Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  The next thing I knew, Simone had slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow, moved closer to me, and said brightly, “Yep. We’re together.”

  Shocked, I turned my head to look at her. Her smile was pointed at me.

  No. Not smile. Smirk.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Simone continued, giving her attention back to Hannah, “It’s about time, right?”

  Hannah nodded enthusiastically. “I just, I mean, I can’t believe it finally happened. It’s so great, so great.”

  “I reckon I can’t believe it either,” I said, rubbing my chin and earning me an elbow in my ribs. The elbow didn’t hurt, but it did make me grin for some reason.

  Simone twisted toward the dance floor, as though something had caught her notice, and said to me, “I think that’s our song.”

  I listened as the opening bars of “Marry Me” by Thomas Rhett played over the speaker, lifting an eyebrow at the maudlin yet ironically appropriate song.

  “Oh, yeah.” Hannah shooed us toward where the other couples were already swaying. “You two go dance.” To Simone, she said, “How can I reach you? Should I call your house?”

  “Stop by the diner.” Simone tugged on my elbow, pulling me away from the bar. “These days, I usually work Monday through Thursday, and Sunday mornings. Come see me.”

  “Okay, I will.” Hannah waved and Simone grinned.

  Meanwhile, unable to walk backward anymore without knocking into someone, I turned and covered Simone’s hand on my arm with mine, taking the lead and guiding her to an empty corner of the dance floor.

  Her gaze focused beyond my shoulder, her expression impassive. I encircled her waist, and her arms lifted on autopilot to twine around my neck. Soon we were swaying to the music and I marveled at how natural it felt to hold her like this, like we’d danced together a hundred times even though this was officially the first.

  Or maybe I was just suffering from a serious case of wishful thinking.

  But then she looked at me squarely and I saw a crack had formed in her impassive façade.

  Simone cleared her throat, saying, “Of course you had to be a good dancer. Of course,” as though this both frustrated and flustered her.

  I moved my palm to the center of her back, bringing her closer. She let me.

  “If you recall, my momma taught all us boys to dance.”

  I felt her nod, her temple brushing against my jaw, her arms relaxing. One of her hands slid from my neck to my shoulder. “I remember. She used to make you take turns with each other.”

  “And Cletus wouldn’t let anyone else lead,” I said dryly, still irritated by the memory.

  Simone leaned just her head away, capturing my eyes. “Neither would you.”

  I shrugged, grinning a little, because she was right.

  Quiet stretched between us, during which we looked, just looked, at each other’s faces. She didn’t seem to be wearing a mask, or any expression at all. I was grateful for the chance to memorize her face, as she was now, completely. Especially while I held her close.

  This was why I’d made the deal. I wanted this memory—dancing with her, gazing at her, feeling her body move against mine—before I answered all her questions and probably never saw her again. Simone wouldn’t understand why I’d had to disappear from her life.

  But that was okay, most people wouldn’t understand. That was because most people’s memories didn’t work like mine.

  Her sudden frown broke the moment, and I felt her chest rise and fall with a huge sigh.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  The frowned deepened, her eyebrows drawing closer together. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Great. Here we go.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t ready. I wanted the dance, just one dance. Afterward, she’d have a chance to ask all her questions.

  “No, Simone. After we—”

  “I know I just asked you a question. But I want to ask another question.”

  “The deal is—”

  “Actually, don’t answer that first question. Answer this next question.”

  “Simone, you promised me a dance, and—”

  “How come you’ve never flirted with me?”

  I blinked, staring at this amazing woman in my arms. I didn’t try to stop my brows from pulling low in confusion or the curving of my mouth, mostly because I was too surprised by the question to do anything about the expression it elicited.

  She hasn’t changed a bit, I thought as I traced the line of her upturned face, her cheekbone to her jaw, her lips. My gaze rested there as the memory of our kiss resurfaced for the hundredth time in the two days since it happened; how she’d felt in my arms; how hungry her mouth had been; how she’d arched and rocked against me; how a handful of her luscious body stoked my desire hotter rather than satiated it.

  The recollection caused me to amend my earlier thought, Well, maybe she’s changed a little.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Simone’s uneven tone drew my eyes back to hers. She regarded me with wary curiosity. “Or is this you flirting with me right now?”

  The music changed to “How Do I Live,” the remake by Claire McClure that was currently burning up the charts.

  “This is not me flirting with you,” I responded honestly, my voice gruffer than I’d intended.

  It couldn’t be helped. Holding her here, now—the teasing, swaying touches, feeling her hips move beneath my hands, joined but not touching how I wanted, how my skin and body craved—was driving me crazy.

  “Then why are you looking at me like that?” The question was rushed, and sounded nervous. It was that voice again, like she was asking me things she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to.

  But it was too late. She’d asked the question. She couldn’t take it back.

  “Because this is how I look at you.”

  Simone’s intelligent eyes held mine for a long moment, her brain working. Then she blinked, as though realizing something big. Her breathing changed, turned shallow, anxious. Her gaze dropped to my neck. She swallowed with visible effort.

