The Guilt of a Sparrow

by Jess B. Moore

  Cotton and I stood there, accidentally thrown together for the moment. He could've walked away. Instead, he waited out his brother, and stood there with a scowl on his face. A scowling Cotton was still a thing of glory.

  His version of quiet looked nothing like mine; eternally still, while I pulled at the hem of shirt, twisted my silver rings, then messed with my hair.

  “You should sing.” I blurted out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  “Sing. You should sing.”

  Where his gaze landed, there was a tingling left behind on my skin. Why did I open my mouth?

  “I'm no good at singing.”

  “You have such a nice voice.”

  I watched his brows lift. Questioning. Or indignant. I blanched; my brain scrambled for a reasonable explanation for my being weird.

  “It's just, when you speak, your voice is so ... resonant.”

  Impossibly, his brows lifted higher, toward his ginger hair which stood on end, sticking out every which way, with bends and waves, completely out of control. I had never seen it tamed. Indicative of something within him that couldn't be tamped down. A warning.

  “I don't remember an occasion when you and I have talked beyond a polite greeting.”

  Talked enough for me to know his voice, he means, to think he should be singing. I swallowed my nerves, along with the cache of memories I had saved of hearing him speak in years past.

  “We haven't talked.”

  Cotton's expression reflected questions, but before he could respond, we were interrupted.

  “Good God man, stop flirting with my wife.” Jacob Hunter approached with a smile and a faux snarl. He scooped Alyssa up off the ground and tossed her over his shoulder. She played her part and wailed in a good-natured way, then reached down to smack his butt. “We have a jam to attend, boys.”

  “Right you are, Jakey Boy.” Dominic gave him a sharp nod, skipping out of reach. If Jacob hated being called Jake, he despised Jakey.

  “Evening, Maggie. You going out with us later?” Jacob resolutely ignored Dominic and faced me instead.

  “Yes! Her answer is yes.” Alyssa called out, her voice from behind her husband. All I could see of her was a pair of legs, her hips propped at Jacob's shoulder.

  “I don't know, I ...” I glanced at Cotton. Why? No idea why I looked his way, or why he remained standing at my side. It was the strangest thing. Stranger still that it seemed he belonged; I wanted him to belong in the same space as me.

  “Alrighty, it's settled.” When I looked back at Jacob, he gave me a wink. “Do you have your car here, or do you want to ride with us?”

  “Jacob. Hunter. If you are going to stand around making conversation and plans, you put me down.” Alyssa wailed.

  Jacob laughed, chest shaking, in turn, making my friend shake. He slid her down his front, making a point to feel her up along the way.

  “Sorry, Magpie.” Alyssa shook her head and tried to make right her hair after being flipped upside down. Her eyes were alight, spirits high. “Did you drive tonight?”

  “I walked.”

  Cotton's posture changed, stiffened, a movement I detected at my side, but I didn't dare look his way. I wasn't sure what I would find on his face, or if I wanted to see.

  “Okey dokey. Ride with us.” Alyssa grabbed one of my hands and gave it a squeeze. “Now, if you'll excuse us, we are actually heading over to play some music.”

  Cotton lingered. Only after his brother, my friend, and her goofy husband were halfway to the jam circle, and out of earshot, did he alter his position. The shift put him squarely facing me, and I was compelled to look up at him. My head tipped back, bending my neck to meet his height. I couldn't be sure what he was doing, or what my response was to be. Confusion and desire swirled deep within me.

  “I'm sorry about Lucian.”

  I sucked in a breath. Four years had passed since my brother Luke died, and the apologies had all but dropped off these days. The direction Cotton steered the conversation was unexpected to say the least.

  “Not about him dying,” Cotton clarified, a swift utterance followed by a cleared throat. He was embarrassed, or uncomfortable. Then his face contorted, as if something like shame had hit him. “That was a terrible thing to say. I shouldn't have said that.”

