Laid Over

by S. E. Hall

  My mouth twists in delight when the anger causing his nostrils to flare makes its appearance as a wild blaze in his eyes.

  Nothing pleases me more than getting under his skin.

  “You got a death wish, girly? That water’s too shallow for a damn rope swing!”

  Well, lookie there, he got it in one guess.

  “And I count four rocks big enough to split a head open like a melon from where I’m standing. Don’t be dumb. You’re not hanging it!” He tromps over, grabbing my rope and slinging it to the other side of the river effortlessly. “As if you could tie a knot tight enough to hold anyone up anyway.”

  He starts to walk away, breaking the cardinal rule of self-preservation when fighting with me: turning your back on me. So he has it coming…the hard kick in the ass I give him.

  He stumbles a bit, but manages to stay on his feet, growling from somewhere deep in his chest.

  “You’re a pain in my ass!” I yell. “Now, you have one of your own. So hobble along, nosy.”

  He slowly turns and the wicked twist to his mouth has me bracing for his payback. Closer he comes, with quick, confident steps until he has me backed up against the tree. Leaning in, that curl grows into a full smile and our noses bump.

  “You gonna try and hang the swing?” he asks in a low, grumbly test.

  “Well, no, not now. I seem to be out of rope. And I suppose—” I turn my head to the side and look at anything but him.

  “That I was right?”

  “Maybe,” I casually hitch a shoulder. “But you really should mind your own business.”

  “You are my business,” he says so smugly I can’t help but snap my focus back to him.

  “I’m your business?” I scoff loudly. “And just how do you figure?”

  “‘Cause I said so.”

  “You don’t get to decide that! I do. And trust me, I will never, ever, want to be anything close to your business.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He taps the end of my nose. “Lot of life left, and never’s a long time. So,” he starts walking away again, stopping to smirk back over his shoulder, “I’m likin’ my chances. I usually get what I want.”

  I didn’t think much of it then…just another typical run-in with the “Ass of Ashfall.”

  And I definitely didn’t tell her about the encounter. Because while it meant absolutely nothing to me…it would’ve meant everything to her.

  And her feelings mattered.

  He didn’t.

  Chapter One

  “Henley? Henley Calvert, is that you?” An unfamiliar voice pierces the air.

  I hastily duck my head so that my long brown hair falls around me in a shroud of anonymity and hurry toward the door of Watson Law Offices, ignoring whomever it is calling my name.

  There’s one main street in this town, cleverly named “Main Street.” I should’ve known better than to stand out in the open on its sidewalk if I didn’t want to be spotted. Guess I hoped that after eight years, the chances of being recognized would be slim.

  But why would I have possibly allowed myself such dimwitted optimism? Small towns like Ashfall? Nobody ever forgets anything, or anyone. Especially when you give them something grossly outside of mundane to talk about—like I had.

  Once inside the office, I chance a subtle peek back out of the glass door to make sure my beckoner didn’t follow me, and sigh in relief to find no sign of anyone. I turn and walk slowly to the receptionist desk, clearing my throat to get the attention of the woman behind it, her back to me as she files papers.

  She spins in her chair and…of course.

  “Henley Calvert!” she shrills, if that’s the right word for actually managing to speak, very high-pitched, through your nose. I can’t remember her name, but I do know I went to school with her…and she was not a nice girl. One of the “Fallouts.” That’s what we called them, in honor of Ashfall— defined as a fake, two-faced girl who thought it was a real accomplishment to peak in high school, and a miniscule one at that, by preying on the insecurities and weaknesses of others rather than earning a name on their own merit. Perfectly personifying the worst of teenage girl stereotypes. And their caddy empowerment was only heightened, made too easy really, by living in a small town. Our own version of Mean Girls.

  She flies around the desk to trap me in an unexpected, and very unwelcomed, hug. My whole body stiffens, arms pressed to my sides, and I count backward in my head until she releases me.

  I don’t like to be touched.

  “My Lord, you haven’t changed a bit!” she gushes as she pulls back to survey me from head to toe. “You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you. Except, less crazy.”

  Yeah, ‘cause that’s nice to say out loud. Hell, at least she said it to my face; that’s new for her, if memory serves correctly.

  “What’s your trick? Get a little work done?” she sneers conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, you can tell me, it’ll be our little secret. Was it Botox? I so want to try that!”

  No, I haven’t had Botox, you twit. I’m twenty-five years old. But I have no interest in encouraging this conversation any further, so I simply deadpan, “You caught me.”

  “Knew it!” She snaps her fingers, then uses one of them to make a cross over her heart. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Translation— she’ll tell everyone she sees, every time she sees them, for the rest of the week. Which works in my favor actually; better they blather about my non-existent cosmetic adventures than the old shit they’d drudge back up to say about me if left to their own habits.

  “What’s it been now, six, seven years?” She frowns, the overdone, I-have-absolutely-no-real-remorse-or-empathy-for-you-and-I-wantyou-to-know-it kind of frown.

