by Emma Hart
Until tonight.
That kiss was the one that held everything I’d never said.
All I could do was hope that he’d heard it, because I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the courage to say it myself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
HALLEY
Animals > People
I put my key in my front door and turned it. The click of the lock was satisfying, and I kept my hand on the doorknob when I spun to face Preston. He’d followed me home from the fair because he insisted on ‘walking’ me to my door.
“I had fun tonight,” I said softly. “Despite my reservations.”
His lips twitched. “Thank you for the inappropriately named fish.”
“I had nothing to do with the name. It was all you.”
“I am stupidly proud of it.”
“I figured you would be. Thank you for the raccoon—that I will keep safely inside so Boris doesn’t get ideas.”
“Boris?”
“The daddy raccoon. He can get randy. I saw him getting off with a branch once.”
“Your life is a never-ending thrill ride, isn’t it?”
“Only if you consider horny trash pandas thrilling.”
Preston paused. “I’m not sure I do, actually.”
“Well, there you go then.”
He laughed and took a step closer to me. “What do you think? Is a second date on the cards?”
“Ask me tomorrow when I’ve witnessed you kissing fifty-something different women.”
“You don’t have to witness anything. That’s what the curtain between us is for. I’m not exactly looking forward to you kissing other people, either.”
“I didn’t make you sign up for the booth.”
“I’m glad I did. If I didn’t, I probably never would’ve asked you out.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.” I dragged the side of my bottom lip through my teeth as I smiled. “And I guess it was a date in the end.”
“It was always a date.” Preston tugged on a lock of my hair, but instead of letting his hand fall, he brushed the back of his fingers across my cheek. The slight curve of his lips was reflected in the brightness of his eyes, and I instinctively leaned in as he dipped his head.
Our lips touched for the second time tonight.
“Goodnight, Halley,” he whispered against my mouth.
He released me and walked to his car that was parked at the end of my drive. My lips were warm where he’d kissed me, and I touched my fingers to them as I waved him goodbye.
His headlights lit up my street, and I waited on the doorstep until they were gone and the road was left in near darkness again.
Then, and only then, did I step inside my house.
I was barely inside for two minutes and removed my shoes when the clunk of my trash can falling over filled the air.
Goddamn those trash pandas.
I unlocked the back door and stomped outside. The back porch light clicked on and lit up the culprits. Two gray raccoons with black beady eyes and bushy tails jerked their little heads toward the porch where I stood with my hands on my hips.
“Boris! Rufus!” I scolded the two grown-up raccoons. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Neither of them moved. They were so used to me at this point that they knew I meant food, and the food I served was far better than the rotten banana skins and God knows whatever else was in my trash.
“You two sit there for two minutes, and I’ll make your sandwiches. You really need to learn some patience, boys. It’s unbecoming!”
With that, I turned back into my kitchen and set about making half a dozen sandwiches for them. There was no way my mom had come by earlier, and I could have kicked myself for thinking she would have.
She was flakier than a bakery full of pastries.
I pulled out a new jar of peanut butter and set to slathering six slices of cheap bread with yesterday’s sell-by date with it. There were no signs of mold, and I wasn’t buying those little freeloaders expensive, fresh bread, so they had what they were given.
I slapped the sandwiches together and cut each one into squares. I really wasn’t all that sure when this had become a part of my life as easily as it had, but at least I was a sandwich pro by now. Maybe I needed to leave the library and open my own sandwich truck.
Aimed solely at hungry, trash-pilfering wildlife.
I could guarantee there was a market for it.
I put the sandwiches on a plate and carried it outside, plus a bottle of mineral water. I didn’t usually water the little heathens with anything this fancy, but I really couldn’t be bothered to take the bowl inside to the tap.
They were drinking like kings tonight.
I knelt down in front of the bowls and distributed the sandwiches between the empty ones, then filled up the water one. Three more raccoons came out of the shadows of the woodland my yard backed up on to. One was Betty, the family matriarch, and the other two were adolescents.
I sat on the top step, watching as they bounded up the steps past me. My yard was lit up almost entirely thanks to the kitchen light that poured out over the area. Combined with the porch light, it meant I could see almost every inch of my space.
I smiled at the sight of the raccoons grabbing sandwiches and eating them like humans. Their little black fingers clenched their squares tightly as they nibbled away.
Betty eyed me as she took two sandwiches.
I knew what that meant. She ate more when she had baby buns in the oven. That meant I’d be feeding them for another few years yet.
“Oh, Betty, you really need to have a word with Boris, do you know that? He’s a randy little bastard, isn’t he?”
She said nothing. Obviously. I wasn’t a witch and animals couldn’t talk.
I’m sure she’d tell me to shut up and make her another sandwich if she could.
I sighed, but it was a happy one. “I had a date tonight. With Preston. You know, Reagan’s brother? The guy you’ve heard me muttering about for months? Yeah. He kissed me, and we went out. It was weird.”
