Hard Pressed

by Kate Canterbary

  In the middle of it all was me and the creeping notion that I wasn't meant for this man. What had I done to deserve him? Nothing. He happened to drag my drunk ass home one night and I'd employed my limitless talent of making it awkward. If not for that run-in, we would've gone along without seeing each other naked. I'd forced this, just as I had with Owen.

  He pushed away from the table and paced toward me, all six-foot-something of him towering over me. I knew he wasn't attempting to intimidate me but I already felt so small after my family's visit that I couldn't help but shrink even further.

  "If we're not together, Annette, would you care to explain to me what we are?"

  20

  Punching Down

  v. The process of pushing dough down, pulling the edges in on itself, and flipping it over after it has reached the point of doubling in size.

  Jackson

  * * *

  "If we're not together, Annette," I started, gazing down at her, "would you care to explain to me what we are?"

  She dragged her teeth over her lower lip and asked, "How much of that did you hear?"

  "Is that the best you've got?" I asked. "I had to read about you being very single in the Portland paper and then I listened to you dodging every question about our relationship. I need you to do better."

  She shook her head and pressed her clasped hands to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry, Jackson. I wish I had the right thing to say but you've caught me at a bad moment and I'm fresh out of the right things. All I have is wrong. Actually, I came in here to gorge myself on chocolate. That's how much wrong I'm working with today."

  I shoved my fingers through my hair as I stared at her, desperate for more. Just a bit. I only needed a hint that we were on the same team but I wasn't getting it. "Then help me understand," I replied. "Tell me why your mother is setting you up with Angie Dixon's son and you're not refusing. I want to understand this. I want a reason to stay instead of walking out right now."

  Annette started to reply but stopped herself, her hands holding back the words. She blinked away, her gaze darting to the table behind me, the door, the boxes in the corner. I didn't understand what was going on here but I couldn't climb out of my mad to figure it out.

  "I don't think I can give you what you need," she said eventually. "Not right now, maybe not ever. I mean, I don't even iron. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything."

  "Were you planning to go through with that date?" I asked, my patience far past frayed. "At least tell me that much."

  She buried her face in her hands. "My mother is always trying to set me up with people. I smile and nod, but nothing comes of it."

  "Is that what you're doing now? Smiling and nodding, and letting me believe we're in a really fucking intense relationship? Because that's what it seems like today."

  We stared at each other for full minutes but didn't move an inch closer to comprehending anything. And perhaps that was my biggest issue, beyond the very single, the refusal to acknowledge that we're together, the blind date. We didn't understand each other and we couldn't fuck our way out of it anymore.

  That realization sank in my stomach like a stone. I couldn't stay here, not when I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and snap her out of that fifty-yard stare. And wasn't that a bitch? Even as she was pushing, pushing, pushing me away, I wanted her more than ever.

  "If you ever figure out what you want, give me a call," I said, backing toward the door. With one hand on the knob, I raised the other in a wave. "And god help me, Annette, keep this damn door locked."

  21

  Fermentation

  n. The chemical change in a food during the baking process in which enzymes leaven a dough and add flavor.

  Annette

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day flying on autopilot. I didn't remember the people who came through the shop, what we talked about, or which books I sold them. But I made it through without spending more than a stray minute or two acknowledging the day's bruises.

  When the storefront was closed for the evening, I dropped onto one of the toadstool-shaped pouf pillows in the children's section. There, in the shop's darkened quiet, I felt those bruises. The ones from my family barely registered. They were the mauve-gray shadows that came and went without much notice.

  The one from Jackson—the one I'd caused—that was different. It was deep blue with angry red around the point of impact. I'd feel it in every breath and movement. The ache would rouse me from sleep. It would take months to fade and even then, the pain would pang through me without reason.