  “You liked me,” she said, like she was solving a mystery aloud while we danced, her hands sliding down and around my torso. “You liked me and you knew me well enough to figure out that I wasn’t going to return your . . . that I wasn’t capable of returning your feelings. So you dropped me.”

  “No.” I shook my head, my lips curving into a rueful grin, my hand sliding lower on her back. This would be the last time she’d let me hold her. “That’s not what happened.”

  Her eyes snapped to mine. “Then what happened?”

  “I loved you.” I took a deep breath, ignoring the stab of pain in the center of my sternum, determined to speak plainly. “I loved you and I told you.”

  “No, you didn’t. I would have remembered that.”

  “I did.”

  “Oh, yeah? When?”

  “The night you got drunk at Kelly Winters’s party.”

  She flinched, pressing her lips together as her eyes grew wider. I saw denial there, and I could almost hear the workings of her mind, the arguments forming. “I don’t remember that happening.”

  Unable to hold her gaze any longer, I looked over her head. “Do you remember anything from that night?”

  “No. Not after . . . not after doing shots with Hannah Townsen in the kitchen. But—”

  “Don’t tell me I was too young to have feelings that big. You knew me, you knew me better than anyone.”

  I felt her head nod before she spoke, and when she did her voice was hoarse. “I did. I did know you. You were . . . ” She cleared her throat again and I looked at her. Her attention cut away to some spot beyond me. “You were excessively sensitive.”

  The way she said this, like my being sensitive was a source of great frustration for her, made me want to laugh, because it definitely had been. Me being too sensitive and her being too pragmatic had been the source of all our disagreements.

  “But
you also knew me,” she continued, her voice now a harsh whisper as she returned her stare to mine. “And so you knew I was too young to have feelings that big.”

  Movement behind her drew my notice and I spotted Grady and Pamela giving us curious looks, clearly picking up on some of the heavy vibes between us.

  I glared at Grady and Pamela until they averted their gazes. Still, it was a good reminder that right now was a terrible place and time to be having this conversation.

  Holding Simone closer, I dipped my lips to her neck and felt her shiver, but she also held me closer in return.

  Hoping to disperse the tension between us before we had the attention of the entire dance floor, I whispered softly in her ear, “It doesn’t matter, it was—”

  “It does matter.”

  “Simone—”

  “It matters to me.” Her fingers tightened on my back, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. “Don’t say it doesn’t matter.”

  I sighed, frustrated. If we were going to do this now, well, then I guess we were doing this now.

  “Given how well you knew me, I guess you understand why I disappeared.”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t understand.” She leaned her head back, ensnaring my gaze. I noticed with a pang of remorse that hers was glassy. “I don’t understand why you did that to me, why you dropped out of my life like that, if you—if you—”

  Her chin wobbled and my lungs ignited with hot regret.

  “Simone.”

  She shook her head, looking overwhelmed, her eyes darting everywhere.

  I stopped swaying and cupped her cheek, bringing her chin up and forcing her to look at me. “Please.”

  “Please what?” she croaked, and then pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.

  Please forgive me.

  The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t say them. The truth was, knowing what I knew now, the only thing I would have done differently was leave her earlier, before I’d fallen so completely.

  I would have guarded myself better, I would have offered less to her, and I would have saved my heart for someone who wanted it.

  Nope. You wouldn’t have done that, because there’s only one her.

  Her eyes moved between mine as she waited. When I said nothing, she nodded, her gaze falling away.

  “Right,” she said, letting me go and stepping out of my arms, her hand coming to her forehead.

  Turning without giving me another look, Simone maneuvered through the couples. She made a beeline for the exit. She left me standing on the dance floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.”

  Edgar Allan Poe

  *Roscoe*

  Her car wasn’t in the lot when I left Genie’s after paying for my beer.

  The next morning, I checked Moth Run Road from the big picture window in my momma’s room, unsurprised when Simone’s car was nowhere to be seen. Now she knew the truth, now she’d be avoiding me like I’d avoided her.

  I wouldn’t be seeing her again.

  Now, my brother Cletus had a habit of fixating on things he had no desire to think about, and Beau’s lady friend for the last five years, Shelly Sullivan, had an obsessive-compulsive diagnosis. They each had a different coping mechanism for dealing with invasive thoughts.

  Cletus made lists, lists and lists, to distract himself in the moment, until he could think clearly again.

  Shelly confronted the obsessions in the moment using logic, tried to think about them from a completely rational perspective in order to disarm their power, so the obsessions wouldn’t lead to compulsions.

  Watching and observing my family, I’d adopted these strategies to help me manage invasive memories, reasoning that memories are basically just thoughts and therefore one or the other coping mechanism—distraction or confrontation—should work depending on the situation and the memory.

  I tried to focus on the present and the mundane task of getting ready for church. I couldn’t, my mind in chaos. Memories of last night transposed on memories of us kissing at Hawk’s Field on top of memories from my father leaving me mixed with memories of my mother’s death along with memories of Simone and I as kids.

