by K. L. Kreig
My lips want to curl so I let them. So do MaryLou’s. When a noise that sounds strangely like a giggle escapes from my throat, she matches it. Then in ten seconds flat, we’re both doubled over laughing so hard tears stream down our faces.
“A gaggle?” I ask on broken breaths.
“Yeah…a gaggle,” she responds in such a high, wailing pitch my rubbery legs won’t hold me anymore and I slide to the floor in a giggling heap. Pretty soon, she’s sitting next to me and we’re gasping for air.
“I think you mean a coven,” I correct when I can finally suck oxygen again.
“Coven, brood, gaggle. Makes no difference. All I envision are a bunch of little broomsticks lined up against the mudroom wall rather than shoes.”
That restarts our cackling. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.”
“Maybe.” She wipes away tears that have gathered under her eyes. “But don’t tell me you can’t envision the same thing.”
“I can,” I tell her. Sadly, I can.
The last of my fit subsides and the last of my smile fades. The only sound left in the room is our labored breathing, along with my wild thoughts. MaryLou snakes her hand around mine, holding tight. Neither of us makes a move to look at the other.
“I love you, Maverick. I’ll always love you. I’ll always have your back. But I gotta be honest. I’m tired of seeing you put yourself through this. One of the things I admire most about you is the fact you never let anyone keep you down. I miss that girl. The one who walks around with her head high and her middle finger higher. The same one who drove to Des Moines to get a small business loan for this place because she wanted to be evaluated on her merits and not because of her father’s name. You could have easily used his money or your trust fund, but you didn’t. It makes me sad—no, angry—it makes me angry to see you wallow in memories like some fucking jilted lover. You were jilted. Get the fuck over it. Plenty of people have been in your shoes before and not only survived but thrived. Remember Penny Lane?”
“By the Beatles?” I ask, confused.
“Jesus, no. You and your old music. Penny Lane, the girl that lived in Honeybrook?”
In my head, I’m rolling my eyes. “No.”
She waves her hand like she’s swatting a fly. “It’s not important. Anyway, what’s important is that Penny Lane was engaged to Ludwig Vandenberg. They’d reserved the church. She had her wedding dress picked out. They’d even bought the plane tickets for Grandma Lane to come in from Louisiana for the ceremony. Then Penny went over to London for a semester of study abroad and by the time she came back, Ludwig had not only cheated on her, he’d married the adulteress. And do you know who he married, Mavs?”
I could give two shits who Penny Lane’s Ludwig married, but I play the game because if I don’t, MaryLou will sit mute until I do. “Who?”
“Her sister, of course.”
I rotate my head her way. “You’re making this shit up.”
“I’m not,” she deadpans. “Larry knows the brother of Penny’s now girlfriend.”
An unknown force yanks my eyebrows up. “Girlfriend? Didn’t you just get done telling me she was engaged to a dude?”
“Yup.” She smacks her “p” so loud it hurts my eardrum. “When life hands you lemons, you don’t make lemonade. That’s for pantywaisters. No. You pucker up, suck them dry, then throw the used rinds back in life’s face with a giant fuck-you and a gesture for more.”
I snort before I realize she’s serious. Sobering, I confess, “I think I may have already done that.”
“No. You haven’t. You think marrying Kael was a middle finger to Killian, but you’re wrong. You could have married anyone, but you married Kael. And you married Kael because you love him, Maverick. If you actually take a long, hard look at what’s in your heart, yes, you’re hurt, but underneath the hurt and betrayal is where true love lies, Mavs. You just have to unearth it. And gift it to the right man this time. One worthy of you. And that’s not the older Shepard brother. It never has been.”
My eyes water. She tugs on me until my head falls to her shoulder. We used to sit like this on the playground sometimes when we were little. Backs up against the brick wall. All the other girls wanted to do was cause drama, but MaryLou and I…we couldn’t stomach it, even then. We plotted how we were going to conquer the world when we grew up. We would ban dresses and bubble gum and any shoes except tennies. We’d burn every pair of tights. We’d extend recess by two hours and cut out social studies because social studies was stupid. And we’d make outdoor survival a mandatory class. Everyone should know how to thread a fishhook and load the barrel of a gun.