  I thought about calling Jackson, explaining the mess he'd walked into this afternoon. But this fight wasn't about the mess. It was about me and all the trouble I had accepting love. Not just accepting it but cultivating it, defending it, keeping it. I knew that now, sitting on the toadstool in the dark long after he'd left be in the storeroom, but I didn't know how to fix it.

  Knowing was one thing. Solving was a different one altogether.

  I could call Jackson or go to his house and say, "Oh, hi there. Just so you know, my family verbally bitch-slapped me this afternoon and they'll always think you're too good for me. Needless to say, I was in a wonky place when you dropped in. Also, I'm kind of a mess because I can't make heads or tails of real, true affection and I don't know how to take what you're giving in a healthy way. Can you bear with me while I figure it out?"

  I could do that but I didn't think I could manage if Jackson said no. And after the way I'd reacted to him, how could he respond with anything other than a resounding no? My family was awful to me and I was awful to Jackson. All that awful needed somewhere to go and I'd dumped it on the one person who knew me, cared about me, chose me.

  Instead of reaching out to Jackson, I picked my phone up from the floor beside me. Swiping it to life, I found several messages from Brooke. Nothing from Jackson—my whole reason for keeping the device nearby—but that didn't surprise me. He'd made it clear he was waiting for my move.

  * * *

  Brooke: Can we talk?

  Brooke: I can't leave the house tonight. Would you mind coming here?

  Annette: Do you have wine?

  Brooke: Of course.

  Annette: Okay. I'll head over in a few minutes. I have to put myself together.

  Brooke: Don't pretty yourself up on my account.

  Annette: I wasn't planning on pretty but I do have to get off the floor and find my purse.

  Brooke: Why are you on the floor?

  Brooke: No. Don't answer that now. Just come over. I'm out on the porch with a bucket full of screw-cap pinot and cheese.

  Annette: Bless you.

  Brooke: To clarify, the cheese is on a plate with crackers and nuts. The wine is in the bucket. I don't eat cheese out of buckets.

  Annette: That's probably for the best.

  Brooke: Probably.

  "Bottoms up," Brooke said as she clinked her glass against mine.

  As I sipped my wine, I stared out at Talbott's Cove. It wasn't dark yet but that shadowy space between evening and night that forced you to stop, look at the sky, and wonder how any other moment in a day could be so grand. Even now, as I sagged into this wicker rocking chair to lick my wounds and numb my emotional exhaustion, I couldn't help but love this little town.

  "Nice night, huh?" Brooke remarked.

  "Yeah," I said, motioning toward the horizon. Some summer nights in the Cove were unpleasant. Unbearable didn't begin to describe the combination of heat and humidity. But this, tonight, was the best the summer had to offer. Cool air with a gentle sea breeze. The scents of ocean and woods mingling together. Dragonflies swooping from flower to flower in the garden. Pinprick stars winking in the sky. "You have an incredible view up here."

  "I'm sorry I haven't invited you to visit recently," she said, busying herself with the brie. "Things have been complicated since I came home."

  I nodded. "Family is complicated. I know all about that," I added.

  After a long
pause, Brooke said, "I screamed at your boyfriend today. Maybe it wasn't screaming but it was a more assertive conversation than my usual."

  "I'm not sure he's my boyfriend at the moment," I murmured.

  "Wait. What? What's going on?" she asked, leaning on the arm of her rocking chair. "Is it because I yelled at him?"

  "I don't think so," I replied, "but why were you yelling at him?"

  She held up one finger. "You tell me your story and then I'll tell you mine."

  "My mom and sisters paid me a visit this afternoon. It was one of their usual 'we love you so we're going to say terrible things' shows. I rolled my eyes so hard, I burned calories."

  "About what?" Brooke cried. "I want to know about these terrible things so I can dispute each one."

  "They've heard rumors about me and Jackson," I said. "They don't feel we're well matched."

  "And why the fuck not?" Brooke asked, her brow crinkled. "Aside from being jealous that you snagged the prime rib while they have to go home to their ground beef, what's the complaint?"