  “It's okay, Cotton. Most people aren't sorry he's gone.” The truth was right there; bitter on my tongue and something I normally swallowed. Until faced with freaking Cotton MacKenna, then it just spilled right out. His face did a fast-paced dance from shock to relief and finally landing on resolve.

  “I meant, I'm sorry if I made things harder with him, when you were growing up.”

  A sigh escaped my lips. I tried for a smile, one that said it was in the past and I forgave him. One that I pulled out of my back pocket, always ready to don the polite mask of absolution.

  “That was long time ago. And Luke would've ...” I wanted to assure him it was okay. Cotton used to pick fights with Luke on the regular. Or the other way around. I had stopped caring why even longer ago. It never mattered. “Luke would've been Luke no matter what you did.”

  We both turned toward the folks circled up to play their music as a song started up, happy for the distraction. The song was fast and hard, started out by a fiddle setting an impossible standard. Denver MacKenna, I'd bet my life. A driven and downright impressive musician, even outside our little town. Still single at thirty-one, everyone said it was shame he was too shy to meet a nice girl. Only when they said shy, it sounded more like stoic. Unless it was my mama talking, then it sounded like selfish. She never understood why he put his fiddle playing first, instead of settling down like he was supposed to do. You'd think after Luke, she'd be more understanding about children not doing what people expected. But then I'd always suspected the reason she was so ought to compare Lucian and Denver was because she wished her son had been a whole lot more like the eldest MacKenna.

  “Aren't you playing tonight?” I gestured toward the players, a loose circle of least twenty townsfolk. Anything to redirect and get us out the Swamp of Sorrows that was my brother and his past. Plus I was more than a little curious why he was lingering so long at my side when he'd normally have claimed his spot in the jam by now.

  “I am.”

  I looked up just in time to see his solemn nod. Eyes trained on the players across the way, but not looking like he saw them. More like caught up in the space between, or in the years past.

  “Don't look so excited now,” I joked, my fingers reaching out to touch his forearm, to stop before they made their mark. I let them fall limply to my side.

  He nearly smiled. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and his eyes went tight. It was heady as well as strange to have him respond to my almost joke.

  “I don't like when the jam is this big,” he admitted in soft tones, drawing me in closer. “By the time each person takes a break playing, going around the circle, you end up playing the song two dozen times through. It takes forever. And playing rhythm that many times around isn't as fun as ...”

  I watched his lips move as he talked, and found him adorable as he explained himself. I leaned in, without noticing, and my head tipped back, angled toward him. It was a sensation like falling into a gentle breeze, not scary but still yanking my stomach out of place with the motion. I watched his face, listening to his easy words, until he dropped off speaking.

  “Don't look at me like that.”

  Immediately I shifted my eyes down. My face fell though I tried to keep a smile in place. Ever polite.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be sorry.” Anger colored his voice. I flinched as memories of a younger angrier Cotton flooded my mind. I could easily recall him throwing a punch at my brother, his anger a driving force to violence. Somehow, without realizing, I had relaxed with him while we talked. I had forgotten about his famous temper, because it was something I had buried in the past. “Are you scared of me?”

  Cotton's anger ratchet
ed up as he ground out the question. Shame bubbled up inside me at my reaction to him. What had happened? The shift in dynamic was immediate and I couldn't find my footing.

  “No. I ...” I looked up only so far as his chest, not able to bring myself to look all the way up to his surely stormy face. As if not seeing the anger there would lessen its reality. His fisted hands were enough evidence. “I don't know how I was looking at you, I was just ...”

  I knew. It was with open adoration; my longing for him seeping out of me and coloring my expression. I could only imagine how ridiculous he found me, too young and naive, practically swooning over him while he talked about something so generic as the jam taking place around us.

  Unable to complete a sentence was what I was. Good gracious. I shook my head and willed him to walk away. To go play his banjo and leave me there to sit under the little Dogwood tree, safe at a distance, observing. I wanted him to walk away and stay away because that's what he did. Cotton never came too close to me; it's the way it was for us.

  For a suspended moment he stood there, body inclined my way, and I wasn't sure what he would do next.