When my best friend talks again, the vibration of her voice runs through me, along with her words. “There will always be a part of you that’s sad over Killian, Mavricky, and that’s okay. But this kind of sadness is like a slow-growing cancer. Pretty soon it will consume you entirely and smother all the good out of you. Don’t let Killian Shepard snuff out your soul. He’s not worth it.”
After a bit of silence, I acknowledge her. “I know.” And I do know this. Everything she says is spot-on. Continuing to love Killian is the equivalent of eating a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one sitting. You know all the reasons you should put that shit away after one spoonful, but you can’t stop shoveling in bite after bite because it’s so damn sinful. Then when you’re staring at the empty container, you hate yourself even more, wishing you could rewind time for a do-over. That’s exactly how I feel. I hate myself for still loving him but for some reason can’t stop.
“Uh…anyone in here?” a disembodied voice calls. MaryLou and I look at each other. She gives me a flat smile and mops up my tears with her thumbs before we both pop up at the same time.
“Yeah, whatcha need, Carol?” I ask, proud my voice didn’t crack or wobble.
Carol’s gaze bounces back and forth between us before she announces, “There’s someone here to see you, Maverick. Should I say you’re busy?” The last thing I feel like doing is pasting on a smiley face and pretending that I care, but business is business. I can’t let my personal problems drag down everything I’ve busted my ass for.
“No. I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll finish up in here,” MaryLou says as I start toward the front.
“Thanks.”
As I push through the doors, however, I freeze midstep when I catch the russet hues of one Killian Shepard, drumming his fingers methodically on the countertop while he waits. With a couple days of growth smattering his jaw and droopy bags under his eyes, he looks tired. But still so damn good at the same time. He’s so gorgeous, it makes me short of breath—and apparently brain cells—every time I set eyes on this stunning man.
Rocks spin around in the pit of my stomach as we quietly take each other in. It’s been two weeks since the little homecoming dinner we had at The Red Rooster. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. It’s been both a blessing and a curse.
Mindful of where we are, I glance behind him to see he’s alone, no wife in tow.
“What are you doing here?” I demand tersely, letting the swinging door close behind me.
It’s Monday, midmorning. The crowd is thin as breakfast is over and it’s too early for lunch, but I’m well aware of all eyes in my establishment burning into me. Including Carol’s. I slide my gaze over to her. When I thin my lips, she knows she’s made a critical error. She should have told me the “someone” here to see me was my brother-in-law.
Yes…brother-in-law. Remember that.
Brother-in-law.
Brother.
In.
Law.
He’s just a plain ol’ brother-in-law. Yeah…one you’ve had your mouth all over.
Fuck.
When he doesn’t respond right away, I ask again, “Killian, what did you need? Is everything okay with Jilly?” I made the last question sound so damn sincere I could win an Academy Award. That makes him snap to attention. I wish I could stop the self-satisfied smile that is turnin
g my lips at this very moment, but even gravity loses.
“She’s fine.”
“That’s good to hear.” Yup. Katharine Hepburn, right here. I can almost feel my fingers curling around that weighty statuette now. “Then how can I help you?”
For a second, he looks taken aback at my aloofness. He quickly recovers, though. “I, ah…I wanted to talk to you about a catering job.”
Liar.
Killian has set foot into Cygne Noir Patisserie exactly three times. Once when we had the ribbon cutting on opening day. The day after Kael and I announced our engagement. You can imagine what that was about. And now.
He’s here for a reason, but as usual, it’s about him.
Red starts to seep around the edges of my vision. How dare he have the audacity to show his face in here, making up a bullshit catering excuse. Even if he does have one, he’s the fucking president of sales at DeSoto Construction. He has not only one assistant but two.
