Fearsome



S.A.	 Wolfe





1

Al 	 rights	 reserved.

Copyright	 ©2013	 S.A.	 Wolfe

This	 is	 a	 work	 of	 fiction.	 Any	 resemblance	 of

characters	 to	 persons,	 living	 or	 dead,	 is	 purely

coincidental.	 The	 Author	 holds	 exclusive	 rights	 to

this	 work.	 Unauthorized	 duplication	 is	 prohibited.



http://www.sa-‐wolfe.com



Cover	 Design	 by	 Damonza

Editing	 and	 Formatting	 by	 C&D	 Editing





2





Table	 of	 Contents



Title

Copyright





Synopsis


One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen



3

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-‐One

Twenty-‐Two

Twenty-‐Three

Twenty-‐Four

Twenty-‐Five

Twenty-‐Six

Twenty-‐Seven

Twenty-‐Eight

Twenty-‐Nine

Thirty

Thirty-‐One

Thirty-‐Two

Thirty-‐Three

Thirty-‐Four

Thirty-‐Five

Thirty-‐Six

Thirty-‐Seven

Thirty-‐Eight



4

Thirty-‐Nine

Forty

Forty-‐One

Forty-‐Two

Forty-‐Three





Acknowledgements


About	 the	 Author

Dear	 Readers





5





Synopsis


Jessica	 Channing’s	 big	 city	 life	 should	 be	 more

exciting	 than	 sixty-‐hour	 work	 weeks	 and	 popcorn

nights	 with	 her	 girlfriends,	 but	 it’s	 not.	 She	 has

worked	 hard	 fulfil ing	 her	 role	 as	 a	 child	 prodigy

and	 graduating	 col ege	 years	 before	 her	 peers.

She’s	 the	 good	 girl,	 the	 bril iant	 girl.

Unfortunately,	 she’s	 also	 the	 dateless	 young

woman.

That	 all	 changes	 with	 one	 phone	 call.	 Jess’s

rigid,	 predictable	 life	 upends	 when	 she	 must	 visit	 a

small,	 obscure	 town	 to	 deal	 with	 a	 relative’s	 death.

This	 isn’t	 just	 any	 little	 speck	 of	 a	 town,	 though.

Long	 lost	 memories	 come	 crashing	 down	 on	 Jess’s

world	 when	 two	 men,	 the	 Blackard	 brothers,	 seem

to	 lure	 her	 in.

Dylan	 is	 cover	 model	 handsome,	 and	 pursues

Jess	 the	 minute	 she	 comes	 to	 town.	 Then	 there	 is



6

tall,	 dark	 and	 gorgeous	 Carson,	 who	 hides	 his	 own

secrets	 behind	 his	 hardened	 reserve.

For	 someone	 who	 has	 been	 governed	 by	 her

own	 obsessive	 behaviors	 and	 fears,	 Jess	 lets	 her

guard	 down	 and	 jumps	 at	 the	 opportunity	 to	 have

an	 affair	 with	 a	 man	 she	 actually	 finds	 attractive	 for

a	 change.

There’s	 just	 one	 problem.	 Jess	 discovers	 that

she	 can’t	 have	 a	 simple	 romantic	 fling	 because	 true

passion	 does	 indeed	 come	 with	 some	 very	 big

strings	 attached	 to	 it.	 She	 wil 	 have	 to	 own	 up	 to

her	 own	 truths	 about	 love	 and	 face	 the	 two

extraordinary	 men;	 both	 troubled	 in	 their	 own

ways	 and	 both	 determined	 to	 have	 her.



Genre:	 Romance

This	 novel	 contains	 graphic	 sexual	 content	 and

strong	 language.	 It	 is	 intended	 for	 mature	 readers.





7





One



There	 are	 young	 women	 in	 this	 city	 who	 are

able	 to	 grab	 on	 to	 careers	 and	 romance	 with	 the

zeal	 and	 ambition	 of	 an	 Olympic	 athlete.	 I,	 however,

am	 not	 one	 of	 those	 women.	 I’l 	 admit	 that	 I’m	 able

to	 excel	 in	 parts	 of	 that	 equation,	 to	 a	 degree.	 I

grew	 up	 in	 New	 York	 City,	 primed	 with	 a	 top	 notch

education	 which	 has	 afforded	 me	 the	 ability	 to

secure	 a	 great	 job	 in	 technology	 due	 to	 hard	 work

and	 blessed	 prodigy	 talents,	 yet	 it	 hasn’t	 made	 up

for	 my	 less	 than	 stel ar	 personal	 life.

The	 phone	 call	 from	 my	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 lawyer

comes	 one	 afternoon	 when	 I	 am	 having	 an

especially	 miserable	 day	 at	 work.	 Sitting	 in	 my

cubby,	 surrounded	 by	 a	 dozen	 other	 techies	 also

hunched	 over	 their	 computer	 monitors,	 I	 listen	 as

Archibald	 Bixby	 informs	 me	 that	 my	 aunt	 died

peaceful y	 in	 her	 own	 bed	 a	 week	 ago	 and	 that	 she

bequeathed	 all	 of	 her	 money	 and	 possessions	 to



8

me.	 He’s	 sorry	 he	 couldn’t	 tel 	 me	 sooner,	 but	 he

had	 to	 fol ow	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 instructions.

I	 have	 a	 blurry	 image	 of	 my	 aunt.	 She	 was

actually	 my	 great	 aunt;	 a	 generation	 older	 than	 my

parents,	 and	 the	 last	 time	 I	 saw	 her	 I	 was	 six.	 I

remember	 running	 through	 her	 big,	 old	 Victorian

home,	 exploring	 the	 different	 rooms	 and	 all	 the

remarkable	 things	 she	 col ected.	 Artwork	 was

everywhere.	 She	 was	 a	 painter	 and,	 over	 the	 years,

she	 had	 col ected	 other	 artists’	 work.	 It	 made	 me

think	 of	 her	 house	 as	 something	 fanciful.

Before	 I	 can	 delve	 further	 into	 my	 foggy

memories,	 Mr.	 Bixby’s	 request	 that	 I	 come	 to	 his

office	 brings	 me	 back	 to	 the	 present.	 He	 thinks	 it

wil 	 be	 best	 if	 I	 meet	 him	 in	 person	 where	 he	 can	 fil

me	 in	 on	 the	 details	 of	 my	 aunt’s	 wil .	 He	 says	 that

my	 aunt	 left	 me	 her	 home	 and	 a	 significant	 amount

of	 resources.	 He	 even	 suggests	 I	 pack	 enough	 to

stay	 for	 a	 while	 so	 I	 can	 think	 things	 over.

