catch a breather outside. After that I’ll be holed up here—until I’m positive Kate doesn’t need anything else—trying to decide which pathetically out-of-date magazine in the waiting room to read first. Perhaps I’ll start with the self-esteem-damaging women’s mag that’s trying to masquerade itself as a fitness journal. The cover shouts of a workout that will give me skinny-jean-worthy thighs in six minutes a day. I like skinny jeans, don’t love my thighs, and consider six minutes to be the right amount of time for a workout.

  Backing out of the room, intent on a few moments of fresh air, I smile. “She’s perfect now. I’m going to head outside for a bit, so make sure no one interrupts them for a while, OK? I’m sure Trevor will come out once they’re ready for the ambush of cooing and tears.”

  I catch a glimpse of the pilot again just as I turn to leave the room. When he chuckles at another witticism from Devon, I suddenly want someone to punish for Trevor’s absence, and this guy makes the perfect target. He’s leaning in toward Devon and speaking quietly, in a rich, resonant tone that is far too easygoing for my taste right now.

  “Plus, Trevor needs a few minutes alone with her and the baby.” I raise my voice deliberately. “Since fancy private planes apparently travel at the speed of molasses, he missed out on everything.”

  The room immediately turns silent. Simon manages to ease the tension slightly by snorting out an uncomfortable laugh. I saunter away and step around the corner. No more than five steps beyond, there is a door leading to the outside. My hand lands against the door, but when I start to push it open, a loud voice emerges from the waiting room.

  “Aw, come on, Shoelace. Don’t go getting yourself all tied up in knots. I got him here in one piece, didn’t I?”

  I halt in place. The door has one of those industrial-style push bars on it, and when I pull my hand back slowly, it squeaks loudly under the release. Finally, the door clicks shut and the weight of it against my hips threatens to toss me off balance. I keep my fingers against the cool metal of the door for a moment, trying to decide if I’m hearing things.

  Shoelace.

  Only one person in my entire life has called me that. The world’s lamest nickname. People have called me Lace for years; my father called me Lacie-Gracie, riffing off my first and middle names. But “Shoelace” was the invention of a boy who liked to rile me up and kiss me down after he did, and ended up tearing my teenage heart in two when he walked away without even saying sayonara.

  As my feet shuffle across the five long steps back to the waiting room, heart thudding angrily in my chest, I would swear my lungs are losing traction with every inch. I tip my head to the side and peer into the room.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Not possible.

  Jake Holt. Live and in person. Standing there with the same crooked smile he used to give me when we were seventeen. The same blue eyes. The same dimple in his left cheek.

  “Hey, Lacey.”

  The same voice, every recognizable twitch of mischief and longing in his inflection. Just like he used to lay on me when we were alone and doing things I thought we shouldn’t but wanted more than anything.

  Reckless things. Half-naked things. Semi-illegal things.

  Slowly, Jake slips the gray beanie off his head, chin tilted down a bit so he can peer cautiously at me with only a small smile, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s different now; the last time I saw him it was longer and straggly, and one hunk would flop over his right eye every time he leaned forward to kiss me, obscuring the eyebrow ring he once had. When he did that—kissed me or put his face right next to mine to whisper something—the ends of his hair would tickle across my eyelashes. Now it’s shorter, less bright blond and absent of the green or blue streaks he used to dye in occasionally, cut into a shaggy but grown-up style.

  And, good God, the rest of him grew up, too. The pilot’s uniform cuts close to his body, and he’s crossed his arms over his chest, a chest he actually has now, so I can tell that somewhere along the last decade or so, Jake Holt went and traded in his gangly, rangy body for one that is still lean but rife with dense, compact muscles. Everywhere, I’m pretty sure.

  I don’t know what to say in response. A returning “hey” or “hello” doesn’t feel right, too casual for this moment. Probably because ten years ago, we never said good-bye properly. All I can manage is a stage whisper, but I get the words out somehow.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  That question is for today, and yesterday, and every day between when he left town and now. How he might answer, who knows. How I might react? No telling.

  Jake’s smile fades. “Sweetheart, I had things to do. Places I had to go.” He cants his head to one side a fraction. “I didn’t know anyone was waiting for me.”

  So what if—somewhere in the reminiscent parts of my heart—I was? It’s not his concern. So what if I’ve always wondered what became of Jake Holt? So what if I’ve trolled social media for him when I’ve indulged in too much nostalgia, worrying that he died because he’s basically a ghost when it comes to the wilds of the ’net? Who cares if I’ve sometimes imagined in full color what my life would have been like with him, from the places we wo
uld live, to the things he would say when we woke up together in our bed?