  “I should go.”

  With that he stalked away with fast stiff steps. I watched the hard line of his shoulders, a glutton for punishment, always appreciative of his strength and build.

  My mama had always said to avoid Cotton. I figured that was the best explanation for my massive and stupid crush on him. It was a silent rebellion to let myself covet him. It had always been from a distance. Whether or not I harbored fantasies of him in my head made no matter. Then he was standing there, so close I could smell the soap and musky dark man scent of him, oddly comforting and impossibly familiar. He had stayed beside me too long and we'd shared an almost conversation.

  It was something.

  In the end he walked away anyway leaving me feeling more alone than usual.

  I settled into my saggy bag chair to snack on ice-cold grapes with nothing but my rampant thoughts for company. The heat of the evening was relentless, getting worse rather than better as time wore on and sunset beckoned. I watched Cotton sit in a position that rendered it impossible for me to see more than the back of his head. I watched the musicians jam, and the community mingle around them at the park. I sat and I watched, doing what was expected of me: staying out of sight and out of mind.

  Chapter Three

  Cotton

  Nothing was going the way it should.

  Not in the jam. I broke a string during Foggy Mountain Breakdown. Shouldn't be a big deal as I had extra strings. It riled me up for no good reason.

  Not at work. I had put off hiring someone to help part time for too long and worked too many damn hours in the meantime.

  Not at home. Denver was in a mood, worse than usual, and it was lasting for next to forever. Beau couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to ask Elliot to move in with him, or if he'd give in and move in with Elliot. I was sick to death of the back and forth. Dominic was on my last nerve. More so tonight than ever. Too many brothers was my problem.

  Not in my head. Magnolia Porter circled my brain, infiltrating my every thought, and it was frustrating as hell. I couldn't shake the image of her gravitating to me, her face a clear picture of her fascination with me. I was certain I had done nothing to warrant her bald interest, yet there it was, plain as day. My head was a war, torn between dashing her hopes and tracking her down to fist my hand in her gorgeous hair.

  “Hey, so that Magnolia Porter is looking good. Huh?” Dom elbowed me. His voice a loud whisper; loud enough to be overheard. And it was filled with jest.

  I did not punch him in the face. There's that.

  Across the circle, Alyssa Hunter and old man Donovan were debating which key to play Minor Swing in. I was ready to kick the song off myself and play it in a key no one would know it in, because I felt like being an asshole.

  “I didn't notice.” I lied through my teeth. More to myself than to Dominic.

  “Whatever. You are a terrible liar, brother.”

  I gave Dominic a look. There it was. He was calling me out on my shit. My teeth ground together as my eyes flashed their warning at him. Rather than intimidate him, it served to make him laugh. He had stopped being scared of my threats or my fists by the time he could hold his own in a fight. We were well matched, really, only he didn't care much for fighting.

  It rankled that Maggie had been afraid. That split second when she'd flinched away replayed in my head again and again. Her eyes, deep chocolate brown, framed by thick lashes that fluttered too quickly as she'd tried to catch hold of her fear. Still, she had looked up with those eyes, expressive and open, begging me to give in to her every desire.

  Her reaction - the fear, not the glimpse of want before I'd been a jackass - made perfect sense. She ought to be afraid of me and my temper. I knew that better than anyone, and it was exactly why I stuck to hook ups. If I didn't trust myself, why should I risk another person or ask them to trust me?

  “I'm just saying is all.” Dominic tossed the words out, pretending they were innocent. His lips curled in a Cheshire Cat grin. “She grew up nice.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Ryan Felty leaned across me to aim his question at Dominic.

  I heaved in a breath, not ready to unclench my teeth lest I bite someone.

  “Maggie Porter. I was talking to her before the jam. She was wearing these short shorts and this little ...” Dom was pinching his fingers together at his shoulder to indicate the barely-there straps of Maggie's tank top. I hit him before he could finish. “Damn it, Cotton. Not while I'm holding my mandolin.”