“Think	 what	 over?”	 I	 ask.

“Miss	 Channing.	 May	 I	 call	 you	 Jessica?”	 he

asks	 then,	 without	 waiting	 for	 my	 response,

continues	 on,	 “Wel ,	 let’s	 just	 say	 that	 Ginnie	 had



9

some	 nice	 ideas	 for	 you	 and	 it’s	 my	 job	 to	 convey

her	 message	 to	 you	 as	 best	 I	 can.	 I	 think,	 when	 you

arrive	 here,	 you’l 	 understand	 more	 of	 what	 I’m

trying	 to	 say.	 You’l 	 want	 time	 to	 let	 this	 percolate

on	 the	 brain,	 as	 they	 say,	 so	 pack	 a	 few	 suitcases

and	 think	 of	 this	 as	 an	 extended	 vacation.	 I’l 	 pick

you	 up	 at	 the	 bus	 stop.”

I	 take	 the	 subway	 back	 to	 my	 five-‐floor	 walk-‐

up	 on	 Waverly	 while	 wondering	 why	 Mr.	 Bixby

even	 assumes	 I	 have	 the	 luxury	 of	 taking	 a	 vacation,

extended	 or	 otherwise.	 I	 don’t.	 I’ve	 been	 working

for	 5	 Alpha	 for	 almost	 two	 years,	 ever	 since	 I

graduated	 col ege.	 I	 may	 have	 been	 smart	 enough

to	 finish	 col ege	 and	 graduate	 school	 several	 years

before	 my	 peers,	 but	 I’m	 stil 	 a	 cubicle-‐grunt	 at

work.	 The	 hours	 are	 long	 and	 the	 opportunity	 to

move	 up	 is	 highly	 competitive.	 It	 requires	 an

obscene	 devotion	 to	 the	 firm,	 including	 working

weekends	 and	 nights;	 whatever	 it	 takes	 to	 debug

the	 computer	 code	 we	 write	 all	 day	 and	 in	 our

sleep.

I’m	 good	 at	 it	 and	 I	 get	 my	 share	 of	 mentoring

from	 the	 management	 who	 like	 my	 ideas,	 but



10

mostly,	 I	 stand	 out	 because	 I	 came	 to	 5	 Alpha	 at

the	 age	 of	 nineteen,	 right	 out	 of	 M.I.T.	 My

col eagues	 at	 5	 Alpha	 are	 all	 from	 the	 top	 of	 their

graduate	 school	 classes,	 however,	 none	 of	 them

are	 under	 the	 age	 of	 twenty-‐four	 and	 seventy

percent	 of	 the	 employees	 are	 men.	 You’d	 think

that	 would	 be	 appealing	 for	 a	 young	 woman,	 but	 to

be	 honest,	 sometimes	 I	 stil 	 feel	 like	 I’m	 in	 high

school	 and	 I	 haven’t	 caught	 up	 with	 everyone	 else.

Occasionally,	 I	 feel	 like	 the	 little	 duckling	 trailing

behind,	 afraid	 to	 cross	 the	 road	 with	 the	 other,

bigger	 ducks.	 Yes,	 I	 am	 a	 pathetic,	 nerdy	 girl	 who

stil 	 compares	 herself	 to	 ducks.

When	 I	 enter	 my	 pre-‐war	 building,	 I	 smel 	 a

mixture	 of	 burnt	 microwave	 popcorn	 and	 curry,

which	 I’m	 pretty	 sure	 comes	 from	 my	 apartment.

There’s	 also	 an	 undercurrent	 odor	 of	 pot,	 most

likely	 from	 the	 stoner	 who	 lives	 below	 me.

I	 live	 in	 a	 great	 part	 of	 Greenwich	 Vil age,

surrounded	 by	 brownstones	 that	 are	 being

renovated	 by	 their	 wealthy	 owners,	 and	 I’m	 in

close	 proximity	 to	 lively	 restaurants	 and	 shops.

When	 you’re	 in	 my	 aging	 building,	 though,	 you



11

know	 you’re	 in	 a	 place	 that	 caters	 to	 recent	 col ege

grads.

The	 carpeting	 on	 the	 hol ow	 staircase	 is	 a

tattered,	 old,	 red	 brocade	 style	 that	 reminds	 me	 of

lounge	 singers	 from	 the	 1940’s	 and	 the	 wooden

banister	 wobbles	 as	 I	 grip	 it	 on	 my	 hike	 up	 to	 the

apartment	 I	 share	 with	 two	 other	 girls,	 Kate	 and

Marissa.

Our	 apartment	 is	 quiet	 when	 I	 let	 myself	 in;	 no

TV	 blaring	 a	 primetime	 reality	 show	 that	 my

roomies	 love	 to	 watch	 and	 no	 sounds	 of	 churning,

burping	 water	 pipes,	 which	 always	 happens	 when

someone	 is	 in	 the	 closet-‐sized	 bathroom.	 There	 are

remnants	 of	 the	 destroyed	 popcorn	 left	 on	 the

coffee	 table,	 clothes	 tossed	 onto	 the	 couch	 and

there	 is	 a	 selection	 of	 strapless	 bras	 and	 slinky

dresses	 displayed	 across	 a	 few	 kitchen	 chairs.

I	 can	 easily	 imagine	 what	 precipitated	 this.	 My

roommates,	 after	 a	 dinner	 of	 burnt	 popcorn	 and

disastrous,	 homemade	 chicken	 curry,	 decided	 to	 go

out	 to	 a	 club,	 I’m	 sure.	 Naturally,	 they	 wouldn’t

wait	 for	 me	 because,	 as	 my	 roommates	 and	 I	 have

been	 through	 many	 times,	 at	 a	 few	 months	 shy	 of



12

my	 twenty-‐first	 birthday,	 I’m	 stil 	 not	 old	 enough	 to

go	 out	 dancing	 and	 drinking	 with	 them.	 Of	 course,

sometimes	 I’m	 able	 to	 slip	 in	 when	 a	 bouncer

thinks	 I’m	 pretty	 and	 opens	 the	 velvet	 rope	 for	 me,

but	 all	 too	 often,	 the	 female	 bartenders	 have

gotten	 me	 tossed	 out	 not	 long	 after.

I	 can’t	 blame	 my	 friends	 for	 going	 without	 me.

They’re	 twenty-‐three	 and	 want	 to	 get	 on	 with

growing	 up	 and	 meeting	 men	 and,	 as	 much	 as	 they

try	 to	 include	 me,	 sometimes	 it	 must	 feel	 like	 they

have	 a	 little	 sister	 tagging	 along.