  So. What.

  A confused, heated, overwhelmed sting is brewing behind my eyelids. This is too much emotion for one day. New babies, old flames, unrequited hookups, all in the same building. Next thing you know, the eleven-year-old boy whose braces got caught in my hair during our first kiss will come walking through the door or something. And right now, there is no way I can handle another scene from This Is Your Life, the Lacey Mosely edition.

  Kate will understand if I disappear. She won’t judge me for it, once she knows why. Once I come clean and tell her how I once gave everything to Jake Holt. When I tell her we were the kind of secret that was wonderful and wild, Kate will grant me a pass on leaving.

  Since Kate’s opinion is the only one that matters today, I turn on my heel and throw the heavy door open so hard it nearly bounces back and whacks my shoulder before I can clear the opening. Then I get in my car, curse the radio for the throwback heartbreak song that’s blaring when the engine roars to life, and drive away.

  2

  There is a fine art to opening the back door of The Beauty Barn, one I’m normally able to finesse while lugging a purse and a large canvas bag slung over my shoulder, a half-eaten snack bar in my mouth, and clutching a Styrofoam cup full of hot coffee in one hand.

  Given that I’ve opened this door nearly three thousand times over the last thirteen years, when I saunter back from Deaton’s Café grasping my daily brew, I expect that on a cold November morning such as today, I need to pull on the door, stick my key in, then kick the bottom twice before it will unlock. But just as I turn the key and give the final yank on the handle I know it requires, the door breaks free. The unexpected ease with which it flies open means the door edge whacks right into my shin, a yelp follows my coffee tumbling from my hand, and my wide-open mouth means the snack bar drops into the six inches of fresh snow on the ground.

  Muttering a few not-quite-obscenities, I thank God for wellies. This morning I put on a heather-gray skater skirt and a black fitted short-sleeved sweater, every intention of refusing winter with my clothing choices. However, when I stepped outside to start my car and felt the Chinook wind blustering about, I had an attack of common sense and pulled on a pair of black ribbed wool tights and a pair of shiny, glossy red wellies when I went back in the house. Despite trading bare legs and cute suede ankle boots for this look, it’s the kind of style compromise I can live with. And now, the toppled coffee manages to miss my skirt and tights, spilling only over my trusty (and cute, thank you) wellies.

  After I tap the toe of my boots to brush off the last drips of coffee and collect the Styrofoam cup and snack bar from the snow, I manage to make it in the store without further incident. Inside, I switch the lights on and unlock the front door, flipping over the ancient cardboard sign that proclaims “OPEN” in delicate calligraphy. Mrs. Ruth Ann Taylor, the owner of The Beauty Barn, made that sign decades ago and even if it’s yellowing and faded, I can’t imagine using something else in its place.

  When Ruth Ann opened The Beauty Barn in 1952, it was a gift from her husband, Vernon, who owned the hardware store next door. They couldn’t have kids, so Vernon gave her a business to tend to instead. They worked side by side for forty years until he died of lung cancer and Ruth Ann had to sell off the hardware store. Vernon’s old building houses a thrift store now. Instead of perfectly organized bins of wing bolts and washers, it’s full of people’s crappy castoffs strewn about in heaps and piles. Kind of depressing, if you ask me.

  Lingering for a moment at the storefront, I take in the quiet of the shop and drag my finger across a strip of frost that’s coating the edge of the plate glass on the door. Weather like this signals the real arrival of winter in Montana. Nothing but mukluks and multiple layers for the next five months. While snow has its own charms, I’d still take sunny and seventy-five over anything else.

  Business will likely be a little slow, given the weather, which doesn’t sound all bad. I’ve had my eye on a few new products to add to our inventory, and a quiet day means I can finally narrow the choices to place my order. The Beauty Barn is closed on Sunday and Monday, so kudos to Nic for dive-bombing his way into our lives yesterday, when I already had the day off. Although it wouldn’t matter too much if he showed up on any other day of the week. Even if our part-time employee, Sandi, couldn’t cover for me, I could have just tacked a sticky note to the front door.

  Kate having her baby. Be back tomorrow.

  I could do that because this is Crowell. It’s The Beauty Barn. Around here, we keep our work priorities straight and our homegrown resident loyalties straighter, so everyone would gladly wait one extra day for a box of hair dye or blue rinse if they had to.

  I started working here the year I turned sixteen, kept on after school and in the summers until I headed off to Langston for my short-lived venture into higher education. I lasted one year there—and it happened to be the longest year of my ever-loving life.

