by Penny Reid
Ashley made a sound, but I said before my sister could object, “Do you think she’ll file a report?”
I wondered how Simone was doing. I wondered if she was regretting moving back to town. I wondered a lot of things.
Drew told me on Friday, while we were making our rounds at the Park, that Simone had moved back in with her parents. That she’d quit her job in the government because—and this was according to Trevor Payton—she needed some time to figure out what she wanted to do.
I called bullshit.
Simone had always known what she wanted to do. She wanted to solve crimes, catch bad guys, and keep good folks safe. End of story.
“We have those cameras at the house”—Drew glanced at Ashley—“and you said Bitty watched the whole thing. So maybe Simone doesn’t have to file a report.”
Ashley’s brows pulled together and her eyes lost focus, as though she were remembering something. “Like she said, it’s not up to us. It’s up to her.” My sister turned to look at her husband. “We leave it up to her, she decides. We’ll let her know we’re here to help, but that we’ll follow her lead.”
“Speaking of leading”—Cletus checked his watch—“does anyone know where Jethro is?”
“What does Jethro have to do with leading?” Beau took a swig of his beer, giving Cletus a face.
“Nothing. Our plan is decided, no need to rehash the details. I just wanted to change the subject.” Cletus looked to Ash. “Did Jet message you?”
“He did.” Her mouth formed a sympathetic smile and her eyebrows looked regretful. “He decided to stay in and catch up on sleep.”
“I thought Jackson was babysitting for him. So he could have a night out.” Jenn sat up straighter.
“Jackson is babysitting. Even so, Jethro wanted to stay in and get some sleep.” Now Ash looked like she was holding in laughter.
I was only half listening to the conversation, the remainder of my attention still absorbed by Ashley’s tale and my clumsy behavior with Simone on Thursday and Friday.
My memories were an emotional time machine, which is one of the main reasons I’d been avoiding Simone. The other big reason was because I didn’t want to make any new memories with her. But I reflected that didn’t mean all the experiences I’d had between a particular moment and now ceased to exist. I could learn from interactions between a particular moment and the present, learn to see it differently, but this took a great deal of effort and determination.
As an example, my memory of being abandoned at Hawk’s Field by my father was painful every time I thought about it, just as painful and frightening as it had been when it happened. I’d avoided the place like my brother Billy avoided the Iron Wraiths, at all costs.
But over the last few months in particular, I’d worked to compartmentalize that memory, so it didn’t have such a hold on me, so it didn’t matter as much. I retrieved it on purpose. I camped at Hawk’s Field on the weekends, making new memories there, ones where I was in control.
But people weren’t fields. If I decided to stop avoiding Simone now, I couldn’t control the memories made moving forward.
I picked up my beer, took a drink, considered the two short interactions I’d had with Simone this last week, what I understood now about being an idiot teenager, what little I knew about heartbreak—drawing mostly from what I’d observed in my family over the years and their struggles—and layered it all together.
A conversation I’d had with Beau while he was drunk, sitting on the back steps of our house five years, six months, and twenty days ago struck out at me.
“How do you know?”
“What?” Beau looked like he was having trouble keeping both his eyes open at the same time.
“How do you know whether a woman has substance? Whether her feelings for you go as deep as your feelings for her?” I’d often wondered this, not allowing myself to get close enough to anyone to find out for sure.
I’d wanted to, over the years. I’d go on a date, maybe two. Then the woman would do something, say something that rubbed me the wrong way. It didn’t have to be a big something, anything at all might stick in my craw—not liking my alma mater, gossiping about their friends, a word said in anger—and I couldn’t forget. And I didn’t feel enough for the woman yet to merit staying, so I’d move on.
He didn’t answer right away, and I thought maybe he wasn’t going to, but then he said as he breathed out, like the words cost him, “She makes you a priority.”
Becoming a priority to Simone Payton wasn’t going to happen, not the way I wanted. But maybe there was a way I could interact with her and remain in control of the memories made.
I wasn’t paying attention to anything but my own contemplations, so when someone bumped my shoulder as they passed our booth, I knocked over my beer. Everyone leaned away from the table and Beau quickly caught the puddle with the few napkins we had, keeping it from the edges.
“Shoot.” I stood, checking the front of my clothes and lamenting the loss of my beer.
“Calm down. Your haute couture is safe, Roscoe,” Cletus drawled. “Go get a towel from Patty for us plebeians.”
I ignored Cletus’s surliness, because he was always surly with me, and glanced around the table. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?”
“I’ll take another margarita.” Ashley gave me a big smile, and I made a note to bring my sister some flowers the next time I drove back from Nashville.
I wonder if they’re ready for that puppy.
When Bethany was born, I’d told Drew and Ash that I had dibs on buying my girl her first puppy. I wondered if they’d forgotten.
Navigating through the crowd, I decided to order myself a water instead of replacing my spilled beer. It had been a long day and I didn’t feel much like drinking.
