“Hey, Bryan?”
I can’t help my snicker. Brynn sends me a dirty look and glances back to Walt. “What?”
“What is a”—Walt squints at her midsection—“twat?”
Brynn’s eyes grow big as they lower to her shirt. In her excitement about the surprise, she must’ve forgotten what she was wearing. “I’ll tell you another time,” she sputters.
I hang my head and shake it. I have no words.
Walt says he’s going to make grilled cheese and starts for the kitchen, but Brynn hurries ahead of him. “I’ll do it,” she says.
“Knew the whole time she’d do that if I pretended I was going to do it,” he says, shuffling over to his chair.
I settle into the couch across from him, and Walt turns on the Diamondbacks game. The sound and smell of sizzling bacon wafts into the room.
“Brynn’s a special girl,” he says, after one at bat of silence. His eyes are trained on the TV, but he keeps talking. “I don’t know what happened in Phoenix, but it hurt her very badly. Wounded birds need time to heal before they can fly. I’m worried you’re going to clip her wing.”
For a man who carefully navigates his front steps and has more dust than hair, he’s alarmingly astute. He’s also wrong.
“I’m not planning on clipping her wing.” My eyes stay on the TV too. The volume gets louder as the pitcher strikes someone out at first base. “If she wants to fly, she can. I won’t hold her back.”
Now Walt looks at me. “Do you know what she’s running from?”
I nod.
“Is it as bad as she seems to think?”
I consider the letters she has hidden away in a drawer. Hate drips from every word. This man believes Brynn ruined his life. “Yeah.”
“Might be best to let her go then.”
I nod, looking back at the screen. He’s only saying things I’ve already told myself.
“World’s best sandwiches,” Brynn shouts from the kitchen. “Slap yo’ mama delicious.” She comes into the room holding three plates. She passes one to Walt and sits beside me with the other two. I’m not hungry, but something tells me I shouldn’t decline.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, passing a plate to me.
“Nothing,” I say, lying through my damn teeth.
“You look sad,” she says, biting into her sandwich and pulling it away. A string of cheese stays attached to her teeth, dropping limply as she bites through it.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I wind an arm around her shoulders and pull her in close. “Everything is fine.”
17
Brynn
I probably shouldn’t have done that just now, and by probably, I mean definitely.
It was irresponsible. It will put me back months if my parents don’t get a big catch this season.
But…
But…
But…
Connor will be happy.
He was melancholy when he left last night. He left. It’s the first time in weeks that we haven’t stayed together overnight. On the walk home from Walt’s, I asked him what was wrong. He told me he had a lot on his mind and then he kissed me goodnight and climbed in his truck.
He should be here any minute to drive us to the first job, and the truth is I missed him last night. Ten toes are half the amount I want in my bed. I’m already used to rolling over and reaching for his warm shoulder. This morning when I first woke up I forgot he wasn’t there, I reached for him and found only air.
Carefully I walk out front with my full cup of hot coffee and wait for him. Streams of sunlight drench the front porch in warmth. My coffee is only half gone when I see Conner’s truck rolling down the street. My heartbeats speed up, and I can’t blame the caffeine.
“Hey,” I say, hopping into the passenger seat.
“Guess what?” Connor’s eyes are bright.
“What?”
He drums a beat on his steering wheel for a few seconds. “I sold a painting this morning.” His grin is big and bright.
“Wow! Congrats. That’s amazing.” My loud claps bounce off the interior of the truck cab.
“Thanks.” He eases off the brake and drives away. “I checked my email just before I left my parents’ place.” He shakes his head, a slow grin easing onto his face. “I was beginning to think I might never sell another painting.”
“You’re too good for that.” It’s true, too. If I still had my connections in Phoenix, he’d be selling every last one of his pieces. I saw them all this morning on his website. Thank goodness he has a way to purchase straight from there, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off. I used an old, nondescript email address on the order form. Bada-bing, bada-boom.
Across the console, he offers me his hand, and I slip my fingers through his. “We’re done after Old Lady Linton’s house this afternoon. Want to take a drive somewhere and celebrate?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Does your agreement dependent upon how good my idea is?”
“My agreement should be assumed, and all I care about is the quality of the company.”
“Do you like blueberry muffins?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Then it’s settled.” Connor nods happily.
Happiness emanates from him as he drives, and I can feel it the same way tension makes air feel thick, but this air is better. It’s fluffy like a cloud, like possibilities floating around, and I could pick one from hundreds. Buying that painting was the right thing to do.
“You’re going to love Old Lady Linton.” He grins at me. “She’s something else.”
“Why do you call her that?”
His lips move as he thinks. “I’m not sure. It has always been her name. She’ll bring you homemade lemonade. It tastes awful. Drink it anyway.”
“Got it,” I nod. “Old people are my specialty, remember. I’ll do just fine.”
“Maybe you could get Walt some kind of new smell for his house.” His nose wrinkles. “It’s not awful, but it’s not pleasant.”