I	 pack	 the	 two	 very	 small	 suitcases	 I	 own	 with

the	 few	 clothes	 I	 tend	 to	 wear	 constantly	 and	 stock

my	 art	 box	 with	 paint	 tubes,	 brushes	 and	 my

portfolio	 case	 with	 special	 watercolor	 paper.	 If

inspiration	 strikes,	 maybe	 I’l 	 get	 some	 painting

done	 in	 the	 fresh	 country	 air.	 I	 complete	 a	 quick

tidying	 of	 the	 apartment,	 picking	 up	 discarded

clothing	 and	 washing	 the	 dishes,	 finishing	 with

some	 light	 dusting.

I	 leave	 my	 roommates	 a	 note	 about	 my	 trip	 to

Hera,	 New	 York	 with	 the	 assumption	 that	 I	 wil

return	 in	 a	 few	 days,	 and	 if	 I	 don’t,	 to	 make



13

inquiries	 and	 send	 out	 a	 search	 party	 for	 their

“little	 sister”.	 I	 also	 text	 my	 boss	 and	 let	 him	 know

that	 I’ve	 had	 a	 death	 in	 the	 family	 and	 expect	 to	 be

out	 of	 the	 office	 for	 a	 few	 days.	 He	 replies

immediately,	 tel ing	 me	 to	 take	 all	 the	 time	 I	 need.

That’s	 one	 very	 good	 thing	 about	 my	 job.	 Even

though	 my	 boss,	 Nathan,	 flirts	 too	 much	 with	 me,

he	 tries	 to	 be	 the	 boss	 everyone	 likes,	 so	 he’s	 very

accommodating.	 Sometimes	 I	 think	 he	 favors	 me

more	 than	 the	 others	 and	 it’s	 probably	 the

universal	 perception	 that	 I	 am	 very	 young,

therefore	 I	 must	 be	 very	 naïve	 and	 need	 all	 the

guidance	 I	 can	 get.

Before	 bed,	 I	 double	 check	 on	 the	 computer

for	 the	 bus	 schedule	 that	 wil 	 take	 me	 out	 of	 New

York	 City	 and	 drop	 me	 off	 in	 Hera.	 I	 envision

stepping	 off	 at	 a	 dusty	 bus	 stop	 surrounded	 by

fields	 of	 wheat	 and	 not	 a	 single	 soul	 nearby,	 other

than	 maybe	 a	 three-‐legged	 dog.	 	 Of	 course,	 that’s

ridiculous.	 The	 Catskil s	 area	 is	 known	 for	 some	 of

its	 very	 affluent	 country	 towns.	 A	 lot	 of	 New

Yorkers	 set	 up	 second	 homes	 there	 while	 tourists



14

vacation	 in	 the	 posh	 spa	 resorts	 in	 places	 like	 New

Paltz.

I	 really	 can’t	 remember	 Hera	 very	 well,	 though,

so	 the	 idea	 of	 leaving	 a	 city	 of	 nine	 mil ion	 people

and	 going	 to	 a	 town	 of	 less	 than	 a	 thousand	 sounds

more	 ominous	 than	 it	 should.	 Especially	 when,

much	 to	 my	 dismay,	 there’s	 no	 mass	 transportation.

For	 a	 girl	 who	 has	 an	 unused	 driver’s	 license

because	 I	 take	 the	 train	 everywhere,	 I	 have	 a	 hard

time	 wrapping	 my	 head	 around	 a	 town	 without	 a

subway	 system.



Sleep	 comes	 late,	 I’m	 too	 anxious	 thinking

about	 my	 aunt	 who	 is	 a	 distant	 image	 in	 my

memory	 bank.	 I	 lie	 in	 bed	 on	 the	 first	 warm	 night	 of

summer,	 listening	 to	 the	 street	 life	 through	 the

open	 window;	 laughing	 couples,	 groups	 of	 friends

talking	 too	 loudly	 and	 honking	 cars.	 These	 are	 the

same	 sounds	 that	 have	 kept	 me	 company	 while	 I

studied,	 lived	 and	 worked	 in	 the	 city	 most	 of	 my

life;	 graduating	 high	 school	 at	 fourteen,	 graduating

Columbia	 at	 seventeen	 and	 finishing	 my	 masters	 at



15

M.I.T.	 at	 nineteen.	 I	 am	 the	 math	 geek	 that	 no	 one,

especially	 me,	 ever	 dreams	 of	 being.

I	 also	 wonder	 why	 my	 parents	 haven’t	 called

me.	 Surely	 they	 must	 have	 been	 informed	 about

Aunt	 Virginia’s	 death.	 It’s	 just	 as	 wel ,	 we	 rarely

speak	 and,	 when	 we	 do,	 it’s	 generic	 small	 talk

about	 my	 work.





16





Two



Hera	 is	 truly	 a	 small	 town	 and,	 although	 it’s	 not

far	 from	 Woodstock,	 it’s	 definitely	 not	 as	 famous.

Wel ,	 not	 famous	 at	 all.	 In	 fact,	 most	 people	 drive

through	 the	 main	 street	 in	 less	 than	 sixty	 seconds

and	 don’t	 realize	 they	 have	 passed	 through	 an

actual	 town.	 I	 realize	 this	 when	 the	 bus	 stops

without	 an	 announcement	 and	 the	 bus	 driver	 walks

back	 to	 my	 seat	 to	 tel 	 me	 we	 have	 arrived	 in	 Hera.

I	 grab	 my	 two	 bags,	 as	 wel 	 as	 my	 portfolio	 case

and	 exit	 the	 bus	 alone.

I	 scan	 the	 town,	 which	 is	 nothing	 more	 than	 a

short	 stretch	 of	 low-‐scale	 buildings	 on	 either	 side

of	 the	 main	 drag,	 just	 like	 in	 an	 old	 Western	 movie.

However,	 there	 is	 no	 three-‐legged	 dog,	 only	 a	 thin

man	 in	 a	 striped	 suit	 wearing	 a	 bow	 tie,	 who	 looks

like	 what	 I	 would	 imagine	 of	 someone	 named

Archibald	 Bixby.	 I	 smile	 because	 he	 looks	 more	 out



17

of	 place	 than	 me;	 standing	 at	 a	 bus	 stop	 in	 his

dapper	 outfit	 on	 a	 Saturday	 morning.

“Jessica,”	 he	 says,	 reaching	 for	 my	 bags.	 “I’m

Archie.”

I	 let	 him	 take	 the	 two	 suitcases	 while	 I	 hold

onto	 my	 portfolio	 and	 art	 supplies.

“Hel o.”	 I	 deliberate	 over	 adding	 Archie	 to	 my

greeting,	 but	 it	 seems	 too	 soon	 to	 speak	 to	 him	 on

such	 familiar	 terms.	 “Thank	 you	 for	 picking	 me	 up

at	 the	 station…	 bus.”