No weirder than me talking to wild animals like Cinder-freakin’-ella, but I never claimed to be normal.
“A good weird, though. It was fun. We laughed, and I think we both had a really good time. He named the goldfish I won him Uranus, and that gave way to my slightly awkward sense of humor.”
Or weird sensibilities, like talking to raccoons.
At least I owned it.
“He makes me feel like I’m thirteen again. It’s so strange. I was so nervous before, and Reagan was on my ass about my self-confidence before it. She’s right; I need to do better. I just get so nervous, you know?”
Rufus paused mid-square.
“I always think I’ll mess it up. Plus we’re totally different people. I don’t know how it’ll ever work between us. He’s better with someone more like him, isn’t he? I don’t even know anymore, y’all. We get together like we did tonight, like we never have, and I was my usual sarcastic self. There was no sign of my lacking confidence.”
I shook my head.
Maybe showing him how I unloaded my problems on wildlife like they were my own personal therapy team would make him realize how crazy I was.
Then again, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t need a therapy team.
God knew I wasn’t going to pay a hundred dollars an hour for one.
I sighed, leaning back against the fence post. “Maybe I do need to work on my confidence like Reagan said. Despite my inability in the kitchen, I’m not that bad, am I? I’m funny and smart, and I care about you little trash pandas.”
Betty side-eyed me.
“Oh. No. Don’t look at me like that, Betty. I’m not here for your motherly rants, okay? I just want to talk out my feelings. Y’all won’t charge me for this session because you already got your sandwiches.”
She chittered. It was a high-pitched noise that sounded like endless squeaks.
“Betty! Calm yo
ur tits.”
She carried on, throwing her sandwich for good effect.
“What, you didn’t like that one?”
More chittering.
“Do you want me to shut up?”
Even more chittering.
It was going through me now, like nails on a chalkboard. It was over and over, almost panicked, and I rushed over to her.
“Are you hurt?” I reached for her, and she let me. I knew none of these held diseases because I’d had them vaccinated against rabies as soon as it’d become obvious they weren’t going to leave me alone.
She trusted me because I was able to run my hands over her body and that of both her babies without any of them attacking me.
Yes. I was literally their mother at this point.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Betty.” I stood and wiped my hands together. “I need to wash my hands. Stop that damn noise, would you?”
I walked into the kitchen and, with a few healthy squirts of antibacterial soap, I scrubbed my hands clean.
Turning, I went to the oven to grab the towel that hung over the handle, and I saw it.
Boris.
Boris was in my house, and he was humping my newly acquired stuffed raccoon that was somehow on my kitchen floor.
He was going like hell. Impressively fast, actually. His little ass moved frantically, and his tail flapped like a flag in a hurricane. Little squeaky grunts accompanied his one-man party, and I wrinkled my face up in disgust.
I grabbed my phone from the counter and snapped a five-second video. I sent it to Preston.
ME: Well, that’s ruined.
I put the phone back down and clapped my hands loudly. “Boris! That’s enough!”
He ignored me, continuing on his little sex show with my poor toy.
“Boris!” I grabbed the broom from the utility room just off the kitchen and used it to shove him toward the back door.
His chittering became distressed, but I gave him one good push, and he fell over the threshold, getting off the stuffed animal. One more push and he was a few feet away from the door.
He bared his teeth at me.
“Hey!” I gave another push of the brush in his direction. “Get out, you furry pervert! You come back when you’re ready to apologize for defiling my new friend!”
I slammed the kitchen door to punctuate my point. It rattled through the kitchen, and I locked it, just in case one of them had figured out how to open the door at any point.
It wouldn’t surprise me since they were quite intelligent.
I picked the stuffed raccoon up by its ear and carried it through to my empty washer. After setting it on a gentle wash with a view to do it again tomorrow morning, I grabbed my phone on the way to get a bottle of water from the fridge. There was a message from Preston that I opened as soon as I shut the door.
PRESTON: It was inevitable really, wasn’t it?
ME: I put him on the table. Boris is a horny little fucker. He needs help.
PRESTON: I don’t think they do therapy for wild animals.
ME: They should. They need it.
PRESTON: Halley, you named wild animals.
ME: How else do I tell the greedy little shits apart?
PRESTON: Most people don’t.
ME: I’m not most people.
PRESTON: That might be one of my favorite things about you.
ME: That feels like a save.
PRESTON: From what?
ME: The fact I name wild animals and can tell them apart.
PRESTON: Forget I said anything.
ME: No. We had a great night tonight and you’ve all but insinuated that I need therapy for naming wild animals.
I was allowed to joke about it. It was my thing. It was my jam. Wild animals, specifically raccoons, were my thing. I loved them, even Boris.
Preston didn’t get to joke about that.
I hated that I was a little hurt about what he’d insinuated. And he had—he’d pointed out that it’s not normal to name wild animals and tell them apart.