Careful to keep my eyes forward, I tried not to make eye contact with folks as I passed by, instead waiting on people to stop me, if they so choose. This practice had become a force of habit after I’d made the mistake a few times of recognizing people who didn’t recognize me.
That’s another funny thing about having a better than average memory, I usually remember people after meeting them just once. Nothing disconcerts folks like being remembered, the assumption being that they must’ve made a big impression, or I particularly valued making their acquaintance. This is seldom the case.
I’ll remember my waiter or waitress, regardless of whether I received noteworthy service, just because I saw his or her face.
Therefore, I don’t look at people’s faces unless needs be.
Traversing the crowd successfully, I stepped up to the bar and searched for Genie, hoping to catch her eye. Seeing it was me, she came over after a short delay and I placed our order.
“I’ll bring it over when it’s done, hun.” She lifted her chin toward the booth where my family sat.
“One more thing,” I began regretfully. “I spilled my beer.”
“You need a towel,” she guessed, her grin understanding, looking at me like I was her favorite. “Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ll bring one over when I bring Ashley her margarita. You want your water now?”
“Yes, please.”
She made a clicking sound with her tongue, filling up a water glass. “You Winston boys are so polite. I wish they were all like you.” She passed me the glass.
“Thank you, Genie.”
“You’re welcome, baby,” she said, giving me a wink and turning away to reach for the tequila.
I took a sip of my water. Pulling the straw out, I bit one end flat and picked up my glass. But as I turned, I came face-to-face with Charlotte Mitchell.
“Roscoe Winston.”
I straightened, giving her a smile, because I was happy to see her. “Charlotte Mitchell.”
Charlotte had played trumpet with me in high school; she’d been first chair, I’d been second. We’d sometimes meet up after I was done with football and she was finished with band practice, just to hang out, or maybe practice to
gether.
In the spring, when she had volleyball and I had track, she’d often bring along all her teammates and we’d go hiking or to the library, where my momma worked. I’d ended up taking the entire volleyball team to prom our junior year.
There’d been nothing between Charlotte and me then, just kids doing kid things. I’d told her all about what happened with Simone, and she’d told me all about her breakups. She’d been a friend to me, a good friend, when I’d needed one.
“Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”
I chuckled, because, for the last six months, we always started this way.
I knew what to say next. “I would, but my brother confiscated my wallet.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Because he knew if I saw you, I’d want to buy all your drinks.”
Charlotte laughed, her gaze moving over me like she approved of my answer. She should, it was the same one I gave every time we happened to run into each other at Genie’s.
It was good to see her smile. A few months ago, I doubted it was possible. But seeing her come through this dark time was a good reminder that the present—the moment we’re living right this minute—isn’t the rest of our lives. Sometimes it can feel that way, when things get overwhelming, but it’s simply not the case.
My momma would say, “Like thunderstorms and time, this too shall pass.”
Charlotte had dropped out of college when she got pregnant with her first and married the father. They had another kid almost immediately and moved to Vegas. Unfortunately, her husband wasn’t the good sort and had left her and their kids eight months ago for another woman. Charlotte had moved back in with her folks.
I felt for her. She was a good person. She deserved to be happy. As I studied her now, I was pleased to see she seemed to be doing better, if looks were anything to go by.
“Well then.” Charlotte set her purse on the bar. “Allow me to buy you a drink.”
This was new. “Nah. That’s all right. I think I should stick to water.”
“Already?” She glanced between me and my cup. “The night is young, Roscoe. Live a little.”
“I’m living.” I let a slow smile spread over my features and unleashed an eye-twinkle. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
Charlotte tried to look unimpressed, but I knew that look. She loved flirting with me just as much as I did with her. I enjoyed making her happy.
“Go on”—Charlotte gestured to the row of liquor over the bar—“order anything you like.”
“What do I need alcohol for?” I bent forward and whispered in her ear, “You’re already intoxicating enough.”
“Oh my goodness”—Charlotte threw her head back and laughed—“that’s a terrible line.”
As I leaned away, I chewed on my straw and watched her, laughed with her, taking in her reaction. She attempted to roll her eyes and fight a smile at the same time. Then she flipped her hair, her cheeks flushing with pleasure, her eyes lowering as she took a steadying breath.
Flirting was easy, fun.
I loved it.
Making women smile—especially women like Charlotte—watching them light up, it was like a drug for me.
Maybe they sensed I had no expectations, there was no pressure, that all I wanted was to brighten their day. Or maybe I’d had so much practice, I knew exactly the right things to say. Either way, it was easy.
Pressing her lips together, but still smiling, her eyes flicked over me, a question in her assessing gaze, “Why do you always tease me?”
“Am I teasing?”
“You say such pretty things.” She tucked her brown hair behind her ear, leaning an elbow on the bar and bringing our faces close together. I noticed she was wearing the same earrings she wore to our church’s high school graduation party. “You talk a great game, Roscoe. The best game. But . . .”
“But what?”
“You never actually do anything.” She looked confused, as though she’d clicked the pieces together and arrived at this conclusion at just this very moment.