“Just be happy he used the nose hair trimmers I gave him.”
Connor barks a laugh as he stops at a red light. He leans over and kisses the breath out of me. He pulls away, laughing again. “I love you.” His eyes open wide. The expression on his face belongs on a guy in a horror movie when he discovers the killer is behind him. “I don’t love you. I mean,” he blows out a loud breath. “I don’t not love you, but I don’t love you love you.”
“I wish I had popcorn,” I say, straight-faced. “This is really fun to watch.”
The light turns green and Connor starts forward. His jaw flexes every few seconds, and his eyes stay trained on the road.
“Connor, it’s not a big deal. Slip of the tongue, right?”
“Right.” His expression now is less the killer is behind me, and more the killer has murdered everyone else and I’m determined to live.
“You sold a painting today.” My tone is extra cheerful and his jaw relaxes a little. “And you’re about to have delicious lemonade. If you’re lucky, I’ll stick my finger in it and sweeten it up for you.” Finally, his lips part, the teensiest smile moving them.
“Are you saying you’re sweet?”
“Are you saying I’m not?”
He pretends to think. “You’re more sour than sweet. At least you used to be.”
“I hope you enjoy your awful lemonade today.”
Connor slows to stop in front of a medium-sized home. A late-model sedan is parked in the driveway and the garage door is open.
He points out my window. “See that garage?”
I look. Boxes upon boxes are stacked everywhere. A fake Christmas tree stands in the corner, which is really depressing. Nothing kills the magic of Christmas like seeing a fake and undecorated tree lying against a wall.
“That’s our job today. Mrs. Linton needs us to move all that out of the garage and repaint the walls.”
“It’s not my idea of a good time, but okay.�
� I’m in no position to argue, especially since my bank account took a dip after I woke up today. Maybe I can find another way to make money. I hear inmates pay top dollar for used underwear. I gag on the thought.
Apparently I gagged for real, because Connor eyes me with concern and asks if I’m okay.
“A bug flew into my mouth.” Yep. A bug has been in the car with us this whole time and we didn’t know it until it careened into my mouth. I can tell he’s not buying it, but I said it and now I’m committed.
He makes a face before lowering his mouth to sip coffee from his forest green thermos. When he’s finished, he nods toward the house. “Let’s go. She’s probably waiting for us to get out.”
I slap on a smile and get ready to work. I need the money now more than ever.
Mrs. Linton stands on her front porch, waving goodbye. I wave back, mustering an exhausted smile, and climb into Connor’s truck.
“I thought the mountains were supposed to be cooler in the summertime.” The inside of Connor’s truck is sweltering, the stagnant air more like a fog. “I think I sweat through my shirt at least two hundred and seventy-two times today.”
Connor starts the truck and turns a couple knobs. Air blasts me, but it’s not cold yet.
“It’s a heat wave.” Pulling his blue T-shirt over his head, his eyes focus on mine as he tosses it in the backseat. “You don’t watch the news?”
I shake my head slowly. If he doesn’t have another shirt to put on, it’s going to be hard for me not to jump him while he’s driving. He leans across into the backseat. His ab muscles flex as his core holds him in place. Moving boxes and painting all day really sucked, but this display might be making it worth it.
Sitting up, Connor pulls a white T-shirt over his head. Why is he looking at me like that? Oh, right, he asked me a question.
“No, I don’t watch the news. Too many bad things on there.” That, and the fact that at one point, I was the bad thing on the news.
Connor doesn’t pick up on that, so I don’t share it. No need to put a damper on our time.
He drives away from Mrs. Linton’s house with a final wave at her. I watch in the side mirror as the sweet old woman walks back into her house. “I know I said we’d get blueberry muffins, but I need a shower first. You?”
He sniffs the air. “You really do need a shower.”
I smack his arm. “Not funny.”
“Want to save water? We can shower together.” He grins.
I tap the center of my lower lip with the pad of my finger. “I think I’ve seen that on a T-shirt somewhere.” He laughs like I’m kidding, but actually, I’m certain I have.
“What do you say?” He snatches my hand and holds it up, kissing the top.
“Drive faster to whoever’s house is closer.”
There’s something to be said for shower sex. It’s slippery and fun, but with Connor, everything is fun. Even dragging a limp Christmas tree across a garage.
We’re on our way to a small town east of Brighton. Sugar Creek. The name itself makes me want to go there.
I reach back, lifting the hair off the nape of my neck. I gather it into a small ponytail and attempt to twist it around my finger like I did a million times before I cut my hair. Sighing silently, I drop the hair. How long will it be before I can twist my hair into a bun that doesn’t have short pieces of hair sticking out like shards of broken glass?
“Birth control time,” Connor says when the alarm on my phone goes off in my purse. “You’re definitely going to need to take that pill today.”
Memories of what was happening half an hour ago flood my mind. I grab my purse and pull my little wheel of pills from the pocket. I pop the next one into my mouth and take a drink from my water.
“All set.” I toss my purse back down on the floor. “Ready for your next load.”