  “She is a person. A real decent one. Our mama taught us better than to reduce her to nice legs in short shorts. So you shut your mouth right now.”

  Ryan sat back in a hurry. Smart boy.

  My infatuation with Maggie in years past had bordered on unhealthy. That is a lie. It was nuts. I had put forth a good deal of effort to not think about her since those days. Dominic laughed, his eyes lit with knowing the truth of how I felt about the girl.

  “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Real fun, Cotton.” It was a promise, his impending enjoyment at my expense.

  It had been foolish to sit with my back to Maggie. I had thought stubbornly it would keep me from thinking about her. It would keep me from watching her. Keep me from checking on her and waiting to see if she'd look at me. Turns out, all it did was ramp up my obsessive thoughts of her. Without being able to see her, I didn't know if she was all right. The need to know crawled under my skin, an itch I could never satisfy unless I was in close proximity with her. Which I hadn't been for a long time before this evening. The itch had become a chronic ache over the years, something I could never forget, but that I was able to ignore on occasion.

  My fingers rolled over my banjo strings, sure without much effort as we played through Old Joe Clark. I was only half invested, if that much. A shame I didn't have my head in the game. Luckily I could pull off that old song from muscle memory and it didn't require my head. It left room for my thoughts to churn.

  God, it was ancient history, the drama with her brother. Lucian Porter. A slimy no good jerk of a kid. I'd kept my distance. Until I couldn't stomach the way he picked on his sweet too good little sister. It became something of an obsession to keep an eye on her and step in when Luke bullied her.

  Then the truth came out -- every time I intervened, Luke went home and took it out on her worse. I had kept my distance from Magnolia Porter as much as possible since she was fourteen, when I'd learned I was hurting more than helping. Somehow that was ten years ago, and now she was a beautiful woman.

  Not as if I hadn't seen her all over our minuscule town. Not like I hadn't noticed her sit under that Dogwood tree near 'bout every week. I had merely perfected not looking in her direction, not allowing myself to fall into the trap that was my unnecessary and crazy feelings for Maggie Porter.

  “Hey, so the Hunters are going to Prissy Polly's for a drink.”

  �
��And you're telling me this, why?”

  I was bent over my banjo case, snapping latches and taking too long on account of my avoidance of people at the moment. Namely my little brother and a pretty little girl across the way. I knew precisely why he dropped the information: to taunt me. He knew why, and knew that I knew why. It wasn't my favorite game.

  “Oh, no reason. I thought we might like to join 'em.”

  “We?”

  “That's right, Cotton Alexander MacKenna.” He full-named me with a smirk I could hear in his voice. He might as well have his hands on his hips, cocking that much attitude, channeling our mama. “I thought we might like to go out. To the local dive bar. For a drink, or twenty, with friends.”

  “I am not friends with them.”

  Dominic's laughter was loud and full. It drew attention because he was so awake and so alive. People longed to be near him if to know his secret. To know how to live, too. Like he had cornered the market on happiness.

  “You most certainly are friends with Jacob Hunter. Granted maybe not Alyssa, seeing as she's my age.”

  No mention of Maggie, which we both knew was the reason he was running his mouth and goading me to go to Polly's. Whether he was teasing me or setting me up for some other purpose, I hadn't figured.

  “Whatever.” I stood, banjo case weighing me down on one side. My eyes scanned the remains of the crowd. Not looking for Maggie so much as making sure she was gone, and I could avoid her more easily. She was nowhere in sight. Neither were the Hunters, so most likely she'd gone with them to the bar already.

  “Come on, Cotton. Seriously.” Dom's voice was level. He dropped the showman's face. “You can't avoid her forever.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Why?” His astonishment was genuine. “Lucian died ... what, like, four years ago?”

  “This has nothing to do with him.”

  “Doesn't it?”

  My conversation with Maggie flashed bright hot in my brain, a branding iron. I had brought up Luke to her, placing my foot in my mouth, and broaching the very topic my brother thought I was hung up on. My ability to hide my thoughts from him was apparently nil. Didn't stop me from continuing the farce.