Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1)

by Penny Reid

  In the end my soul was moved. There really was no other way to describe it. Reading Drew’s thoughts was like being catapulted into the heavens against my will. He loved me, or so he’d written. He needed me, but he’d never said it. Never out loud.

  I reflected on our time together, seeing things more clearly through this new lens of enlightenment, and—though he never said the words— realized that he’d shown me in a million different ways. With every look, embrace, and desperate need to shoulder my burdens, he was telling me that he loved me.

  I flipped back to some of my favorites, the ones that made me feel like I might faint with overwhelming swoony joy. But as I re-read the passages, a balloon of doubt subtly worked its way into my consciousness, and tied to it were so many questions.

  Why had he hidden himself from me? Why push me away? Why not fight for me? He wasn’t a coward. He was the bravest man I knew. And why send it to me now? With no explanation, no letter, no nothing. And why in tarnation did it look like he’d tried to burn it?

  Restlessness seized me. I needed to talk to him. I needed to see him, but I knew that wasn’t possible. Seeing his words in black and white, ink on a page, written in his hand, made them feel real to me; maybe more real than if he’d said them out loud.

  Spurred by this thought, I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began to write him a letter.

  My Drew,

  I love you. I love you desperately. I don’t have your way with words. If I could, I would write you poetry. Instead, you’ll have to settle for my haphazard thoughts and explanations for my behavior.

  I am so sorry that I’ve been blind, that I didn’t understand the extent of your feelings. I didn’t see you clearly, and that’s my fault.

  When we were together, when we met, I admit that I was in a fog. I was blind to everything but my own grief and mourning my mother before her death. During those six weeks, I was focused on making every moment with her count. She was my mother and I loved her, I do love her, and I couldn’t see beyond my own heartache and sorrow.

  That’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.

  Regardless, I feel like I’m one of those stupid, enviable romance novel heroines. The ones that have been hit with a vanilla ninny stick, devoid of personality and blind to the gift before them. I was doomed to wander in ignorance until the last thirty pages of the book.

  Part of me is actively rooting against my own happy ending because the fictional hero deserves better than a girl who is blind to his love and devotion.

  But this isn’t a novel. I suck at interior design. I don’t always use the tissue seat covers when they’re available in public restrooms (sometimes I’m in a rush or I’m feeling lazy); but I always wash my hands.

  I wake up with morning breath and frequently make poor fashion choices. I read too much, I eat too many cookies, and I have a yarn problem (meaning, I own more yarn than I could possibly knit into finished objects; there is NO WAY I’ll use it all before I die, yet I’m still buying more yarn. I probably need an intervention). I also own only one pot.

  I feel it’s important that you know these things about me because I am flawed.

  I jump to unflattering conclusions. I’m a little judgy (something I’m working on). I’m a coward and I don’t tell people how I feel unless I’m pushed beyond my doubts. I hate how I look because I look like my father.

  And I understand that you are not an alpha billionaire plagued by ennui. It annoys me that you leave your socks all over your house. I do not think dirty socks are going to help in a zombie apocalypse. Also, what is with the ketamine under the sink in the bathroom? It’s creepy.

  I also find it irritating when you tell me what to do or talk to my brothers without first talking to me—like arranging to have me fly back on the day of the funeral, that really pissed me off. You take too much on yourself. Why do you do that? Why do you insist on carrying the burden for everyone else? Don’t you understand that I need you to need me? How can I give if you won’t take?

  Also, you might not be good at playing make-believe, but you are a master of avoidance. Work on that.

  I wonder if you stayed silent for so long because you feared my rejection? Or maybe you feared I would grow to resent you if you’d asked me to stay in Tennessee? Regardless, I understand that you are also imperfect. I understand that you are brave, but that you are human and not immune to fear.

  I understand that you feel things deeply, maybe so deeply the feelings become paralyzing.

  I understand that about you and I still love you desperately. I love you beyond reason. I want to be with you right now. I want to live you.

