by Lucy Score
My highlighters flying made a rapid-fire racket as they hit the wooden planks beneath me. Time froze as Knox turned in my direction. He was facing me with one hand on his… Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I left my highlighters where they were and fled for the safety of the cottage, all the while congratulating myself for not trying to get a better look at Knox Jr.
“Why’s your face so red? You get sunburnt?”
I let out a shriek and crashed back against the screen door, nearly falling out onto the porch.
Waylay was standing on a chair trying to reach the Pop-Tarts I’d hidden above the fridge.
“You’re so jumpy,” she accused.
Carefully, I closed the door, leaving all thoughts of urinating men in the outside world. “Put the Pop-Tarts down. We’re having eggs for breakfast.”
“Aww. Man.”
I ignored her disdain and placed the house’s only skillet on the stove. “How do you feel about going to the library today?”
The Knockemout Public Library was a sanctuary of cool and quiet in the Virginia summer swelter. It was a light, bright space with white oak shelves and farm-style work tables. Pairs of overstuffed armchairs were clustered by the tall windows.
Just inside the door was a large community bulletin board. Everything from piano lessons to yard sale announcements and charity bike rides dotted the corkboard in evenly spaced increments. Beneath it sat a gray-washed table displaying several genres of books from steamy romance to autobiographies to poetry.
Glossy green plants in blue and yellow pots added life on shelves and sunny, flat surfaces. There was a colorful kids section with bright wallpaper and a rainbow of floor cushions. Quiet instrumental music murmured from hidden speakers. It felt more like a high-end spa than a public library. I approved.
Behind the long, low circulation desk was a woman who caught the eye. Tan skin. Red lipstick. Long, sleek blonde hair streaked with a warm purpley-pink. The frames of her glasses were blue and a tiny stud winked in her nose.
The only thing that screamed “librarian” about her was the large stack of hardbacks she carried.
“Hey, Way,” she called. “You got a line already upstairs.”
“Thanks, Sloane.”
“You have a line for what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” my niece mumbled.
“Tech support,” the attractive and surprisingly loud librarian announced. “We get a lot of older folks who don’t have access to their own eleven-year-olds to fix their phones and Kindles and tablets.”
I recalled Liza’s comment at dinner the night before.
Which made me recall Knox and his penis this morning.
Whoops.
“The computers are over there near the coffee bar and the restrooms, Aunt Naomi. I’ll be on the second floor if you need anything.”
“Coffee bar?” I parroted, trying not to think of my nearly naked next-door neighbor.
But my charge was already striding purposefully past the book stacks toward an open staircase in the back.
The librarian tossed me a curious look as she shelved a Stephen King novel. “You’re not Tina,” she said.
“How’d you know?”
“I’ve never seen Tina so much as drop Waylay off here, let alone willingly cross the threshold.”
“Tina’s my sister,” I explained.
“I gathered that from the whole you look almost exactly alike thing. How long have you been in town? I can’t believe there hasn’t been a trail of hot gossip blazed to my doorstep.”
“I got in yesterday.”
“Ah. My day off. I knew I shouldn’t have buried myself in my fourth rewatch of Ted Lasso,” she complained to no one. “Anyway, I’m Sloane.” She juggled novels in order to hold out a hand.
I shook it tentatively, not wanting to dislodge the twenty pounds of literature she still held. “Naomi.”
“Welcome to Knockemout, Naomi. Your niece is a godsend.”
It was nice hearing good things about the Witt family around here for a change.
“Thank you. We’re, uh, just getting to know each other, but she seems smart and independent.”
Annnnd hopefully not too damaged.
“Wanna see her in action?” Sloane offered.
“I want it even more than a visit to your coffee bar.”
Sloane’s ruby red lips curved. “Follow me.”
I followed Sloane up the open staircase to the second floor, which housed even more book stacks, more seating, more plants, and a few private rooms off to one side.
In the back was another long, low desk under a hanging sign that said Community. Waylay sat on a stool behind the desk, frowning at an electronic device. The device’s owner, an elderly Black man in a crisp button-down and trousers, leaned on the counter.
“That’s Hinkel McCord. He’s 101 years old and reads two books a week. He keeps messing with the settings on his e-reader,” Sloane explained.
“I swear it’s the damn great-grandkids. Those sticky-fingered little punks see an electronic device and they go after it like kids went after sticks and candy in my day,” Hinkel complained.
“She started coming in here a couple times a week after she and your sister moved here. One afternoon some virus software update was giving the entire system shit, and Waylay got tired of listening to me yell at the computer. She popped behind the desk and voilà.” Sloane wiggled her fingers in the air. “Fixed the whole damn thing in less than five minutes. So I asked her if she minded helping out a few other folks. I pay her in snacks and letting her check out double the number of books everyone else is allowed. She’s a great kid.”
I suddenly just wanted to sit down and cry. Apparently my face telegraphed just that.
“Uh-oh. You okay?” Sloane asked, looking concerned.
I nodded, willing away the damp from my eyes. “I’m just so happy,” I managed to choke out.
