by Penny Reid
“Yes,” I said.
I could almost see my mother thinking. “Roscoe Winston? You two are . . .”
“Uh . . .” I swallowed, my attention affixed to the stunned expression on Roscoe’s face, trying to remember what I’d just blurted to my mother.
But then she gasped. And then she laughed. And then she said, “Oh my!”
“Mom.”
“Trevor!” I heard her yell excitedly, “Simone is in Nashville.”
And then my father’s voice, “She better have a good—”
“With Roscoe!”
I rolled my eyes. My cheeks burned, because I was standing in Roscoe’s bedroom, disrobed, telling my parents that we’d just slept together while he sat on the bed staring at me like I’d grown a leg out of my head.
Lovely.
I pressed my palm to my jaw.
“With Roscoe?” my dad asked. Another pause, during which I’m sure my mother made some very interesting hand gestures, because my father then said, “Praise Jesus!”
My palm moved to my eyes. “Mom.”
“Tell him he should take the Payton last name. Your father did it.”
“Oh my God!”
“You stay as long as you like, and give Roscoe our love.” She sounded like she wanted to get me off the phone. “Have fun,” my mother sing-songed much to my mortification.
In the background, just before she clicked off, I heard my father say, “Now that will be a nice wedding. We’ll do it in the fall, when the leaves change, and Poe can—”
“Ahh!” I dropped my phone like it burned and walked to the far corner, hiding. I mean, not really hiding since I was in the buff, showing the room my bare ass, but I was hiding my face.
A minute passed, maybe more, maybe less, and all I could do was try to calm my pulse and endeavor to cool the hot embarrassment that burned every inch of my body.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and I jumped, releasing a small squeak, having not heard his approach. But I wasn’t ready to face him yet, so I pressed myself more fully into the corner and groaned.
“Just let me die here.”
A pause. “Why would you die here?”
“Irreversible cessation of respiratory function due to mortification.”
His warm, rumbly laugh was an unexpected balm to my frazzled senses and I allowed him to pull me away from the wall and wrap me in his arms.
Roscoe kissed my forehead, his hands smoothing down my back, one stroking from my shoulder to my bottom.
“I love you, Simone Payton,” he said quietly, and I noticed the earlier starkness was missing this time. The words sounded just as certain, but also warmer, softer.
I liked the difference.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, snuggling closer, ever closer. I sighed, releasing the remainder of my hot embarrassment in favor of his hot, comforting embrace.
“What’s that?” His hands continued to pet and stroke, making me want to arch and curl against his palm. Or climb him. One or the other.
But I had words to say, an admission to make, and I wanted to look at him while I did.
Therefore, I pulled a little away and lifted my chin, looking at my former man-maiden square in the eye. “I wanted to tell you earlier, when we got home from dinner, but things got . . . busy.”
The corner of his mouth hitched, as did one of his eyebrows, giving his features a smug and yet exhilaratingly sexy appearance.
“The thing is, the truth is . . .” I wavered, my breathing coming faster. I was a little frightened, but not because I was uncertain of how I felt. Rather, I was exceptionally certain. Loving Roscoe wasn’t a hunch, or a hypothesis, or a theory.
I loved Roscoe, and that was a law.
His smirk waned, his eyes moving over my face with a cherishing intensity as he waited patiently, giving me the sense he would wait forever, if necessary.
So I licked my lips, gathered a deep breath, and said, “I love you, Roscoe Winston.” Suddenly, my chin wobbled for no reason, and my eyes stung, so when I spoke again my voice was unsteady, “I love you.”
A small smile curved his mouth and he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, breathing in, as though inhaling my admission, taking it deep within himself.
When he opened his eyes, they were brilliant and clear, happy, so happy, even though he was giving me a frowning-smile.
“Why are you crying?” he asked gently, cupping my face and wiping my tears away with his thumbs. Roscoe kissed the wet tracks on my cheeks, and then brushing his lips against mine, whispering, “Don’t cry.”
“I’m just—” I sniffed, kissing him back before stepping away to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m just having a lot of feelings right now.”
He chuckled, flashing a big smile, and so did I.
He hugged me again, pressing my head to his chest where his heart beat, and I clung to him. So many emotions swirled within me, but vulnerability struck out as the strongest. It was a strange sort of vulnerability, one I’d never recalled experiencing before.
Because instead of making me feel weak, it made me feel powerful.
* * *
I don’t think either of us fell back asleep. But neither did we make a move on the other, content to lay together, talking infrequently. Kissing sometimes, but mostly just being still.
The earliest rays of sunlight filtered through his blinds and a solitary bird heralded morning’s arrival. Chirping a solo song, the optimistic bird would pause at intervals, as though waiting for a response.
Roscoe shifted, sighed, and I lifted my head to look at him. Something about his movements and sigh felt different than even an hour ago. My hunch was, Roscoe was about to get up for the day, and I felt an abrupt pang of distress.
I wasn’t ready for our night to be over. I wasn’t ready for daylight and responsibilities. I wasn’t ready for him to leave.