Connor lets out a surprised laugh and shakes his head. “You have the most incredible mouth.”
“That’s the second time today you’ve said that.”
“Hah,” he says loudly, his shoulders shaking.
I watch him laugh. He tips his head back every time he laughs. It’s only a little, his chin lifts just a few degrees, but it’s adorable, and when he laughs, he does it without reservation. So many of the guys I dated and spent time around concealed their laughter or happiness because they thought it made them look weak or less attractive. In my industry, attractiveness was paramount. If you acted like a happy-go-lucky, nice guy, you probably weren’t going to be admitted into the club. Girls like the challenge a brooding, reserved man offers, and the club wants the girls, because the guys want the girls. So many times I’d imagined tossing a wrench into the spinning gears and watching them grind to a halt. What would happen if everyone acted like themselves for a night?
“Lost in thought over there?” Connor’s voice filters through my memories of pulsing lights and manic music.
“Thinking about my past life, I guess.”
“Anything you want to share?”
I finger the ends of my hair. “I used to have long hair. I chopped off ten inches before I left. I almost dyed it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
Connor grabs a strand and lets it slip through his fingers. “I like your hair this length.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, running a hand over the back of my head.
“What else do you miss about your old life?”
I look out the window, the trees flying past us, and bite on the end of a nail. After a moment to think, I drop my hands into my lap, squeezing them between my knees. “I miss the work I did. It was fun meeting people, talking to them, getting them excited and wanting to party. I’m sure to you that sounds empty, but I was a social person. I could talk to anyone. I used to walk around the clubs I worked for and introduce people, get them hyped, and make them want a table and bottle service. I miss being capable of something. It wasn’t about giving them something they didn’t want. I was showing them what was available to them, when they didn’t know it was there.”
“So you’re an educator.”
My head tips as I think. “Yeah, I suppose, in a non-traditional way.”
“You educated me.”
“How so?” I ask.
Connor pulls off the interstate and turns right. “I wanted someone to spend time with, I just didn’t know you existed.”
I smile at him. “Connor—”
He waves a hand between us. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t say things like that.” He flashes me a smile. “It’s my turn to educate you on blueberry muffins. I’m about to ruin you for all others.” He pulls into an open spot and gestures out the front windshield.
In front of us is a quaint storefront. It’s red brick, attached on both sides to other stores. Looking down the street, I realize it’s all brick storefronts and up front parking. It’s adorable, like something from a movie.
“I’ve been to a lot of places, but this might be the cutest.” I climb out and walk to the front of the truck. Connor slips his hand over mine and points to a window painted with a cup of coffee with steam swirling up from it and a muffin.
“That’s Lady J bakery. Kiss all other muffin memories goodbye.”
He leads me over and holds the door open. Stepping inside is like stepping into someone’s grandmother’s kitchen. My mother never baked, or even cooked. She called herself an assembler. One bag of salad with one container of pre-cooked chicken and dinner was served. My grandmother was a different story. She baked every Sunday, and her kitchen smelled like this bakery—warm spices and sticky sugar.
A bell chimes overhead, announcing our arrival. It’s late in the afternoon, and there are only a few other customers. Connor steps right up to the counter and orders.
“Two blueberry muffins, please, and two coffees.”
“Sure thing,” chirps the friendly girl at the register. She gets everything together and sets it on the counter between us. Connor pays while I grab the two coffees and paper bag and find an empty tab
le.
“Thanks,” I tell him when he sits down across from me.
“You can thank me later,” he winks.
“You’re insatiable,” I say, but the muscles in my thighs tighten at his suggestion.
Taking the muffins from the bag, I set them in front of us and choose one. They smell too amazing to waste time removing the wrapper. I sink my teeth into the top of what is the most delectable thing ever to be created in the history of everything.
“Ohhhh,” I moan, taking a second bite even though I haven’t swallowed the first.
“I know,” Connor says, doing the same.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or be furious you’ve stolen all future muffin joy.”
He uses a napkin to brush crumbs from the corner of his mouth, and sits back, watching me. “Would you rather have something exceptional once, or something basic all the time?”
I stretch my legs out so they reach between his under the table, and lean back against the chair. “I know what you’re asking, and you should know my answer.”
“When we get back to your place tonight, I’m going to exceptionally—”
Riiing.
Connor’s mouth closes as he reaches for his phone, and looks at it. “It’s my mom. I should take this. My dad had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”
I retract my legs so he can get up. “Of course.”
He stands and strides out of the bakery. From the window, I can see him put the phone to his ear and say hello.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” A pleasant voice chimes behind me. I turn back from the window. A strikingly beautiful woman smiles at me. Her dark hair is gathered into a high bun and her expression is open and kind. She’s wearing an apron with Lady J Bakery printed on the front.
“Immensely,” I say, “I’m sure you’re aware these are the best muffins on the face of the planet.”
Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “I’ve heard that once or twice before.”
“Are you Lady J?” I ask.
The Lifetime of A Second Page 14