  I’m the manager now, although being the manager of The Beauty Barn comes with very few perks and even less cachet. No bonus plan, no sweet benefits package, not even a business card. Mostly it means that Ruth Ann lives in an old folks’ home in Missoula now and I’m like the de facto owner. Absent of the little prestige that would accompany being able to say I’m the actual owner. But I haven’t paid for a single tube of lip gloss, bottle of nail polish, or tube of mascara in years.

  Beyond the beauty products we sell, I started doing manicures and pedicures a few years ago, something I swear has kept us from closing the doors. My French manicures are renowned in Stratton County because I have a steady hand and the right touch for perfect tips. But if you want a full set of those gel things, I’m not your gal. Anything that’s set with UV light and doesn’t chip when it should? Not my thing.

  When I came home from Langston, Ruth Ann had just celebrated her seventieth birthday. She asked if I was staying home for good and because I was nineteen and still believed there was more left for me to do far beyond the confines of Crowell, I told her I wasn’t sure. She looked at me and smiled. I understand now that Ruth Ann knew I boomeranged my way back because Crowell is part of my essential makeup, so ingrained in who I am it’s likely part of my genetic code. This place is my home, my heart, and my only truth.

  By early afternoon, I’ve just hit send on the order of new products: amazing-looking gel eyeliners, wands of a blendable cheek-lip color combo, and a moisturizer with brighteners that, if it does one-tenth of what it claims to do, could easily be deemed a miracle in a jar.

  While I’m waiting for the printer to spit out my order confirmation, the front door of the shop opens, and I peek out to find a high school girl dragging a very reluctant boy in behind her.

  “Cole, come on. Five minutes.” She’s clad in patterned leggings and a V-neck tee, with a sloppy-looking zip-up hoodie thrown on, the entire outfit not near warm enough for the weather. Lucky for her she still has a foolhardy and youthful nervous system; she probably won’t even notice the snow inside her ballet flats until her toes start to go numb. Her dark auburn hair is up in a messy bun that’s both sweet and sexy on girls her age, a few loose pieces tumbling about her shoulders and skimming the nape of her neck.

  Cole manages a groan but stumbles in, falling gently against the back of her until his arms are wrapped about her waist loosely, releasing her only long enough to adjust his camo ball cap down a bit. Credit to him, he’s wearing a stiff Carhartt duck jacket and has his jeans tucked into his cowboy boots, a dead giveaway to his rural sensibilities. If he didn’t already spend two hours before school feeding cattle, you can be sure he has that to look forward to this evening when it’s cold and dark.

  “I don’t need anything in here, Cara. I’ll be outside in the truck. ’Cause you’re lying about five minutes, anyway.”

  “Hush.” A gentle swat of one hand lands against where hi
s arms are clasped around her. Untangling herself from him, she strides off, leaving Cole stuck in place, trying to orient himself to the store. Or looking for an escape route, possibly.

  Cole doesn’t stand a chance. Or, if he thought he did, he doesn’t now. Because Cara just spritzed a bit of a sampler perfume on her wrist, then drew it across her neck, and she’s holding her arm up for him to come give his opinion. Bless her scheming little feminine heart, the girl knows what she’s doing. Like a well-trained lapdog, Cole is over there in seconds, all his attention on her and the little swath of skin she’s offered up. Nodding is all the poor boy can do to render his approval. She picks up a bottle then heads to the counter, pausing at a nail lacquer display to peer closer, finally selecting a bright pink polish with big flecks of silver glitter in it.

  I meet her at the counter, where she’s slid her purchases toward me while fingering the selection of lip glosses I’ve set up there. A tube of the dark violet color ends up in her hand, and it’s all wrong for her incredibly fair skin tone. I’ll be damned if this beautiful girl is leaving here with that in her bag, because even Cole, who is pretending to look at his phone but was quite obviously watching her walk up to the counter, will be afraid to kiss her with that shade on. She’ll end up looking like Morticia Addams gone country. Picture that for a second. Not cute.

  “Here. Try this one.” I pull out a pale peachy-pink shade that’s extra glossy and hand it to her.

  Cara takes a good look and then unscrews the lid, dotting some onto the pad of her middle finger, then proceeds to pucker up a bit and daintily dab it on her lips. And, good grief—poor, poor Cole. He’s zeroed in on the whole thing, his own mouth fallen open slightly, and I’m sure concocting a series of very inappropriate scenarios in his addled mind that center primarily on Cara’s lips. Because he’s at the age where his mind has three settings: hungry, horny, or asleep. He’s obviously not asleep, he might be hungry, but for now it’s likely he’s feeling pretty dominated by the last option.