“Of	 course.	 I	 wouldn’t	 let	 a	 young	 woman

wander	 around	 trying	 to	 find	 her	 own	 way.”	 I	 want

to	 laugh,	 considering	 I’ve	 just	 arrived	 from	 one	 of

the	 biggest	 cities	 and	 Hera	 is	 nothing	 more	 than	 a

patch	 of	 grass,	 hardly	 a	 dangerous	 place	 for	 young

women.	 However,	 Archie	 looks	 to	 be	 about

seventy-‐five	 or	 older,	 so	 he	 probably	 doesn’t

realize	 how	 much	 freedom	 young	 women—

especially	 me—have	 been	 given	 to	 roam	 and

wander	 wherever	 they	 please.

“My	 office	 is	 only	 two	 minutes	 or	 so	 that	 way.

Let’s	 go	 sit	 and	 have	 a	 chat.	 We	 wil 	 have	 some	 tea



18

and	 biscuits.	 I	 bet	 you	 could	 use	 some	 refreshment,”

he	 says	 in	 that	 old-‐timey	 way	 of	 his.

“Mr.	 Bixby—I	 mean—Archie,	 you	 know	 New

York	 is	 only	 a	 couple	 of	 hours	 from	 here.”	 I	 laugh.

“You	 make	 it	 sound	 like	 I	 travel ed	 across	 the

country.	 Really,	 it	 was	 an	 easy	 trip,	 shorter	 than

taking	 the	 Jitney	 to	 the	 Hamptons.”

“I	 know.	 I	 forget	 that	 people	 travel	 everywhere

at	 any	 time	 nowadays,”	 he	 says	 while	 walking

quickly	 with	 a	 tight	 grip	 on	 my	 bags.	 “You	 see,	 in

the	 last	 fifty	 years,	 I	 have	 rarely	 left	 this	 town.	 Trips

into	 the	 city	 are	 an	 ordeal	 for	 me.”

“Why?”	 I	 ask,	 trying	 to	 keep	 up	 my	 pace	 with

the	 spry	 old	 man.

“Fear.	 I	 suppose	 it’s	 agoraphobia	 or	 something.

I’m	 not	 afraid	 to	 leave	 my	 house	 mind	 you,	 but

somehow	 I	 can’t	 bring	 myself	 to	 leave	 the	 borders

of	 Hera	 unless	 absolutely	 necessary.	 We	 have

arrived,”	 he	 announces	 as	 we	 approach	 a	 small,

two	 story,	 wood-‐framed	 building.

It’s	 painted	 a	 light	 blue	 and	 has	 black	 shutters.

It’s	 quaint,	 like	 a	 step	 back	 in	 time.	 A	 brass	 plaque

by	 the	 door	 is	 engraved	 with	 Offices	 of	 Archibald



19

Bixby,	 Esq. I	 find	 myself	 smiling	 again	 because	 there

is	 simply	 something	 about	 the	 town;	 with	 its

slowness	 and	 old-‐fashioned	 buildings	 stuck	 in	 a

different	 time.

Before	 entering	 the	 office,	 I	 study	 the	 main

street	 again.	 There	 are	 a	 handful	 of	 people	 and	 a

few	 cars,	 but	 it’s	 pretty	 quiet	 and	 sparse.

“Hey,	 Bixby,”	 a	 deep	 voice	 says	 from	 behind	 us.

Archie	 and	 I	 both	 turn	 to	 where	 a	 man	 has	 jumped

out	 of	 a	 truck.	 He	 looks	 like	 he’s	 in	 his	 mid-‐twenties

or	 older;	 muscular	 build,	 very	 tall,	 dark	 brown,

tussled,	 shoulder	 length	 hair	 and	 broad	 shoulders

on	 a	 trim	 frame.	 He	 is	 definitely	 too	 handsome,	 too

gorgeous	 and	 too	 intimidating	 for	 me.	 He’s	 the	 kind

of	 guy	 any	 woman	 would	 notice.	 He	 looks	 like	 he

walked	 right	 out	 of	 a	 truck	 commercial.	 He	 even

has	 the	 faded	 jeans,	 wel -‐worn	 T-‐shirt	 and	 dusty

work	 boots	 to	 complete	 the	 picture.	 I	 can’t	 help

staring.

“Carson,”	 Archie	 greets,	 turning	 towards	 the

man.	 “I’l 	 bet	 you	 are	 anxious	 for	 that	 check.”

“I	 am.”	 As	 Carson	 approaches	 us,	 I	 see	 that	 his

eyes	 are	 a	 steel	 blue.	 “I	 want	 to	 start	 building	 the



20

new	 addition	 soon	 and	 I	 need	 the	 investor

contracts.”	 He	 is	 speaking	 to	 Archie,	 though	 his

intense	 gaze	 is	 locked	 on	 me.	 His	 demeanor	 is

neither	 openly	 friendly	 nor	 hostile,	 but	 he	 makes

me	 avert	 my	 eyes	 nonetheless.	 Queasiness	 assaults

me	 down	 to	 the	 pit	 of	 my	 stomach	 and	 I	 feel	 as	 if

I’ve	 been	 revealed;	 that	 this	 guy	 can	 see	 past

anyone’s	 veneer.

“Jessica,	 this	 is	 Carson	 Blackard,”	 Archie	 says

with	 a	 smile	 and	 an	 extra-‐long	 look	 at	 both	 Carson

and	 me.

Mr.	 Handsome	 tilts	 his	 chin	 up	 at	 me	 and	 then

looks	 away.	 I	 don’t	 even	 warrant	 a	 proper	 hel o

from	 him,	 so	 I	 only	 utter	 a	 quiet	 “hi”	 to	 the

disinterested	 man. Seventy-‐mil ion!	 Seventy-‐

mil ion! 	 My	 brain’s	 first	 protective	 reaction	 is	 to

chant	 one	 of	 my	 favorite	 numbers. Oh,	 to	 be	 cursed

with	 obsessive,	 compulsive	 behaviors.	 Left

unguarded,	 I	 would	 probably	 sound	 like	 a	 rambling,

lunatic	 parrot.

I	 fol ow	 Archie	 into	 his	 little	 two-‐room	 office

with	 Carson	 looming	 behind	 me.	 I	 sense	 his

urgency	 to	 get	 what	 he	 wants	 from	 Archie	 so	 he



21

can	 leave	 and	 I	 happen	 to	 be	 slowing	 things	 down.