  “Eight,” I respond as nicely as my plummeting patience will allow. “I have an appointment with Mr. Watson. Is he available for that?”

  And there it is—her over-the-top hospitality, excluding the one underhanded, nasty comment of course, finally vanishes. I’m sure it was quite painful for her to maintain the façade as long as she did. Her face returns to its natural state, pinched in evil delight, confirming she really does need to check into that Botox. Guess the old saying about your face sticking like that is true…the deep grooves of a judgmental, superiority complex around her eyes and mouth are practiced, and permanent.

  She then proceeds to all but bounce with giddiness as she takes great pleasure in dropping the bomb that I know has been itching her tongue this entire time. “Your meeting is with Mr. Watson, Junior.” Her tone erases any possible doubt; she remembers a lot more about me than my name and looks.

  I gulp quietly and struggle to keep the panic from showing on my face. I assumed I’d be meeting with Watson Senior, but when she snickers, a sound of inherit, unfixable maliciousness, the shiver that chills me to the bone feels far too real for me to kid myself any longer.

  This is actually happening.

  And at this point, praying that a new family of lawyers, raising baby lawyers, who just happen to also have the last name Watson and moved to town while I was gone, is a stretch...even my rattled mind won’t help me continue to idiotically hope on that one.

  So I clear my throat and invite in reality. “As in—”

  “Yes, Henley,” she snidely cuts me off, “as in Merrick. I’ll go and let him know you’re here.”

  Why am I even expelling the energy to pretend to be surprised? Of course it’s Merrick. He probably specifically asked to be assigned to my file, just to jab the knife of bleakness in deeper and give it a good twist. Having to face this, and Merrick to boot, seems perfectly par for my course.

  I’d honestly have been more stunned if she’d have said anything different.

  And even if I run out right now, he’ll still know I was here. And I do have to face the issue at hand sooner or later, so why give him the further enjoyment of knowing I bolted away like a coward?

  No way in hell I’m serving him up that gift on a platter. So I lift my chin,
push my shoulders back and take a seat in the lobby.

  As I repeatedly wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, I try for the umpteenth time to come to something that at least resembles “terms” with the unavoidable situation I’ve returned to handle.

  I never thought I’d find myself back in Ashfall. In fact, I swore to myself I wouldn’t.

  But alas, here I am, waiting to once again face my first love in the tiny ranching town where nothing ever happens…except my worst nightmares.

  Well, that’s not completely true, more my skewed opinion silently speaking in exaggerations. There’s church, where everyone shows up, dressed in their best attire and polite smiles, but the sermon is never practiced outside the chapel walls. Oh, and let’s not forget the coveted weekend rodeos, followed directly by post-event field parties, with all the underage drinking, subsequent fighting and non-promising pregnancies one might expect to find when small-town high school kids have too much time on their hands.

  I doubt anything’s changed for the current generation of teenagers occupying this little, unknown corner of the Earth.

  And if ever you feel like you’ve missed out on some vital nugget of gossip, fear not, for you can conveniently wander into the one and only diner in town, on any day that ends in “y” to get caught up. ‘Cause the “town elders” will be there, sitting in the same booth every morning, recapping all the latest “news” in even less enthusiastic voices than they used the day before, over their stained mugs of stale coffee.

  I doubt that’s changed either.

  But this girl got out.

  For the most hellish of reasons, my catalyst and destination both far more horrifying than the dismal life I just described, but…I got out. And yet, I’d give anything, even my own life, to be able to go back and change things so that I didn’t ever have to leave.

  Just a cinch tighter. One final tug.

  And after all these years, one step back into town and the shame and guilt I’ve long carried, weighs heavier than ever. Because a deep, dark place within me that contradicts everything I just thought…is, indeed, still glad I escaped.

  I couldn’t change things, and I wouldn’t have survived here after what happened. Ashfall and all it stood for would’ve suffocated what little fight for survival I had left in me. And a second horrific ending doesn’t rewrite the first one. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t work that way.

  If it did, I would have gladly planted both feet firmly in place and taken any torture necessary to undo my grave mistake.

  It’s ironic and sickening— the one thing that saved what little was left of me will always be painfully intertwined with the one thing that killed the part that’s not.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and start to chant in my head all the “self-help” quotes I’d been taught…and just as my breathing evens out and I’m able to open my eyes again, determined to not hide, but face things head-on like the adult I now am, he appears.

  Walking toward me with a cool, easy stride, is Merrick Watson, as gorgeous as the day I left him. Left it all.

  He looks great, age doing nothing but putting a distinguished polish on his undeniable good looks. Nearly every fond memory I’ve kept locked away comes rushing back over me like a waterfall with one glance at his vibrant, aqua blue eyes. A cascade of all that was my young adult life, innocence, discovery…and sadness, heartbreak and loss; a painful clash of everything that molded me and everything that damn near shattered me beyond repair bombarding my mind and senses more intensely with each step he takes closer. That same “hometown prince” smile that snared my attention, then whole heart, in the first place very much alive on his handsome face.