  "They claim Jackson needs a wife to iron his shirts and make casseroles for dinner." I pointed at myself. "And I'm not qualified on either count."

  Brooke waved a hand in front of her face as she blinked, processing my response. "I'm sorry, I'm so confused right now. Are we saying that Sheriff Lau, the former badass lieutenant from the New York State Police, is capable of neither dressing nor feeding himself? Is that a correct summation of the facts as presented?"

  I held up my hands. "Apparently, yes. They want me to get out of the way of the women who can do that for him, and also, I'm pathetic and embarrassing because all I do is follow around guys who don't want me."

  I'd tried to keep a cavalier attitude about this. Tried to shake those barbs off. But my voice caught on those last three words and tears surged to my eyes. I refused to cry, not because I couldn't be vulnerable with Brooke but because my sisters didn't deserve that much of a reaction from me.

  "And they hate this dress," I added.

  "Honest to god," Brooke said, holding up her hand. "I want to throw rocks at them. Can we go now? Please? At least let me slash their tires. I've always wanted to do that."

  "Maybe then you'd get arrested and I could force an interaction with Jackson," I said, sniffle-laughing.

  "I'd get arrested for you any day. Twice on a day when Jackson was doing the cuffing," she said. "Okay so you've told me about the evil stepsisters—"

  "They're not stepsisters," I argued.

  "I don't care," Brooke replied. "They act like evil stepsisters. You're their Cinderella. It's obnoxious and I want to go slash their tires after you explain why this means you're on the outs with Jackson."

  I reached for the wine and topped off our glasses. "He overheard some of it. The part where I didn't object when my mother decided she was going to fix me up. Probably more. With my luck, I'm sure he heard the whole damn thing and tallied up all the times I let my sisters believe nothing was going on between us."

  "Yeah, that was a brilliant move," she said.

  "Thanks. Really, thank you. I needed someone to crystalize it for me."

  Brooke leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. "I'm just wondering why you didn't tell them to get the fuck out of your business. Even if Jackson hadn't heard anything, it would've addressed the issue of your people being shit-stirrers drunk on their own stew."

  "Because it's easier to ignore them than engage," I replied. "Every family has its issues. Mine is chronically miffed by everything I do. Does it mean I'm going to cut them off, never talk to them again? No. Does it mean they're going to listen if I raise hell and insist they knock their shit off? Also, no. I have to make peace with who I am and who they are, and stop letting their issues impact me. It doesn't matter what they think about my clothes or my work, and it doesn't matter whether they think I'm good enough for Jackson."

  Brooke traced the rim of her glass before saying, "The only difference between you and Cinderella is that Cinderella actively tried to get the fuck out of the attic when the prince came around with the glass slipper. You're sitting here with me and the bucket of wine. Seems like you've chosen poorly."

  I gave her a bland face. "You asked me here to talk. Have you forgotten that part?"

  "Not at all," she said. "But if you'd mentioned that you were due to follow up on some pressing matters with Sheriff Prime Rib, I would've understood." She brought her hand to her chest. "I'm a good person. Unlike those sister bitches of yours, I actually care about you. I'm also living vicariously through your adventures with the man meat but I'm still a good person."

  "A good person who yelled at Jackson today," I added. "What was that all about?"

  Brooke glanced away, picking at the cheese plate between us. She blew out a breath, sipped her wine, then turned her attention back to the plate. She was quiet for a minute or two, focused only on freeing the grapes from their stems.

  "I yelled at Jackson because he told me my dad isn't okay," she said slowly. "He's right. That's why I yelled at him. Dad isn't okay and I don't know what to do."

  I reached over and gripped her hand. "I know, but we'll figure it out."

  The details were hazy but I knew enough to fill in many of the blanks. I used to see Judge Markham in the village every day, but over the past two years, he seemed to fade away.