Archie	 gets	 me	 seated	 with	 a	 plate	 of	 cookies	 and	 a

can	 of	 seltzer.	 Thank	 God,	 he	 didn’t	 give	 me	 a	 glass

of	 milk	 in	 front	 of	 this	 Carson	 dude.

I	 nibble	 on	 a	 homemade	 oatmeal	 cookie	 and

look	 around	 the	 front	 room,	 admiring	 the	 beautiful

wood	 desk	 and	 built-‐in	 bookcases.	 I	 expected	 the

room	 to	 be	 Victorian	 like	 the	 outside	 of	 the

building;	 instead	 the	 furniture	 is	 craftsman	 style

that	 looks	 too	 nice	 to	 have	 been	 mass-‐produced	 in

a	 factory.

As	 I	 study	 the	 grain	 of	 the	 wood	 and	 the	 details

in	 the	 table	 posts,	 I	 catch	 a	 snippet	 of	 Carson’s

voice	 in	 the	 other	 room.	 Then,	 he	 comes	 into	 view

in	 the	 doorway	 and	 my	 attention	 is	 drawn	 to	 his

butt,	 specifically	 how	 his	 butt	 fil s	 out	 his	 jeans

perfectly.	 He	 has	 a	 sexy,	 casual	 stance	 and	 I	 can’t

help	 ogling	 his	 exquisite	 form.	 Even	 though	 no	 one

notices	 me,	 I	 feel	 a	 blush	 come	 to	 my	 face	 as	 I	 turn

away.

Archie	 escorts	 Carson	 past	 me	 and	 out	 the

front	 door	 before	 turning	 back	 to	 me.



22

“I’m	 sorry	 about	 that,	 Jessica.	 Carson	 can	 be	 a

little	 rough	 around	 the	 edges.	 He	 should	 have

extended	 his	 condolences,	 but	 I’m	 sure	 it	 merely

slipped	 his	 mind,”	 Archie	 says	 as	 he	 seats	 himself	 at

the	 desk	 facing	 me.

“It’s	 all	 right.	 He	 doesn’t	 know	 me	 and	 it’s	 not

like	 I	 was	 close	 to	 Aunt	 Virginia.”

“Well,	 in	 Hera	 it’s	 not	 all	 right.	 We	 are	 a	 small,

close-‐knit	 town	 and	 we	 know	 each	 other	 wel

enough.	 Children	 here	 are	 taught	 to	 use	 good

manners	 all	 the	 time.	 Carson	 Blackard	 is	 a	 good

young	 man	 and	 very	 talented,	 but	 sometimes	 he’s

so	 driven	 with	 work	 that	 he	 forgets	 the	 simple

niceties.”

I	 nod	 as	 if	 I	 understand	 the	 precarious	 nature

of	 Carson	 Blackard	 when	 the	 only	 thing	 I	 know

about	 this	 guy	 is	 that	 he	 sure	 knows	 how	 to	 put

sexy	 into	 a	 pair	 of	 grubby	 work	 jeans.

“You	 really	 are	 a	 pretty	 young	 woman.	 You

resemble	 your	 aunt.	 She	 had	 the	 same	 lovely	 red

hair	 and	 brown	 eyes.”

“Thank	 you.	 I’d	 like	 to	 see	 a	 photo	 of	 her.”



23

“Oh,	 you	 wil .	 Now,	 let’s	 get	 down	 to	 the

unfortunate	 task	 of	 business,	 shall	 we?”	 Archie

pulls	 some	 papers	 out	 of	 a	 leather	 binder.	 “This	 is

Ginnie’s	 wil .	 I	 want	 to	 review	 the	 details	 with	 you

until	 you	 are	 satisfied.”	 Archie	 pauses	 and	 looks	 at

me	 with	 a	 solemn	 expression,	 exhaling	 a	 breath	 as

if	 pushing	 out	 his	 sadness.	 “Before	 we	 start,	 I	 also

want	 to	 tel 	 you	 that	 Ginnie	 was	 my	 dear	 friend	 for

many	 years,	 the	 last	 thirty	 years	 of	 my	 life,	 actually.

They	 were	 the	 best	 years,	 knowing	 Ginnie.	 She	 kept

our	 circle	 of	 friends	 together	 and	 helped	 so	 many.

There	 was	 no	 one	 else	 like	 this	 special	 woman,	 and

I	 know	 you	 don’t	 remember	 her,	 but	 she

remembered	 you	 and	 kept	 track	 of	 you	 over	 the

years.”

“Why	 didn’t	 she	 contact	 me?	 I	 mean,	 it	 wasn’t

until	 you	 called	 that	 I	 remembered	 her.	 I	 think	 the

last	 time	 I	 was	 here	 was	 when	 I	 was	 around	 five	 or

six	 and	 then	 my	 parents	 never	 brought	 me	 back,	 so

it	 was	 definitely	 a	 shock	 when	 you	 found	 me.	 I

know	 I	 have	 to	 call	 my	 parents	 to	 find	 out	 why	 they

kept	 this	 from	 me,	 but	 why	 didn’t	 Aunt	 Virginia	 call

me?	 Email	 me?	 Anything?”



24

“I’m	 sorry	 you	 are	 finding	 out	 this	 way.”	 He

truly	 looks	 regretful	 with	 his	 furrowed	 brow.	 “Al 	 I

can	 tel 	 you	 is	 that	 Ginnie	 and	 your	 parents—well,

your	 mother—had	 a	 falling	 out	 when	 you	 were	 a

child.	 That’s	 why	 Ginnie	 was	 cut-‐off	 from	 you.	 It’s

not	 my	 place	 to	 share	 the	 details.	 As	 per	 her

instructions,	 she	 was	 cremated	 last	 week	 and	 her

friends—the	 town—held	 a	 memorial	 service.	 She

didn’t	 think	 you	 should	 be	 there.	 Why	 start	 out	 on

a	 sad	 note,	 right?”

Archie	 pul s	 a	 sealed	 envelope	 out	 of	 a	 packet

and	 hands	 it	 to	 me.	 I	 reach	 for	 the	 ivory	 linen

envelope	 that	 has	 my	 name	 elegantly	 scrawled

across	 it	 in	 what	 must	 be	 my	 aunt’s	 shaky	 hand.

“She	 explains	 everything	 in	 the	 letter.	 She

wrote	 it	 this	 past	 winter	 while	 she	 was	 quite	 sick.

After	 the	 paperwork	 here,	 I’l 	 take	 you	 to	 her

home—your	 home—and	 you	 can	 have	 some	 time

to	 read	 the	 letter	 there.”