  Love, Ash

  I didn’t give myself time to think about what I’d written.

  I folded it, placed it in an envelope, affixed a stamp, wrote out his address—surprising myself when I knew it by heart—and jogged downstairs to mail it. I fitted it through the mail slot and watched it flutter away until it landed on a pile of other letters.

  I stared at the mail slot for several minutes. I wondered if any of the other letters were love letters.

  Slowly, I made my way back to my apartment. When I reached the second landing, I allowed myself to think about the letter. The thoughts within were sporadic and likely poorly organized, but all the words were true, and I that’s what mattered most. Honesty.

  It was only when I’d made it back inside my place and shut the door that it occurred to me that Drew might not write back. Maybe Drew had sent the notebook because he’d moved on. Maybe it was his way of releasing me, letting me go.

  I thought about that for a minute then rejected it. If Drew sent me the book, it was because he wanted me to read it. He wanted me to know his feelings. He wanted me to respond. Maybe he’d waited the two months because he wanted to give me more time to mourn my mother. Time to heal. Time to see.

  I nodded at this train of thought; in fact, I jumped on this train of thought like a love-train-hopping hobo. My steps were lighter as I walked to my room. I picked up Drew’s notebook on the way to my bed and placed it on my bedside table.

  I gazed sleepily at the burnt leather binding as I drifted off, images of Drew, me, and our future as love-train-hopping hobos filling my dreams.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Men trust by risking rejection. Women trust by waiting.”

  ― Carolyn McCulley

  I didn’t start to panic until the end of the third week in December.

  Drew didn’t write me back. After a week, I wrote him another letter. This one went through several drafts and was a proper love letter. I scoured novels for good examples, and even browsed a selection of famous love letters on the Internet. I wanted it to be an amazing love letter.

  I then resolved to write him a letter every day, and I did so for two weeks, each carefully crafted. I waxed on for pages about his goodness of heart, his strength, his eyes, his bottom—he had an exceptional bottom—his hands, his smile, how smart he was, his voice, his poet-prowess.

  During this time, I avoided my friends’ phone calls and made excuses to skip knit night. I didn’t want to talk about the journal, not yet—not until I could report on my happily ever after.

  At the end of those two weeks, receiving nothing in return, I called him.

  His phone went to voicemail.

  I decided I would wait and call him twelve hours later so I didn’t seem like a desperate stalker. His phone went to voicemail again.

  It was at this point that I panicked. The panic didn’t last long, however. It quickly gave way to intense, angst-filled depression. I couldn’t find anger because I was buried under wallowing and self-pity; that’s just south of ridiculous and a little west of pull-yourself-together.

  I was a pathetic, heartbroken train-hopping hobo.

  In the past, I would call Momma during these times. I would call her up and she would give me advice; she was my soft place to land. But she was gone. I missed her terribly, and not just because my soft place was gone, but because
I missed her.

  I thought about talking to Sandra about it, but chances were she’d turn into a psychotherapist.

  I thought about talking to Kat about it, but she seemed to be going through some kind of family drama and was away in Boston.

  Everyone else was busy with the holidays, I reasoned. Really, it was just an excuse. If I’d called, they would have answered, they would have listened, they would have helped. I didn’t call because I didn’t want to. I wanted to hurt, as crazy as that sounds. I wanted to mourn privately—for Momma, for Drew, for myself—before I had to talk about my stupidity with someone else.

  Christmas now loomed as an inescapable doom. Since air travel was so spotty around the holidays, I planned to drive from Chicago to Tennessee over two days. Jethro didn’t want me to go by myself—even though I’d explained that I was perfectly capable—so he and Beau decided to take a road trip up to fetch me. They’d rented a car for the way up. We were going to take my truck for the trip back to Tennessee.

  I think Jethro suspected I might back out of a Tennessee Christmas if I was left to my own devices. I honestly didn’t know what I would have done if left to my own devices. Probably curl up in a ball with cookie dough, fruitcake, and wine.