“Oh, boy. How about a nice box of tissues and an espresso?” she suggested, guiding me away from a group of senior citizens settled around a table. “Belinda, I have the latest Kennedy Ryan novel you were asking for.”
A woman with a puff of white hair and a large crucifix nearly buried in her impressive cleavage clapped her hands. “Sloane, you are my favorite human being.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said with a wink.
“Did you say espresso?” I whimpered.
Sloane nodded. “We have really good coffee here,” she promised.
“Will you marry me?”
She grinned, and her nose stud sparkled. “I’m mostly into men these days. There was that one time in college.”
She guided me into an annex with four computers and a U-shaped counter. There was a sink, dishwasher, and a small refrigerator with a sign that said FREE WATER. Coffee mugs hung from cute hooks.
Sloane headed directly for the coffee maker and got to work. “You look like at least a double,” she observed.
“I wouldn’t say no to a triple.”
“I knew I liked you. Have a seat.”
I planted myself at one of the computers and tried to compose myself. “I’ve never seen a library like this,” I said, desperate to make small talk that wouldn’t render me an emotional lump of feelings.
Sloane flashed a smile at me. “That’s what I like to hear. When I was a kid, the local library was my sanctuary. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that it still wasn’t accessible to everyone. So I went to school for library science and public administration, and here we are.”
She set a cup in front of me and returned to the machine. “It’s all about community. We’ve got free classes on everything from sex education and budgeting to meditation and meal-prepping. We don’t have a huge homeless population here, but we’ve got locker rooms and a small laundry facility in the basement. I’m working on free after-school programs to help families who can’t swing the cost of daycare. And of course there’s the books.”
Her face
went soft and dreamy.
“Wow.” I picked up my coffee, sipped, then said wow again.
A soft chime sounded over the music.
“That’s the Bat Signal. Gotta go,” she said. “Enjoy your coffee, and good luck with your feelings.”
Naomi Witt Checking Account Balance: Overdrawn. Suspected fraud.
Dear Mom & Dad,
I’m alive, safe, and completely sane. I swear. I’m so sorry I left like that. I know it was uncharacteristic. Things just weren’t working out with Warner and…I’ll explain some other time when you’re not sailing off to paradise.
In the meantime, have a wonderful time and I forbid you from worrying about me. I stopped in a charming little town in Virginia and am enjoying the volume the humidity gives my hair.
Soak up some sun and send me proof of life pictures every day.
Love,
Naomi
P.S. I almost forgot. There was a teensy accident with my phone and unfortunately it didn’t survive. Email is the best way to communicate for now! Love you lots! Don’t worry about me!
Dear Stef,
I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me! We need to talk soon. But not on my phone since I ran over it at a rest stop in Pennsylvania.
Funny story. You’d think me running out on the wedding was the big news. (You looked great, by the way.) But the bigger whammy is my sister called me out of the blue, robbed me, and left me with a niece I didn’t know existed.
Her name is Waylay. She’s an eleven-year-old tech genius and underneath the bored facade might be a girly girl. I need reassurances that I’m not adding to her trauma.
I’m trying to be the cool yet responsible aunt in this place called Knockemout, where the men are unreasonably attractive and the coffee is excellent.
I’ll be in touch as soon as I get my bearings. There was an incident with my car and my checking account. Oh and my laptop.
I’m still sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Kisses,
N
Tina,
This is the last email address I have for you. Where the hell are you? How could you leave Waylay? Where’s my freaking car? Get your ass back here. Are you in trouble?
Naomi
Kinship Guardian To Do List:
Complete guardianship application, plus background check
Participate in three face-to-face interviews with applicant
Provide three character references (experience with children and caretaking)
Home study
Dispositional hearing with family court
TEN
HAIR CUTS AND PAINS IN THE ASS
Knox
I was in a shit mood after a shit night’s sleep.
Both of which I blamed on Naomi “Flowers in her Fucking Hair” Witt. After spending half the night tossing and turning, I’d woken up for Waylon’s first a.m. bathroom break with a raging hard-on thanks to a dream featuring my new next-door neighbor’s smart mouth sliding down my cock. The kind of noises that men fantasize about coming out of her throat.
It was the second night of sleep she’d ruined for me, and if I didn’t get my head out of my ass, it wouldn’t be the last.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Waylon expressed his own exhaustion with a loud yawn.
“You and me both, bud,” I said, pulling into a parking space and staring at the storefront.
The color scheme—navy with maroon trim—shouldn’t have worked. It had sounded stupid when Jeremiah suggested it. But somehow it classed up the brick and made Whiskey Clipper stand out on the block.
It was wedged between a tattoo parlor that changed hands more often than poker chips and the neon orange awning of Dino’s Pizza and Subs. They didn’t open until eleven, but I could already smell the garlic and pizza sauce.
Until a few years ago, the barbershop had been a crumbling institution in Knockemout. With a little vision from my partner, Jeremiah, and a lot of capital—from me—we’d managed to drag Whiskey Clipper into the twenty-first century and turn it into a small-town goldmine. Now a trendy salon, the shop didn’t just serve old men born and raised here. It attracted a clientele that was willing to brave the NOVA traffic from as far away as downtown D.C. for the service and the vibe.