I	 nod	 as	 a	 small	 wave	 of	 grief	 for	 a	 woman	 I

barely	 remember	 washes	 over	 me.	 The	 loneliness

of	 finding	 out	 about	 someone	 who	 cares	 about	 you,

only	 to	 discover	 they	 have	 died	 before	 you	 can	 be



25

with	 them,	 is	 another	 one	 of	 life’s	 cruel	 ironies.	 It’s

the	 sense	 of	 losing	 that	 has	 been	 riding	 piggyback

with	 me	 for	 the	 last	 twenty	 years.	 The	 anger	 I	 feel

towards	 my	 parents	 prevents	 me	 from	 crying	 for

my	 aunt;	 the	 family	 I	 could	 have	 had.

“My	 aunt’s	 friends	 must	 think	 I’m	 a	 terrible

person	 for	 not	 being	 here	 last	 week,”	 I	 say,	 hearing

my	 voice	 tremble	 a	 little.

“Not	 at	 all.	 They	 know	 Ginnie	 didn’t	 want	 you

to	 come	 to	 a	 funeral	 and	 remember	 her	 as	 a

stranger.	 She	 wants	 you	 to	 be	 a	 part	 of	 her	 life	 now.

It’s	 all	 in	 her	 home	 and	 the	 friends	 she	 left	 behind.

Everything	 about	 Ginnie	 is	 in	 Hera	 and	 she	 left	 it	 for

you	 to	 enjoy.	 You’l 	 see	 what	 I	 mean	 when	 we	 go	 to

her	 house.	 I	 mean,	 your	 house.”	 Archie	 gives	 me	 a

reassuring	 smile.	 “Let’s	 have	 you	 sign	 off	 on	 these

papers	 and	 have	 a	 quick	 lunch	 before	 we	 head	 over

to	 the	 house.”

“Oh,	 Mr.	 Bixby—Archie,	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 take

me	 to	 lunch—”

“Yes,	 I	 do.	 Ginnie	 wrote	 it	 in	 her	 instructions.

‘Take	 Jessica	 to	 lunch	 at	 Bonnie’s’.”



26

I	 laugh,	 grateful	 that	 he	 is	 lightening	 the	 mood

for	 my	 benefit.





27





Three



We	 leave	 my	 bags	 in	 his	 office	 and	 walk	 the

fifty	 paces	 across	 the	 street	 to	 the	 diner	 with	 the

sign, Bonnie’s.	 I	 can’t	 help	 thinking	 of	 this	 place	 as

something	 out	 of	 an	 old	 cowboy	 movie,	 even

though	 it’s	 green	 instead	 of	 dusty	 with	 Toyotas	 and

Hondas	 instead	 of	 horses	 and,	 of	 course,	 a	 diner

instead	 of	 a	 saloon.	 Something	 about	 Hera	 is	 very

calming	 and	 welcoming.

Inside	 the	 diner,	 there	 are	 quite	 a	 few	 patrons

eating	 lunch	 at	 the	 tables	 and	 booths	 who	 all	 nod

to	 Archie	 as	 we	 enter;	 even	 the	 curvaceous,	 sultry-‐

looking	 waitress	 who	 is	 running	 around	 with	 a

water	 pitcher	 gives	 Archie	 a	 smile	 and	 wave	 as	 we

sit	 at	 the	 old-‐fashioned	 counter	 with	 its	 chrome,

swivel	 bucket	 stools.

“Hi	 Archie!”	 says	 a	 pretty,	 blond	 waitress	 on

the	 other	 side	 of	 the	 counter.



28

“Lauren.	 This	 is	 Jessica	 Channing.	 Ginnie’s

niece.”	 Archie’s	 slow	 enunciation	 of	 my	 name

makes	 me	 feel	 special,	 as	 if	 people	 have	 been

waiting	 for	 my	 arrival.

“Wow,”	 Lauren	 says	 and	 puts	 her	 hand	 across

the	 counter	 for	 a	 handshake.

I	 take	 her	 firm	 grip.	 “It’s	 nice	 to	 meet	 you,”	 I

say.

“So	 this	 must	 be	 an	 awful	 shock	 for	 you,”

Lauren	 says	 as	 she	 hands	 us	 very	 large,	 laminated

menus.

“Just	 two	 Bonnie	 Burgers,	 dear,”	 Archie	 says	 to

Lauren	 handing	 back	 the	 menus.	 “Oh,	 unless	 you’re

a	 vegetarian,”	 he	 says	 to	 me.

“No,	 a	 burger	 would	 be	 great.”

Archie	 winks	 at	 Lauren	 as	 if	 it’s	 her	 signal	 to

scamper	 off	 before	 I	 can	 respond	 to	 her	 comment

about	 my	 sad	 news.	 I	 suppose	 Archie	 wants	 to

protect	 me	 and	 I	 find	 that	 touching.

We	 eat	 our	 delicious	 burgers	 with	 gusto.	 For	 a

slight	 man,	 even	 Archie	 seems	 enamored	 with	 the

half	 pound	 of	 gril ed	 meat	 that’s	 slathered	 with

mushrooms,	 Brie,	 roasted	 peppers	 and	 leeks.	 The



29

waffle	 fries	 come	 with	 guacamole	 and	 a	 spicy

mayonnaise.	 I	 am	 in	 a	 glutinous	 heaven,	 stuffing

my	 mouth	 in	 a	 very	 un-‐lady-‐like	 manner	 as	 Archie

slows	 down	 and	 begins	 tel ing	 me	 about	 Hera.

The	 population	 is	 nine	 hundred	 eighty-‐four

and	 town	 picnics	 happen	 frequently	 at	 the	 end	 of

the	 main	 street	 by	 the	 historic	 water	 fountain

whenever	 the	 weather	 is	 nice	 and	 the	 mood	 strikes

the	 town	 folk.	 He	 actually	 uses	 the	 term	 town	 folk

and	 I	 giggle	 in	 between	 bites	 of	 food.

At	 that	 moment	 a	 stout,	 sixty-‐something-‐year-‐

old	 woman	 comes	 out	 of	 the	 kitchen	 dressed	 in	 a

blouse	 with	 a	 large	 flower	 print	 and	 an	 up-‐do	 I

think	 originated	 in	 the	 60’s	 when	 aerosol	 hair	 spray

was	 a	 necessity.	 She	 rounds	 the	 corner	 of	 the

counter	 and	 waddles	 towards	 us	 to	 pat	 Archie’s

back	 with	 her	 chubby	 hand.	 Archie	 introduces	 her

as	 the	 Bonnie	 of	 Bonnie’s	 Diner	 and	 the	 other

waitress,	 the	 curvy	 brunette,	 as	 her	 granddaughter,

Imogene.

“Now	 you	 almost	 know	 everyone	 in	 town,”

Lauren	 jokes.	 “I	 hope	 you	 stay.	 I	 grew	 up	 here	 and	 I

came	 back	 every	 summer	 during	 school	 break.