  As it was, I had little choice but to spend two weeks in Tennessee with my adorable, loveable, tremendously fantastic hillbilly brothers. Thoughts of drowning myself in a punch bowl full of moonshine eggnog got me through the requisite motions of packing.

  They were due to arrive at 4:00 p.m. We would spend one night in the city to give them a chance to rest, then start on the journey to Tennessee the next day.

  Presently, I was sitting on the couch watching Dr. Phil, drinking wine and eating fruitcake and cookie dough when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, prepared to let it go to voicemail. I’d been avoiding Sandra and Fiona’s calls for the last week in particular. They were worried about me, I could tell. I just wasn’t ready to face them and their sympathy.

  To my surprise, it was a Tennessee number that I didn’t recognize. My heart skipped a beat and I stiffened, gripping the phone tighter. I cleared my throat, swallowed, and brought the cell to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “You have been avoiding my calls.” Sandra’s stern voice cut through the line.

  I sighed. “I haven’t…I’ve just been…busy.”

  “That’s a lie. I can tell when you’re lying.”

  “What number are you calling from? It’s a Tennessee number.”

  “Alex hacked the line and got me a Tennessee number. I suspected you wouldn’t pick up if you thought it was me.”

  I sighed again, rolling my eyes. “Can’t you just let me wallow?”

  “No, hon.” This was Fiona, apparently also on the line. “We can’t let you wallow. That’s not how we roll. You know better than that.”

  “Plus,” I heard Janie’s voice, “we don’t know what you’re wallowing about.”

  “Last time we saw you was three weeks ago. You’d just received that burned journal.” Elizabeth, it seemed, was also on the call. “You never told us whether you read it, and we have no idea what’s in it. Feel free to keep the details to yourself, but something happened; don’t try to deny it.”

  Marie was the last to speak. “Now let us in. We’re downstairs and we have wine.”

  I glanced at the bottle on my coffee table and the half-empty glass next to it.

  “Isn’t it a little early to drink wine?” I asked.

  “Don’t give me a line about wine,” Sandra’s voice was still stern. “I know you’re up there right now and feeling just fine. As you can see, I’m so upset I made up a rhyme.”

  “She’s really upset,” Marie chimed in. “Best to let us in before things get ugly.”

  I groaned, closing my eyes, and rubbing my forehead. “Fine. Fine—bring up your wine.”

  I hung up the phone and crossed to the door, opening it and waiting for them to arrive. They made a big commotion climbing up the stairs, and I heard the tail end of their plans right before they reached my landing.

  “…Let her do the talking. She looks trustworthy.” Marie said this, but to whom, I do not know.

  Then Fiona said, “Thanks. Always nice to know I look trustworthy.”

  Sandra snorted and said, “Little do they know….”

  Then they were at my door.

  I stood there and regarded them. They all gazed back at me with sympathy—wretched, wretched sympathy. Sighing for a third time, I turned from the door and called over my shoulder, “Come in, and bring your wine.”

  Disrobing commenced—winter attire—and then I was assaulted from behind by a group hug.

  Fiona, the trustworthy-looking one, spoke first. “Ashley, darling, we’re not leaving until you tell us what happened and why you’ve been avoiding us for nearly a month.”

  “It’s only been three weeks,” I said in lame protest.

  Just then, the buzzer to my building’s outer door went off. I glanced at the wall clock. It was only 10:20 a.m. I had another six hours of wallowing planned before my brothers were set to arrive.

  “Who is that?” Janie asked as the group hug dissolved. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  I shrugged. “My brothers aren’t supposed to be here until four,” I said, and I shuffled to the door and pressed the button.

  “Who is it?” I said into the intercom, and in the background, I heard Sandra say, “Her brothers are coming? Did anyone know about this?”

  “It’s Jethro and Beau. We’re outside.”