“Don’t get up,” I said, softly brushing my lips over his. “It’s not day yet.”
He tilted his head, his eyes caressing my face. “You don’t hear that bird? That’s a horned lark.”
“That sound you heard was the nightingale,” I said with confidence, giving him a sweet smile. “The lark sings in the morning, the nightingale sings at night.”
Roscoe pulled a face, laughed, and spoke through his mirth, “It was the lark, the bird that sings at dawn, not the nightingale. Look, my love”—he cupped my cheek, his voice now tender—“what are those streaks of light in the clouds parting in the east?”
I blinked at him, frowning my confusion, because now he sounded like he was quoting something.
“Uh, pardon?”
“‘Night is over, and day is coming.’” He kissed me. “‘If I want to live, I must go. If I stay, I’ll die.’”
“What?” I sat up. “You’ll die? What?”
Roscoe was still grinning, his expression warm. “It’s from Romeo and Juliet,” he replied. His palm moved down, up, down my arm, a leisurely touch. “I thought you hated that play.”
“I do.” I wrinkled my nose in distaste. “Why would you quote it to me?”
“Because you just quoted it to me.”
That had me rearing back even further. “I did?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You don’t remember? When they wake up the next morning? After getting married, and being together, Juliet tells Romeo that the bird outside their window is a nightingale, sitting on a pomegranate tree, and that dawn has not yet come.”
I blinked at him, dumbfounded, because he was right.
What was happening to me?
I clutched my forehead and released a humorless laugh. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
His fingers encircled my hand as he sat up, pulling it away from my face and placing a kiss on the inside of my wrist. “Memory is a strange thing.” He pressed another kiss to the soft skin of my interior forearm. “An endless reminder of the past, revealing itself—as a cannon blast or a whisper—when you’re least prepared for
it.”
Studying him, an odd, unsettling sensation settled in my abdomen. “Was that a quote, too?”
“What?” He blinked at me.
“What you just said, about memory. Were you quoting someone?”
He shook his head, his soulful eyes lowering to my arm, bringing it to his mouth for another taste. “Nope. That was just me.”
I watched him, sighing fretfully, uncertain how to manage this beautiful man and the weight of his words. I mean, was it just me? Or did he sound like a poet half the time? And here I was, one of the least romantic people on the face of the earth.
Right?
Right??
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his gaze scrutinizing.
That’s when I realized I’d been frowning. “I’m not . . .”
“What?”
“I’m not sentimental.”
Roscoe smirked—like he’d done last night—and I glowered at him. I liked his smirks. They were sexy even if they were also smug.
“Why are you smirking?”
“You forget”—he leveraged his hold on my arm to draw me closer—“I’ve known you since we were kids.”
“So?”
“So, you are sentimental.”
“Oh, really?” I cocked an eyebrow at that. “Well, please, do tell me all about myself.”
“All right then.” Roscoe nodded once and cleared his throat. “When we were eight and your dog died, you made your folks hold a funeral.”
“That doesn’t make me sentimental.”
“And you wrote a eulogy.”
“That doesn’t—”
“And a poem.”
I shook my head, but I did not roll my eyes.
“That same year, you found a four-leaf clover in the patch of grass near the fairy meal drop-off point at the back of our property.”
My eyes narrowed into a glare. How could he possibly remember all of this?
“You pressed the clover between two sheets of wax paper, put it in a box, and buried it on top of your dog’s grave, ‘To give him luck in doggy heaven.’”
“I was eight. I was mourning. Have some respect for the dead.”
“When we were nine, you wrote a poem for your grandfather and had your momma take a picture of you giving it to him. I suspect you still have that photo on your nightstand?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny your suspicion.” I pulled my arm from his grip so I could cross it over my chest.
“That means you still got it there.” He sounded as though he were confirming this fact for himself. “Two months later, when y’all moved to the bigger house up on the hill, we’d go visit your old house once a week—usually on Fridays after school—to make sure the new owners were treating it right.”
I lifted my chin. “Those Wilkersons always rubbed me the wrong way and they neglect home projects until they become emergencies. If they’d replaced the roof three years ago then they wouldn’t have the mold problem now.”
“When we were ten you—”
“I was a kid. All kids are sentimental.”
“You still have Eugene the Dinosaur on your bed?” he asked, his eyebrows ticking up.
I searched for an excuse, hastily choosing, “Stuffed animals make great back support pillows.”
“You still keep all your concert tickets?”
“I like evidence.”
He chuckled a little at that, shaking his head at me like he thought I was cute.
But when he spoke, there was a worrisome edge in his voice. “You are sentimental. You have a big heart. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to admit it? If I had a big heart, I would admit it.”
His eyes drifted beyond me and lost focus, like he was watching a scene unfold beyond my shoulder. “My best guess is . . .” He continued staring, and now it looked like he was staring into a crystal ball or reading the answer off a cue card. “My theory is that you watched what happened with Dani when we were kids and decided you didn’t want any part of that.”