30

Imogene	 and	 I	 work	 in	 the	 diner	 full-‐time	 and	 just

hang	 out	 now.	 It’s	 so	 relaxing	 here	 compared	 to

city	 life	 and	 col ege.”

I	 find	 out	 that	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 both

graduated	 from	 Syracuse	 Col ege	 last	 year	 and	 they

are	 back	 in	 Hera	 trying	 to	 figure	 out	 what	 to	 do

next.	 That	 puts	 them	 at	 least	 a	 couple	 years	 older

than	 me	 and	 new	 to	 the	 workforce.	 I	 don’t	 envy

them	 trying	 to	 find	 entry-‐level	 jobs	 with	 degrees	 in

English	 and	 History.

“Oh	 boy,	 here’s	 trouble,”	 Lauren	 says,	 looking

over	 my	 shoulder.	 I	 turn	 around	 to	 see	 a	 very	 cute

guy	 walk	 into	 the	 diner.	 He’s	 what	 I’d	 call	 a	 summer

boy,	 the	 Ralph	 Lauren	 ad;	 a	 tall,	 tan,	 athletic	 guy

who	 sports	 sun-‐bleached	 light	 brown	 curls	 and	 a

casually	 confident	 air. Sure,	 I	 can	 surf.	 Sure,	 I	 play

polo,	 who	 doesn’t?	 Sure,	 I	 scuba	 dive,	 sky	 dive	 and

ski	 off	 cliffs.

Everyone	 is	 saying	 hel o	 to	 the	 cute	 guy	 whose

name	 I	 find	 out	 is	 Dylan.	 He	 makes	 a	 beeline	 right

for	 us	 as	 he	 stares	 at	 me	 with	 a	 big	 grin	 and	 perfect

white	 teeth.	 He’s	 a	 stunning	 picture	 of	 good	 health

and	 attractiveness.	 The	 Hera	 Chamber	 of



31

Commerce	 should	 consider	 erecting	 a	 “Welcome”

bil board	 at	 the	 entrance	 of	 town	 with	 Dylan’s

smiling	 face	 on	 it.

“I	 heard	 Archie	 has	 a	 visitor.”	 He	 beams	 at	 me.

I	 force	 the	 last	 bit	 of	 food	 down	 my	 throat,	 silently

wishing	 I	 could	 rush	 off	 to	 the	 restroom	 to	 brush

my	 teeth.

“Dylan,	 Jessica,”	 Archie	 introduces,	 nodding

towards	 me.

Dylan’s	 smile	 is	 overwhelming.	 Up	 close,	 he

radiates	 a	 sexual	 aura	 that	 enthralls	 me

immediately.	 I	 smile	 and	 genuinely	 feel	 happiness

soar	 through	 me	 as	 he	 takes	 my	 hand	 in	 his	 warm,

calloused	 one.

“Hi	 there.”	 I	 try	 to	 be	 as	 casual	 as	 possible

even	 though	 he	 has	 made	 my	 nerves	 jump	 to	 new

heights.

“Hi	 there,	 yourself,”	 he	 says.	 “I’m	 glad	 I	 finally

get	 to	 meet	 the	 famous	 Jessica.	 Ginnie	 talked

about	 you	 a	 lot.”

I	 can’t	 believe	 these	 people	 know	 about	 me

when	 I	 can	 barely	 remember	 my	 aunt.	 I	 wasn’t

even	 aware	 she	 was	 alive	 or	 that	 this	 community



32

stil 	 existed	 less	 than	 two	 hours	 from	 my	 home	 in

Manhattan.

My	 thoughts	 must	 have	 given	 me	 a	 slightly

panicked	 expression	 because	 Lauren	 jumps	 in	 to

remedy	 Dylan’s	 bluntness.	 “It’s	 okay,”	 she	 says	 to

me.	 “We	 know	 Ginnie	 wasn’t	 in	 touch	 with	 you	 and

that	 you	 didn’t	 know	 that	 she	 was	 tracking	 you	 all

these	 years.”

“She	 only	 said	 good	 things	 about	 you,”	 Dylan

adds	 as	 I	 gently	 release	 his	 hand.

“This	 is	 all	 new	 to	 me,”	 I	 say.	 “Twenty-‐four

hours	 ago,	 I	 didn’t	 even	 remember	 that	 Hera

existed,	 and	 now	 I’m	 meeting	 all	 of	 you	 and

hearing	 about	 my	 aunt.	 It’s	 like	 finding	 out	 about	 a

parallel	 existence	 in	 a	 way.	 I	 know	 that	 sounds

dumb.”	 I	 also	 now	 feel	 sort	 of	 dumb	 for	 saying	 that.

“You’re	 right,	 dear.	 You	 were	 a	 specter	 in	 this

town.	 Ginnie	 talked	 about	 you	 for	 years	 so	 we

knew	 about	 you,	 but	 you	 had	 no	 real	 memories	 of

Ginnie	 and	 our	 little	 town	 here,”	 Archie	 says,

pushing	 his	 plate	 away.

“My	 parents	 should	 have	 told	 me	 all	 of	 this.”	 It

would	 have	 been	 a	 sad,	 nostalgic	 moment	 for	 me



33

to	 ponder	 about	 not	 having	 Aunt	 Ginnie	 in	 my	 life,

but	 Dylan	 leans	 on	 the	 counter	 between	 Archie	 and

me,	 fil ing	 up	 the	 space	 with	 his	 ruddy	 masculinity,

and	 all	 I	 can	 do	 is	 swoon	 a	 little	 bit.

“I	 say,	 we	 go	 to	 the	 house	 and	 jog	 your

memory	 a	 little	 bit,”	 Dylan	 says	 to	 me.

“That’s	 the	 plan,”	 Archie	 says.

“I’l 	 go	 with	 you	 and	 give	 you	 the	 tour.	 I	 know

that	 place	 better	 than	 anyone.	 Carson	 and	 I	 are	 stil

working	 on	 Ginnie’s	 To-‐Do	 list,”	 Dylan	 says	 with

contagious	 enthusiasm.

“List?”

“Dylan	 and	 Carson,	 that	 surly	 man	 in	 my	 office,

have	 been	 doing	 a	 significant	 amount	 of	 carpentry

for	 Ginnie,”	 Archie	 says.	 “And	 now	 Dylan	 and	 his

brother	 work	 for	 you.”

“That’s	 right;	 you’re	 my	 client.”	 Dylan	 smiles.

“That	 sounds	 like	 fun,”	 Imogene	 says,

approaching	 us	 with	 an	 armload	 of	 dirty	 dishes.