  He used to walk down, pick up a newspaper, and read it cover to cover at DiLorenzo's counter while eating his standard order of fried eggs and with a side of pancakes. He'd always attended the town council meetings, often piping up with minutes-long monologues about laws and regulations, local history, and the ways things used to be around here. But he'd retreated into his gardens, ate his breakfast at home, skipped meetings. And then Brooke returned to the Cove, leaving a big career and a big life in Manhattan. As close as we were, she had yet to mention the reason for her return.

  But it didn't matter whether I had the full story or not. Brooke was my friend and I could support her without getting a complete accounting of the issues.

  "Are you sure?" Brooke asked, her voice watery.

  "I am. I'm sure. Between the two of us, we can solve any problem," I replied.

  "And Jackson. We need him," she added, blinking away tears. "You're gonna have to make things right with him because he's rather handy and I will continue to push for a sister-wife arrangement."

  "I'll see what I can do," I said.

  "You can do better than that," Brooke snapped. "You're fucking fabulous and when you're fucking fabulous, you take what you want without apology."

  We stayed there, our hands clasped tight against the home-front battles ahead of us, and drained two bottles of wine. We ducked inside for the bathroom at one point, more cheese at another. We never circled back to her father, Jackson, or my family, instead devoting our time to discussing our shared affection for a retired collection of lip colors and whether we should make time to go shopping in Portland next month. She needed something fancy for her computer, I needed a deeper pie dish. It was the most superficial of conversations but we needed this kind of mindlessness tonight.

  If friends were good for anything, it was softening life's hardest edges by doing little more than being there with a bucket of wine and easy chatter.

  "I'm sad that sundress season will be ending soon," I said. "But I'm also excited for boot season. And long sweater season. It's more complicated than sundress season but it's basically a game of mixing jeans and leggings with boots and sweaters. Boots and long sweaters are the best."

  Brooke gestured toward her faded orange running shorts and ratty Yale t-shirt. Only she could make that look like a style worth replicating. "Yeah, same."

  "We'll get you some full-length yoga pants," I said. "Some boots, too. We'll call it shut-in chic."

  "Speaking of shoes, I want to go back to that prince and the glass slipper," Brooke said, holding up a finger. "Can we talk about that? Not the part about you feeling like you deserve your sisters shitting on
your love life or you pushing Jackson away because you've bought into their bullshit but the actual slipper. Who in their right mind would wear a shoe made of glass? Have you ever broken a heel?" She didn't wait for my response, instead barreling on. "It's fucking disastrous. It's like a high-speed blowout. One minute, you're cruising along. The next, you're swerving across five lanes of traffic and probably rolling over into a ditch. Add a glass heel to the mix and I'm done. Honestly, the most unrealistic part of Cinderella is not the fairy godmother or the sewing birds or the dude who doesn't recognize a woman he hung out with all night, it's the goddamn glass slippers."

  "You feel very strongly about this," I said, laughing.

  "Yes! My biggest fear is stepping on glass. Why the fuck would I put myself in a position to willfully stab myself in the feet?"

  I grinned at her, shrugging. "It's just not your fairy tale, honey. Doesn't mean you won't get one."

  22

  Catalyst

  n. An ingredient that helps bring about change without itself being changed.

  Annette

  * * *

  The sound of sirens pulled me from a deep sleep. I bolted upright, blinking into the darkness as I tried to remember where I was and how long I'd been asleep. It came back to me in pieces. The walk home from Brooke's house. Flopping onto my bed, fully dressed. Promising myself I'd get up, wash my face, and change into my pajamas after I cried for a few minutes. It seemed like a fair bargain since I hadn't cried once today.

  But instead of shedding some dainty tears and moving on with life, I fell into spine-shaking sobs. It wasn't about Jackson or my family or the issues facing Brooke, but everything, all the hurts I'd socked away. I wasn't sure all that crying yielded anything more than a good emotional purge and accompanying headache, but that was fine. It was out and that was better than holding it in.