I blinked, honestly stunned. “You have a theory?”
Roscoe’s gaze came back to mine, and held. “She made some pretty bad decisions, with Catfish—sorry, with Curtis—when they were teenagers, decisions that shaped your ideas about love and sentimentality. I get that.”
“You get that?” I stiffened, breathing harder than warranted while sitting still in bed. I clutched the bedsheet to my chest, feeling oddly raw, exposed.
“I have five older brothers and an older sister.” His voice gentled and he sighed. “Watching them make stupid choices, hurt the people around them, made an impact. The course of their lives changed the course of mine. I’ll never use folks like Jet did, or have drive and ambition like Billy. What has that ambition brought him?”
Much of my rash defensiveness diminished as he shared about his family, and we exchanged a commiserating look at the mention of Billy’s ambitions. But neither of us said what was on our minds. I appreciated his forbearance. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone about what I’d witnessed at the Donner Lodge between Dani and Curtis, I needed to talk to her first.
He continued, his stare dropping to where I clutched the sheet, “I’ll never be a schemer, like Cletus. That man frets and worries more than the rest of us, and his schemes make him restless, bring no peace. Nor will I leave my family for years without making contact, like Ash. I saw how her absence affected my family. I forgive her, and I know why she did it, but I’d never do that to them. See, Duane.” Roscoe grimaced. “He takes people for granted, their affection for him. He can be careless, thoughtless, like Jet was, like Ash was when she left us. That’s just Duane, how he’s built, but I’ll never do that. Now Beau . . .”
Pausing, he took a deep breath and leaned back against the headboard, his eyes losing focus once more. “Beau set a good example on how to do things right, how to be conscientious and honorable. He treats folks—everyone—with kindness and respect. That’s why he’s so well-liked, not ’cause he’s good-looking, or does people favors all the time. It’s because he makes everyone he meets feel special.”
Enraptured by this conversation and these revelations, I nodded. Because Roscoe was right.
He was exactly right about each of his siblings. Seeing how their choices impacted him made me question how Dani and Poe’s choices had impacted me, likely without me even realizing it.
Roscoe released a little laugh, scratching his jaw. “He told me when I could be sure about a woman.”
“Who? Beau?”
He nodded, giving me his eyes, which held an edge of circumspection.
So I narrowed my gaze on him. “Enlighten me, how can you be sure about a woman?”
Roscoe held my stare for a beat, and then said plainly, “She makes you a priority.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you'll find an edge to cut you.”
Mark Lawrence, Prince of Thorns
*Roscoe*
Simone stood and walked out of the room, but not before I caught the shadow of unease pass over her expression.
I waited, counting the seconds until I reached ten. I also stood while trying not to think about why she’d left so abruptly. I’d just have to trust she had her reasons.
She loves you, I reminded myself, and I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. I didn’t like jumping to conclusions. Truth was, I couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions, if I could help it. Overreaction muddled experiences, clouded what might otherwise be a sunny memory.
So I waited, clearing my mind and focusing on the good, the night before, her declaration early in the morning, lying with her until sunrise. When I finished, I remembered it all again, cognizant of the fact that recollections involving a naked Simone were likely to get me hot and bothered.
I’d have to be careful, in the future, about not allowing those memories to pop up—literally and figuratively—
at inopportune moments.
Pulling on boxers, I twisted at the sound of her reentering the room. She walked straight for me, her amber eyes dampened by worry.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” She stopped at my elbow and I saw she’d dressed, once more wearing her jeans, but instead of the button-down, she wore a white tank top with no bra.
I glanced at the clock on my nightstand, figuring we had a good twenty minutes before I absolutely had to take a shower if I wanted to make it to work on time, which was negotiable.
“Oh?” I asked, looking her over again.
She crossed her arms. “Don’t look at me like that when I am trying to confess something important.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want me. For breakfast.”
“Can’t be helped.” I shrugged. “Unless you’re offering yourself for lunch? Maybe dinner?”
She rolled her lips between her teeth even as a reluctant smile brightened her eyes. “How about a midnight snack?”
“Deal.” I reached out my hand and she took it, shook it, and made to release me. I didn’t let her, instead bringing her knuckles to my lips so I could kiss them. “So what do you need to tell me?”
Now her hand tightened on mine—like she didn’t want to release me—and she shifted her weight back and forth on her feet. “First, I have some questions.”
“Okay.”
“Really, just one question.”
I glanced between her eyes and where she held my hand captive. “Shoot.”
“Why?” All the humor left her features and her gaze turned probing. “Why were you a virgin? What haven’t you been with anyone?”
I debated on how best to answer, because there were many answers, but finally settled on the most precise response, which also happened to be the least likely to cause either of us awkwardness. “I have a really good memory.”
“What? That’s it? You’ve stayed a virgin because you have a really good memory?”
“That’s right.”
“No.” She was looking at me sideways, suspicion lacing her tone. “That doesn’t make any sense. If anything, shouldn’t that make you want to have more sex? So you have more sexy memories?”