Well, he had another think coming his way, didn’t he? I had a friend who lived in the UK who rescued wild hedgehogs. And you know what? She named those prickly little bastards and she could tell them apart whenever they rolled into her backyard.
In fact, she messaged me new images of them whenever a baby headed her way and needed to be rehabbed. Three in five years—Miss Bella, Lord Pindsvin, and Hoggie.
Apparently, ‘pindsvin’ means spiky pig in Danish. There never was and never would be a more perfect name for a hedgehog in all of eternity, so be it, blessed be, a-freakin’ men.
So Preston could joke all he wanted, but there were people out there who loved the natural wildlife.
Honestly, he was lucky I fed raccoons and didn’t rehabilitate hedgehogs. I’d send them after him and see how he liked getting pricked.
ME: I’m going to bed. Goodnight.
I locked my doors and turned off all lights on my way upstairs. I removed all my makeup and changed into a tank top and old shorts adorned with faded Mickey Mouse heads.
Without looking at my phone on the nightstand, I removed my makeup, brushed my hair, then climbed into bed.
I wasn’t going to give Preston Wright another moment of my weirdo thoughts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
* * *
PRESTON
How To Fit Your Foot In Your Mouth
I had no idea what I was watching on TV.
It was some bullshit talk show, but none of what they were talking about pertained to my situation right now.
I doubted any would.
There was nobody else like Halley.
Somehow, I’d pissed her off. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d managed to do it, but if I had to guess, it was my flippant comment about naming wildlife.
It was weird, but that was Halley’s kind of weird.
It was part of her.
I should have known better than to bring it up like it was a fault of hers. The truth was that it wasn’t. It wasn’t a fault. It was one of her strongest qualities.
I’d have to tackle her to make her listen to me now though.
There was something to be said for texting, and none of it was good.
A sarcasm font would be fucking magic, thank you.
Now, I had to fight my way out of this. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Halley stood by what she believed in with a fervent determination that was nothing short of admirable. I also knew that she didn’t suffer fools and that she wasn’t interested in anyone who was going to devalue anything she stood for.
The only good thing here was that she didn’t have a choice but to see me. The booth meant that we had to spend hours a day together, and there was no way she could avoid me entirely.
My front door shook as someone banged against it. The incessant rattling was quickly joined by a second fist, and I didn’t need an expert to tell me who was outside.
The cavalry had arrived.
I could have sworn that Reagan and Ava had jobs.
I tugged the door open just enough that my face fit through the gap. “Who let you in?”
“Mrs. Hennington on the second floor,” Ava answered.
“I buzzed her and told her you’d been a fuckboy, and she let us in. After she’d had an explanation over what a fuckboy is,” Reagan continued.
“Miscommunication does not equal a fuckboy,” I shot back. “Why are you both here?”
“We’re here to help you.” My sister retied the scarf that held her long hair back from her face. “Believe it or not, we actually believe that you and Halley have what it takes to go the distance, but we aren’t happy with you right now.”
“It was a miscommunication!”
Ava shoved at the door. “Lesson one: never joke about what she cares about the most.”
“Thanks, Sherlock. I hadn’t figured that out.”
“Are you sassing me?” She stalked across my living room and snapped her fingers. “I didn’t think so!”
“Settle down.” Reagan wandered into my kitchen and opened my fridge, peering inside. “If this is going to work, we need to be on the same page. Preston, where are you?”
“In my apartment,” I said dryly. “Being assaulted with two wannabe cupids who can’t let nature take its course.”
“You’ll fuck up nature.” Reagan shut the fridge and pulled herself up onto the counter. “I have not dedicated this much time to getting your sorry asses together for you to falter at the first hurdle.”
“You’ve done nothing.”
Ava coughed. “Actually, we’re like spies. We work behind the scenes. Which makes it even worse that I have to say this: Do not attack the raccoons!”
I stared at her. “Call Sherlock. He appears to have lost his Watson.”
“Preston!”
“It was a joke!” I snapped, turning on them both. “Why don’t you ask Halley why she was so hurt by what I said? Humor doesn’t translate well over text. That’s not my fault.”
“Because I know!” Reagan shouted. She froze, rubbing her hand over her mouth before she sagged. “You hurt her, Preston, and the reason why is irrelevant. She doesn’t need to justify her feelings to you. You know she loves animals—your text was misconstrued, but it matters to her. We don’t always need to give someone a reason for why their words hurt us.”
Ava rested her hand on Reagan’s shoulder. “Sometimes, words hurt because they came from someone we never expected would hurt us.”
Reagan glanced at her, then me. “And sometimes, it’s because it comes from someone we always thought would hurt us.”
“Are you saying Halley thinks I’d deliberately hurt her?” My voice cracked halfway through. “That’s bullshit!”
“Not to her.” Ava came and sat on the other end of the sofa. “She’s such a gentle soul, Preston. She’s so easily hurt. Her mom cares more about her marriages than her, and she has so many years of pain tied up in her identity. Her dad loves her more than anything, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t hurt.”
“What do you mean?”