  “Henley Gene Calvert, get over here.” He grins, riddled with nostalgia, spoiled by sympathy. He holds his arms open wide as if I’ll just waltz right into them for a hug.

  Which I don’t.

  After several, cramped seconds, he realizes I’m not gonna budge and drops those arms that were once my solace awkwardly to his sides. “So,” he clears his throat, “it’s good to see you, even considering,” he tugs at the starched collar of his pin-striped dress shirt and shifts his weight in palpable discomfort. “Shall we head back to my office and go over a few things?”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I answer and stand.

  “Addison,” he turns and almost knocks over his receptionist, whose name I never would’ve remembered…had I been trying. She’s standing right at his side and interloping on our conversation, which I’m almost positive is well beyond the scope of her job description. “Hold all my calls.”

  “Yes Sir, Mr. Watson,” she purrs her obedient reply and prostitute prances back behind the desk. “Welcome home, Henley,” she adds for good show in front of her boss.

  This isn’t my home, not anymore, and we both know it. Just like we both know what she really just meant was “Fuck off, Henley.” Reconfirming what I already knew and didn’t fall for— nothing and no one in this town ever changes, and her initial friendliness, if you want to generously call it that, was just a hunting expedition for any gossip she could get out of me.

  Glad to see she’s grown so much since high school.

  Well, her ass has. That’s at least something. Good for her.

  Shame on you, Henley. Just because your entire life now lays in unfixable ruins and she called you “crazy” right out the gate, doesn’t mean you have to stoop to her level.

  Not sure why she’s so contemptuous of me anyway. I wasn’t mean to her in school. And if she’s worried I’m here to get in between whatever it is she already has, highly likely, or wants, with Merrick, she’s as delusional on that as she is in thinking she’s getting under my skin.

  “Right this way.” Merrick extends an arm as my guide and I follow, keeping a speakable distance. One that clearly says I need no further guidance, such as his hand on my back, just in case he was thinking that’d in any way fly with me.

  He closes the door behind us, and I take in his office; exactly what I’d expect— clinical, screaming of his prestigious heritage (as prestigious as it gets in a postage-stamp-sized town anyway) in the most sterile, yet pompous, way possible.

  For instance, the picture on his desk? It’s of him and Krista, her name I remember, and it isn’t just a casual shot snapped one day while they were hanging out. Couldn’t possibly have that. No, it’s a photograph of them dressed in tux and ball gown, with a banner boasting the name of the charity event they’re at in the background. A charity I’m sure neither of them have ever researched or spent any time volunteering at for even a second. And let’s not fail to take a moment to appreciate the sterling silver frame, complete with a pretentious engraving.

  It’s posed, cliché, and classic “Watson Family Values.”

  It’s also painful…guess the rumors about the two of them all those years ago were true.

  “Have a seat.” Merrick indicates for me to sit directly across from his desk, in what has to be the most uncomfortable looking chair I’ve ever seen, while he takes his own behind it; also resembling something that could double as a torture device.

  Image over comfort, of course.

  “You know, Henley, we don’t have to get into much today. It can wait until after you’re settled, and the funeral. I’m very sorry for your loss, by the way. Such a tragedy, and you’ve been through more than enough already.”

  I immediately shift my eyes left, staring out the window, but the pity in his gaze I’m avoiding still manages to burn into my skin.

  “Quit looking at me like that!” I bite out.

  “Like what?”

  I snap my glare back to him and narrow it in further warning. “Like. That.” I point to his face. “And don’t assume to know everything I’ve been through, how it affected me, or what my more than enough is. You missed quite a bit, and have no idea who I am anymore, let alone my thresholds.”

  “And whose fault is that?” He leans forward, trying for that intimidating, penetrating stare of his that used to wor
k on me.

  “In the interest of time, let’s stick with what’s always been consensus and habit, and say it’s mine,” I smile wickedly and shrug. “Just do your job. Tell me what I need to sign.”

  He sighs, conceding to move on. “Several things, but I don’t have them all gathered yet. Not until you read this over and tell me how you want to proceed.” He slides a manila envelope across the desk to me.

  I shift away from it like it’s poisonous, sure my anxiety is apparent on my face. “What’s that? What’s in there?”

  He lightly grins, only one corner of his mouth participating. “Open it and find out.”

  I was expecting a stack of papers with little colored arrows stuck to the places where I needed to sign: death certificate, releases, whatever. Not mysterious envelopes that contain things on which I must decide how to proceed.

  I don’t like the sound of that, at all.

  Merrick just furthers my puzzlement when he interrupts my thoughts. “Henley, I don’t understand why you look so confused? The envelope contains your mother’s Will. What’d you think you were coming here for today?”

  A facetious laugh bails on me before I can catch it. “Not a Will that left any decisions up to me, that’s for damn sure.”

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  By Hilary Storm

  @Copyright 2017 Hilary Storm

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