Inwardly, I sighed. Because as much as I liked making her smile, nothing was going to happen between us. We were never going to seal the deal, not because there was anything wrong with Charlotte and not because I wasn’t attracted to her. She was smart and funny and damn sexy, but I didn’t seal deals.
If things didn’t work out, she’d forget being with me. Regrets, if there were any, would fade. It might be a rosy memory for her, or it might simply disappear under a pile of other encounters.
I didn’t have that luxury.
So I tried to play off her question, looking up and to the side, knowing she’d think it was adorable. “Maybe I just like seeing you smile.”
She laughed again, but as she straightened away from the bar, I detected sadness there, too. “You’re cute.”
I was about to launch into another flirt attack, hoping to chase away her sudden blues, when movement at the end of the bar caught my attention. My words stalled, my thoughts hijacked.
It was Simone.
She swayed a little, laughing, and shaking her head. “Why’d you let me drink so much?”
“Let you?” I laughed, too. “Nobody lets Simone Payton do anything.”
“Damn straight.” She slurred the word straight and abruptly sat on the grass in an ungraceful heap.
I vacillated a second, sat next to her, and wanted to put my arm around her shoulders, to support her, hold her close, but I didn’t know how she’d react to that.
How did I not notice her come in?
Three stools from where I stood, she was shaking her head subtly. A wry smile on her lips, her eyes were on the drink in front of her. I had no doubt she’d overheard the conversation I’d just had with Charlotte, or at least some of it.
Interestingly, my first thought wasn’t the cutting memory of her rejection like usual, but rather the spike of alarm I’d experienced when Ashley had told us what happened this afternoon.
Charlotte stirred and glanced over her shoulder. She then turned back to me, giving me a knowing smile.
Leaning close and holding my gaze, she mouthed, “Still Simone?”
I took a deep breath, my own smile regretful, and a look of understanding passed between us.
It had always been Simone. I’d gone to Charlotte’s wedding with no date. Whenever it came up, I’d admitted I had no girlfriend. She’d tried to set me up, I’d always declined. Junior year, senior year, all through college and vet school.
Always Simone.
Charlotte nodded, like she’d just decided something. She lifted to her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against my cheek.
“Go get her,” she whispered.
Charlotte then picked up her purse, stepped around me, and walked past, presumably to the dance floor or one of the high top tables clustered around it.
Gathering a deep breath, I looked at Simone.
She sat in profile on a stool, her elbows on the bar top while she stirred her drink with two miniature straws. It might’ve been soda water or it might have been something mixed with soda water. Either way, her glass had a lime in it.
More and more, I’d wanted to touch her. And she’d been letting me. We’d always hugged, but now holding hands wasn’t unusual, and—I reminded myself—she’d been the one to pat my backside first.
“Simone.”
“Yes?” She had her eyes closed, her dark lashes against her cheeks, her head lolled to one side, long braids spilling over her shoulder.
She was so pretty.
I wondered if she’d remember this tomorrow. I knew I would.
I blinked away the memory, pushing it to the side by recalling where I’d left off in the dictionary. Besot. To make dull or stupid; especially to muddle with drunkenness.
Hmm.
The word was timely.
I didn’t want her to always be “still Simone.” I didn’t want this woman, who I’d been avoiding for a decade and who was never going to return my affectio
ns, to matter so much.
Taking three steps forward, because that’s all it took to reach her, I claimed the seat next to hers and breathed through the ache in my chest. Not going to lie, it hurt, and I was nervous, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.
I settled on, “Hey.”
Simone lifted her chin, her eyes sliding to mine. She then made a show of looking in the other direction, on her other side, as though searching for someone.
Turning back to me, she gestured to herself and wore a mask of exaggerated astonishment. “Oh. Are you talking to me?”
I rolled my lips between my teeth.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Simone.” She held out her hand, “And who are you?”
I lifted an eyebrow to disguise the way my heart galloped.
“What would you say if I told you I love you?” I was so nervous. Even drunk as I was, I was nervous. But the liquor helped.
A laugh, a wide grin, exquisite amber irises moving over my face. “I love you, too. Of course I do.”
“I mean”—I reached out, my fingers closing gently over her wrist and a thrill shot through me to see my hand on her skin—“what if I told you I’m in love with you?” My voice cracked a little on the last three words.
Her smile fell as understanding sharpened behind her eyes, disappointment, dismay.
She covered my hand with hers, prying away my fingers.
I slipped my hand into hers, watching our palms meet, and I swallowed a rush of nerves. She felt the same, and it devastated me. Unthinkingly, I twisted my wrist so that the back of her hand was visible to my eyes, and I spotted the scar—now faint—she’d gotten when she’d insisted on learning how to throw knives. I brushed my thumb over it, my heart in my throat.
“This looks different,” I said and thought.
She made no move to pull her hand away, instead twisting in her seat until her knees knocked mine. “Scars fade over time.”
Maybe for some people.
I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head and letting her hand go.
“Roscoe . . .” She’d never said my name like that before, like it was a word to put distance between us. She blinked like she was trying to bring me into focus. “No. No, no, no.”