On a yawn of my own, I helped my dog out of the truck, and we headed for the front door.
The inside was as eye-catching as the outside. The bones of the space were exposed brick, tin ceiling, and stained concrete. We’d added leather and wood and denim. Next to the industrial-looking reception desk was a bar with glass shelves housing nearly a dozen whiskey bottles. We also served coffee and wine. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white prints, most highlighting Knockemout’s storied history.
Beyond the leather couches in the reception area, there were four hair stations with large round mirrors. Along the back wall were the restroom, the shampoo sinks, and the dryers.
“Mornin’, boss. You’re here early.” Stasia, short for Anastasia, had Browder Klein’s head in one of the sinks.
I grunted and went straight for the coffee pot next to the whiskey. Waylon climbed up on the couch next to a woman enjoying a coffee and Bailey’s.
Stasia’s teenage son, Ricky, swiveled back and forth rhythmically in the reception chair. Between booking appointments and cashing out clients, he played a stupid-looking game on his phone.
Jeremiah, my business partner and long-time friend, looked up from the temple fade he was doing on a client in a suit and $400 shoes.
“You look like shit,” he observed.
Jeremiah wore his thick, dark hair rebelliously long but kept his face clean-shaven. He had a sleeve tattoo and a Rolex. He got a manicure every two weeks and spent his days off tinkering with the dirt bikes he occasionally raced. He dated both men and women—a fact that his parents were fine with, but which his Lebanese grandmother still prayed over every Sunday at mass.
“Thanks, asshole. Nice to see you too.”
“Sit,” he said, pointing with the clippers at the empty station next to him.
“I don’t have time for your judgmental grooming.” I had shit to do. Paperwork to be inconvenienced by. Women to not think about.
“And I don’t have time for you to bring down our vibe looking like you couldn’t even be bothered to run a comb and some balm through that beard.”
Defensively, I stroked a hand over my beard. “No one cares what I look like.”
“We care,” the woman with the Bailey’s and coffee called.
“Amen, Louise,” Stasia called back, shooting me one of her Mom Looks.
Browder got to his feet and clapped a hand on my back. “You look tired. Got some bags under those eyes. Woman trouble?”
“Heard you went a few rounds with Not Tina,” Stasia said innocently as she ushered Browder to her chair. The one thing Stasia and Jeremiah loved more than good hair was good gossip.
Not Tina. Great.
“Name’s Naomi.”
“Oooooooh,” came the obnoxious chorus.
“I hate you guys.”
“No, you don’t,” Jeremiah assured me with a grin as he finished the fade.
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t forget, you’ve got a cut at two and a staff meeting at three,” Stasia called after me.
I swore under my breath and headed to my lair. I handled the business end, so my client roster was smaller than Jeremiah’s or Anastasia’s. I’d have thought that by now most of my clients would have been scared off by my excessive scowling and lack of small talk. But it turned out, some people liked having an asshole cut their hair.
“Going to my office,” I said and heard the thud of Waylon’s body hitting the floor and the tip-tap of his nails on the floor following me.
I’d already owned Honky Tonk when this building went up for sale. I bought it out from under some shiny-loafered developer out of Baltimore who wanted to put in a chain sports bar and a fucking Pilates studio.
&
nbsp; Now the building was home to my bar, the barbershop, and three killer apartments on the second floor. One of which was rented by my jackass brother.
I headed past the restroom and the tiny staff kitchen to the door marked Employees Only. Inside was a supply room lined with shelving units and all the shit required to run a successful salon. On the back wall was an unmarked door.
Waylon caught up to me as I fished out my keys. He was the only one allowed in my inner sanctum. I wasn’t one of those “my door is always open” bosses. If I needed to meet with staff, I used my business manager’s office or the break room.
I headed into the narrow hallway that connected the salon to the bar and punched the code into the keypad on my office door.
Waylon bolted inside the second it opened.
The space was small and utilitarian, with brick walls and exposed ducting in the ceiling. There was a couch, a small fridge, and a desk that held a state-of-the-art computer with two monitors the size of scoreboards.
Over a dozen framed photos on the walls depicted a haphazard collage of my life. There was Waylon as a puppy, tripping over his long ears. Me and Nash. Shirtless, gap-toothed kids on mountain bikes in one. Men on the backs of motorcycles, adventure stretching out before us on the ribbon of open road, in another.
We two became three with the addition of Lucian Rollins. There, on the wall no one else saw, was a photographic time line of us growing up as brothers—bloody noses, long days in the creek, then graduating to cars and girls and football. Bonfires and Friday night football games. Graduations. Vacations. Ribbon cuttings.
Jesus, we were getting old. Time marched on. And for the first time, I felt a niggle of guilt that Nash and I no longer had each other’s backs.
But it was just another example of how relationships didn’t last forever.
My gaze lingered on one of the smaller frames. The color was duller than the rest. My parents bundled up in a tent. Mom grinning at the camera, pregnant with one of us. Dad looking at her like he’d waited his whole life for her. Both excited for the adventure of a lifetime together.