“Okay.” I play along. “Let me just grab my pad.” I have one right in the pocket of my apron, but I put my back to him mostly to gain my composure. My movements are jerky and irate as I open a drawer and grab a pen and pad of paper. When I turn back around, I don’t look at him as I make my way over to a table in the corner by the front window. I need to keep this fake order as public as possible.
“Is there someplace we can talk that’s maybe more…private?” he asks lowly as he slips into the chair across from me. Eyeing the table of Q-tips three over who have taken a very keen interest in us, he throws them a megawatt smile before landing his gaze back on me. I roll my eyes when I hear them swoon. Traitors.
“Why? I didn’t realize ordering croissants or quiches was top-secret fodder?”
His only reply is to sigh. Heavily.
I poise my pen right over the paper, stare at him hoping I pull off the blank look I’m trying for and wait. If it’s games he wants to play, fucking bring it. I decide right then and there I’m done with him. I’m done with his lies. Dragging me along while I hang on to his shoestrings, muddying myself and flaying my pride in the process.
I deserve more. From him. From me. For me.
“I wanted to talk to you about the other night.”
Well, I don’t.
“So you don’t have a catering order, then?” I ask blandly.
He hedges. It’s momentary, but that’s all I need. I knew he was lying. “I do, yeah, but…” He lets his sentence drift, seems confused at the way I’m treating him.
My eyes flick to the sidewalk when I feel hairs prickle on my neck. Fucking great. Staring me down is none other than Hamhock and a friend of hers. They stand outside Mitzi’s Nails and Tanning while Hamhock not so subtly points our way as she blabs a mile a minute.
I see the contempt on their faces from here.
It doesn’t matter that I’m doing nothing wrong. It doesn’t matter that he came to me and not the other way around. It doesn’t even matter that we’re in public for all to see, not caught slinking around behind the rosebushes out back. Rumors don’t need truth; they just need a single drop of juice to power them.
I turn my attention back to Killian, forgetting about our judgy audience. The sooner I get this over with, the better. “Then why don’t we get to that?”
“Mavs—”
“This isn’t the time, Killian,” I whisper in a growly voice. “And it certainly isn’t the place.” Raising my tone a couple notches, I finish all businesslike. “Now…if you can tell me the type of event and number of people, I can give you some ideas on options.”
The resigned expression creeping over his face almost makes me feel bad.
Almost.
MaryLou is so right. There is no reason good enough for what he did to me. I trusted him and he didn’t just break that…he blew it the fuck up. For good. Even if he left Jilly today, was on his knees in front of me begging for forgiveness, I’m not sure I could give it. Or that I want to anymore.
I have spent most of my life pining away for this man. And look where it’s gotten me. I’m a solid, soiled mass of rage and bitterness. I am no better than he is, marrying someone I wasn’t in love with, no matter the reasons. In fact, in many ways, I’m worse, because I genuinely love Kael, and Killian only ever tolerated Jilly, even as kids.
It may take a while. Years even. But I vow right here and now to whittle Killian Shepard from my soul. It will hurt like a motherfucker. I’ll stumble. I’ll fall. I’ll skin my hands and knees when I do. Then I’ll pick myself back up, dust myself off, and try again. I’ve never been more determined to sever this invisible hold Killian has on me once and for all.
I’ll do it for me, but mostly, I’ll do it for my new husband.
Kael deserves all of me—not half a woman.
After two months, I have finally discovered Maverick DeSoto’s little secret hiding place. She’s been avoiding me more and more lately. Disappears for hours at a time without so much as a word.
When she resurfaces, I’ll ask her where she went. She dodges. I get angry. She stomps off. I yell after her. A day later, she’ll forgive me and we’ll be back to normal. Until it happens all over again.
I’m sick and tired of it.
Of her ditching me.
The secrecy.
The fighting. That’s not us.
So today I’m following her. She’s developed somewhat of a pattern. I don’t think she’s even aware of it. But I am. Every Tuesday morning she’ll just up and vanish. Fridays, too. And sometimes, on Saturdays, I won’t see her until the afternoon. That’s the one that really makes me mad.