  I tried distracting myself by reciting the dictionary. I even pulled it off the shelf and read it aloud. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. The idea of never seeing Simone again, after what had passed between us over the last few days, made my brain want to go through each memory of her and relive them all. I didn’t know if the rest of me would be able to handle it, especially not while sitting in a church pew surrounded by my family.

  It was no use. Distraction wasn’t working, which meant I’d need to retreat for the day and set my mind in order.

  Changing out of my Sunday finery and into hiking gear, I sent a group text to the Green Valley family members—Ash and Drew, Billy, Cletus and Jenn, Beau and Shelly—that I’d be missing church this morning and breakfast after.

  Cletus quickly responded,

  Cletus: An email would have sufficed. We all check ours.

  With Ash chiming in,

  Ashley: Leave Roscoe alone, Cletus.

  I hope you feel better, Roscoe. <3

  Campsites at Cooper Road Trail were usually empty this time of year, partially because it was still cold, partially because no one but the locals could find the trailhead. I parked in the small lot at the base of an incline leading up to the ranger station, allowing my mind to run through the events of last night.

  Indulgently, I hit pause and repeat a few times on the moment where we’d looked at each other, how her hand had rested on my shoulder, the heat of it seeping into the skin beneath my shirt, and the forthright, open quality of her expression and eyes.

  Unfortunately, the memory continued, and the next part wasn’t so good. I rubbed my chest as I left my truck, wincing at the pain there and distracted by the bruised and tattered organ. I made a promise to myself I’d take better care about making new memories moving forward.

  And yet, even though I’d been reckless with Simone and would now pay the price for a lifetime, I couldn’t bring myself to wish I’d done anything differently.

  Because now I had that first hug outside of Daisy’s; the conversation, laughter, and kiss at Hawk’s Field a week later; and the dance last night. If I’d continued avoiding her, giving the woman one-word answers and cold shoulders, my heart might’ve been better off, but I doubted—overall—my life would have been.

  These were my reflections, the lens through which I was visiting the past, when I felt a heavy hand shake my shoulder followed by a gruff, “I said, turn around.”

  Startled, I looked at the hand and the arm attached to it, finding both covered in leather. Frowning, I turned completely around as the hand dropped and its owner took a step back, crossing his arms.

  It was Twilight—aka Isaac Sylvester, Jennifer’s brother turned Iron Wraiths member—glaring at me with his arms now crossed. Several parking spots away, next to a black SUV with the back passenger door open, was Catfish, highest ranking lieutenant of the Iron Wraith’s MC. Or as I’d known him years ago, Curtis Hickson. Catfish was also looking at me. But he wasn’t glaring. His features were more cautious and thoughtful than aggressive.

  “Did you hear me?” Twilight asked, his purplish-blue eyes flicking down and then up, as though reassessing my person. “You deaf? Or just stupid?”

  “Leave him alone,” Catfish said evenly, still holding my stare. Then to me, “Time to go.”

  Time to go?

  “Where’re we going?” Stalling, I crossed my arms, quickly estimating how long it would take Catfish to sprint from the SUV to where I stood, should I decide to punch Twilight and escape.

  Taking down Twilight wouldn’t be a problem, but Catfish . . . that was a different story. The man was huge, smart, and strong. I didn’t like my chances.

  I didn’t know how much Catfish—Curtis—remembered about me
, but I remembered everything about him. Especially the night he’d returned Simone’s older sister to her family after having run away with her for the two months and five days prior.

  He’d been twenty, already a recruit of the Wraiths. She’d been eighteen, in her senior year of high school. General consensus was, Curtis Hickson had no business getting involved with someone like Daniella Payton. Smart, sweet girl from old, local prestigious family falling for a con man. Folks said it was like my parents—Darrell Winston and Bethany Oliver—all over again.

  Personally, I didn’t think Curtis was anything like Darrell. I’d been a kid when it all happened, so maybe I’d been mistaken, but I didn’t think that was the case.

  Darrell never loved my momma, nor did I think he was capable of loving anyone.

  I knew for a fact Curtis Hickson had been head over heels in love with Daniella. Why else would he have walked away?

  Your heart wants what it wants . . .

  Simone’s words from Thursday repeated in my mind, and I saw her sitting next to me in the bed of my truck beneath starlight.

  She paused here to take a deep breath, sounded distracted as she added, “And if you fall for the wrong person, what can you do? You’re already in love, and your heart wants what it wants, and everything is a mess.”

  I had a suspicion, regarding this last part, Simone was talking about someone specific.

  “Did that happen to you?”

  “Did what happen to me?” Her gaze darted over me.

  Again, my throat felt tight, but when else would I have an opportunity to ask these questions?

  So I forced the words, “Did you f-fall in love with the wrong someone and then—”

  “No.” She waved her hands in front of her, as though to disperse the horrid thought. “No, no, no. I would never do that. That’s never going to happen, because I’m never falling in love. Period.”

  I didn’t get much time to reflect on the memory, because Twilight was speaking at me again.