  I stared at the speaker for a long second then buzzed them in. I’d been saved by the buzzer and my brothers’ randomly excellent timing. I unlocked and opened the door a crack so they could walk right in.

  “Sorry to cut this short, but—as you heard—Jethro and Beau are here to take me to Tennessee.”

  Fiona put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Nope. As soon as they see you they’ll want to join the intervention.”

  I glanced at myself, noticed I had fruitcake crumbs on my sweatpants. Absentmindedly, I brushed my hand up and down to dust myself off. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ashley, you look like you haven’t brushed your hair in days.” Elizabeth said this as a concerned friend, with no condemnation in her tone.

  “And you have dark smudges on your cheeks.” Marie pointed to her own cheeks and jaw to show me where.

  I touched my face and my fingers came away with soot stains. It was from Drew’s book. I’d been reading it off and on.

  Jethro and Beau walked in and filled the arched entry to the living room. They were glancing around my apartment, obviously absorbing the lack of décor and lack of general splendor.

  “Hey, ladies.” Beau waved to my friends.

  They all exchanged greetings for a minute or two. I felt like I was watching the beginnings of a very bizarre nature program on PBS.

  “Nice place.” Beau said this like he meant it.

  I gave him a flat smile and shrugged. “Thanks.”

  Jethro turned his gaze to me, and I watched as his eyes swept up and down, narrowing on the return pass.

  “Ashley Austen Winston, you look like a lard bucket full of armpits.”

  “Right?” Sandra said, her hand coming up in a swooping motion then falling flat against her thigh with a smack.

  I gave him a flat smile and shrugged. “Thanks.”

  My oldest brother put his hands on his hips, his gaze piercing and irritated. “Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes darted between my friends, who surprisingly remained silent.

  At length, apparently making up his mind that he could speak freely, he asked, “Is it Momma? Are you having a hard time with…with everything?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. That’s a big part of it.”

  He watched me for a long minute, his expression softening, then he shocked the bejeebus out of me by asking, “Did you get
my package?”

  All of the ladies in the room gasped, and I felt their eyes shift to me. I stared at Jethro, I stared at the words he’d just said, my mind going quiet then loud then quiet again.

  When I spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “What did you say?”

  He shifted on his feet, his eyes darting to Beau, the ladies, then back to me. “The journal. Did you get it? Did you read it?”

  “Did you…” I blinked like a hummingbird flaps its wings, falling off the non-blinking wagon spectacularly and with style. “Jethro Whitman Winston, did you send that journal to me?”

  Jethro frowned at me. “Of course I did. Didn’t you get my note?”

  “Note? Note?” Still blinking in rhythm to my confusion, I shook my head, glancing at Sandra, “No! What note?”

  She held her hands up. “I didn’t see a note either.”

  “Go get the journal. I’ll show you.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I jogged into my room, grabbed the journal from my desk, and sprinted back to the living room.

  Beau had crossed the room and picked up my fruitcake. He took a bite, leaned close to Janie, and confessed, “I’m starving.”

  She gave him a pleasant smile. “I’m not surprised. Based on your height and weight, you likely consume over three thousand calories a day, assuming you engage in moderate exercise.”

  I ignored them and handed the book to Jethro.

  Jethro fanned open the book and a slip of paper fell out. It had been tucked in the very back where the pages were blank. He retrieved it from the floor and handed it to me. “There’s my note.”

  I opened it up, gave him one last look, then read the words on the paper.

  Dear Ash,

  I saved this from a campfire for you. Drew tossed it in when he thought I was asleep, then he walked away. I pulled it out because I suspected I knew what it was. Sorry the edges are burnt. I fished it out as soon as I could.

  When you were here, while Momma was dying, he wrote in it every day. I saw him at work. When you left, he carried it everywhere he went.

  I read the first two pages, and I knew you needed to see this because Drew is a good man and you’re a good woman. You both deserve to be happy.