Tastie’s is open exactly three months out of the year. June, July, and August. They’re closed on Sundays because the owner doesn’t work on “God’s day.” And they’re only open until noon on Saturdays. For the past three summers, every Saturday morning, Mavs and I walk the half mile into town, wait in long line outside the booth that’s no bigger than a porta potty, and watch the old, intricate machine make fresh donut holes right before our eyes. When it’s our turn, we each hand Mr. Higgins two quarters. He smiles that toothy smile of his then shakes the fried dough balls in cinnamon and sugar before filling our bags extra full.
We stuff our faces on the walk home, always promising Killian and Jilly that we’ll save some for them. We never do. We both figure if they want some, they can walk their asses with us. They don’t.
Tastie’s is a summertime staple in Dusty Falls. Tradition. And Mavs is breaking it without so much as even an explanation. I’ve now gone the past two Saturdays without a Tastie’s donut hole and I’m getting cranky. I need to find out what’s so important that she’s ditching our weekly ritual. And in truth, it kinda hurts my feelings she won’t share whatever she’s hiding. We share everything.
So this morning, at the crack of dawn, I parked myself behind the DeSoto’s shed and waited. The dew still sticking to the blades of grass soaked the tops of my running socks, but it felt good as the heat and humidity had already set in.
I’m not sure how long I waited. An hour maybe. Then I saw her slink out the side door of the garage. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail and she sported her usual cut-off jean shorts and one of the DeSheps tees we had made. She had a backpack strapped on and I wondered what was in it.
I watched her look around to make sure she was alone. When she was satisfied she was, she sprinted across the open plain of her backyard until the trees that ran the length of the property between our two lots swallowed up her small body.
The second her foot hits that forest floor I go after her. I keep my distance, of course. Don’t want to spook her. More like I don’t want to piss her off. It doesn’t take much to set her off like a firecracker. It’s fun to watch and I do it plenty of times on purpose, but if she spots me now, I may never find out what she’s trying to hide. Every once in a while, she’ll look behind her, but the trees are so dense, it’s easy to duck behind one before she spots me.
For what seems like hours,
we wind our way over fallen, rotted logs and around two hundred year oaks, forging deeper and deeper into the muggy, still, lush grove. We’ve been in this forest plenty of times. Exploring. Building stick forts. Watching the wildlife. Playing Ghost in the Graveyard or just plain hide-and-seek. Just being kids, I guess. I love it as much as she does. Know it almost as well as Maverick. But we only ever go so far because there is an invisible line in these parts you do not cross.
The DeSoto and Shepard properties butt against Old Man Riley’s, a recluse who owns more land than our two families combined. He’s a legend here in southern Iowa. Kinda like the Greek gods, only Old Man Riley is nowhere near a mythical man of beauty. I saw him once in town when he came out of Markell Sundry. Scary as hell. He looked like a mountain man with shaggy, unkempt hair and a thick graying beard down to his belly button. His flannel shirt was ragged and the T-shirt he wore underneath was supposed to be white. I think. His jeans had holes and not the fashionable kind. I was sure I could smell his foul stench from across the street. My mom scolded me, saying it was just my imagination.
But as with any folklore, the stories multiply and grow until they’re completely far-fetched. Like he’s supposedly richer than that guy who owns that big computer company that has an apple as their logo. Or that every piece of furniture he owns is stuffed with fives and tens because he doesn’t trust the government. He reportedly shoots stray cats and dogs for sport and buries them under a dirt pile where he adds a new rock for every corpse hidden underneath. I guess there are thousands of rocks on that pile. I’ve never seen it firsthand. I also heard he makes necklaces from the teeth of rats and he regularly practices voodoo. There are a hundred even more ridiculous tall tales.
But the most rampant rumor is that he has his entire border lined with traps buried underneath the brush and dirt so they can’t be detected. Some say they are explosives that would blow your leg clean off. Others say they are homemade snares with teeth so razor sharp, it’d bite your ankle in two before you felt a thing. Yet others say he’s put voodoo hexes around his entire lot line.