“But,	 Lauren,	 it’s	 time	 for	 you	 to	 get	 back	 to	 work.”

Lauren	 gives	 Imogene	 an	 exaggerated	 eye	 rol

and	 pushes	 herself	 away	 from	 the	 counter.



34

“Archie	 is	 going	 to	 convince	 you	 to	 stay,	 at

least	 for	 a	 while,	 so	 Lauren	 and	 I	 wil 	 be	 up	 to	 visit

you	 at	 the	 house	 real	 soon,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “And,

Jessica,	 I’m	 very	 sorry	 for	 your	 loss.	 I’m	 sorry	 you

didn’t	 get	 to	 know	 Ginnie	 the	 way	 we	 did.”

As	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 leave	 to	 attend	 to

customers,	 sadness	 and	 guilt	 sweep	 over	 me	 at	 the

image	 of	 Aunt	 Virginia.	 To	 think	 I	 could	 have	 had

someone	 besides	 my	 parents	 to	 lean	 on	 through

my	 lonely	 years	 as	 my	 parents’	 only	 child,	 their

prodigy.	 It	 would	 have	 helped	 me	 tremendously.

Archie	 pats	 my	 hand.	 “It’s	 too	 hard	 to	 explain

here,”	 he	 says.	 “Dylan,	 bring	 that	 monstrous

vehicle	 of	 yours	 around	 front	 and	 we’l 	 take	 Jessica

and	 her	 luggage	 up	 to	 the	 house.”

“My	 pleasure,”	 Dylan	 responds	 while	 looking

at	 me.	 I	 have	 a	 stupid	 grin	 plastered	 on	 my	 face,

like	 the	 inexperienced	 geek	 that	 I	 am.





35





Four



After	 Dylan	 fetches	 my	 bags	 from	 Archie’s

office,	 he	 comes	 back	 to	 the	 diner	 in	 a	 red	 Jeep

Wrangler	 that	 is	 caked	 with	 so	 many	 layers	 of	 dried

mud	 that	 it	 makes	 me	 wonder	 what	 this	 guy	 does

for	 fun	 during	 his	 down	 time.	 The	 hard	 top	 has

been	 removed	 from	 the	 vehicle,	 which	 I	 suppose	 is

to	 be	 expected	 from	 an	 athletic	 guy	 who	 looks	 like

he	 spends	 most	 of	 his	 time	 outdoors.

Archie	 is	 put	 off	 by	 the	 general	 filth	 of	 the

vehicle	 and	 lays	 a	 hankie	 on	 the	 front	 seat	 before

buckling	 himself	 in.	 I	 climb	 in	 the	 back	 seat	 and

Dylan	 gives	 me	 another	 smile	 accompanied	 by	 a

wink	 in	 the	 rearview	 mirror.	 That	 winking-‐smiling

business	 is	 going	 to	 be	 the	 end	 of	 me.	 I	 can	 see

how	 it	 can	 manipulate	 women	 like	 an	 addictive

drug.	 I	 put	 on	 my	 sunglasses	 to	 block	 out	 his	 power,

yet	 it	 doesn’t	 seem	 to	 lessen	 his	 charm	 one	 bit.	 He

keeps	 glancing	 at	 me	 in	 the	 mirror	 throughout	 the



36

drive	 and	 I’m	 pretty	 sure	 he	 can	 tel 	 I’m	 looking	 at

him	 even	 with	 my	 sunglasses	 on.

It’s	 about	 a	 ten	 minute	 drive	 to	 Aunt	 Virginia’s

home;	 off	 the	 main	 street	 and	 through	 roughly

paved	 roads	 that	 have	 little	 to	 no	 traffic.	 I	 only	 see

a	 few	 old	 homes	 along	 the	 way,	 most	 of	 them	 far

back	 from	 the	 road	 with	 long,	 dirt	 driveways	 and

acres	 of	 wild	 land.	 It’s	 green,	 lush	 and	 absolutely

nothing	 like	 my	 city	 life.	 As	 we	 bounce	 along	 a

particularly	 bad	 road,	 Archie	 holds	 onto	 the	 rol 	 bar

above	 and	 an	 insect	 flies	 into	 my	 mouth.	 I’m

horrified	 and	 struggle	 to	 spit	 it	 out	 while	 Dylan

laughs	 loudly	 as	 he	 watches	 my	 comic	 antics

through	 the	 rear	 view	 mirror.

Okay,	 bugs-‐in-‐mouth,	 that’s	 one	 check	 against

Hera.	 Hot	 gorgeous	 guy	 in	 Archie’s	 office	 and	 cute

guy	 who	 drives	 a	 rough	 and	 tumble	 Jeep	 with	 a

sexy	 laugh	 to	 boot,	 that’s	 worth	 at	 least	 ten	 checks

for	 Hera.

“There	 it	 is,”	 Archie	 yel s	 over	 Dylan’s	 grinding

gears	 as	 he	 down	 shifts	 to	 climb	 up	 the	 dirt	 road	 to

a	 large	 Victorian	 house.

“Wow.”



37

The	 home	 is	 painted	 a	 hunter	 green	 with

brown	 shutters.	 Since	 I	 have	 only	 lived	 in	 small

New	 York	 and	 Cambridge	 apartments	 my	 whole	 life,

any	 house	 seems	 large	 to	 me;	 however,	 Aunt

Virginia’s	 house—well,	 my	 new	 house—is	 outright

huge.	 It	 has	 an	 incredible,	 wraparound	 porch	 and

at	 least	 three	 stories	 with	 actual	 turrets	 and

alcoves.	 It’s	 beautiful,	 like	 a	 walk	 back	 in	 time	 to

the	 1800’s,	 and	 I	 ful y	 expect	 to	 see	 a	 woman	 with

her	 hair	 piled	 on	 her	 head,	 dressed	 in	 a	 vintage

white	 linen	 dress,	 gliding	 out	 onto	 the	 porch	 or

veranda	 with	 an	 iced	 tea.

My	 imagination	 gets	 away	 from	 me	 as	 I

analyze	 this	 enormous	 house	 that	 looks	 much	 too

big	 for	 someone	 as	 small	 as	 me.	 Seriously,	 this	 is	 a

house	 for	 a	 big	 family	 or	 a	 bunch	 of	 ghosts	 who	 are

into	 some	 serious	 haunting.

“Wait	 until	 you	 see	 the	 inside,	 Jess,”	 Dylan	 says.

“It’s	 a	 masterpiece.”	 I’m	 stil 	 stuck	 on	 him	 calling

me	 Jess,	 as	 though	 we	 already	 know	 each	 other	 so

well.

As	 I	 push	 myself	 out	 of	 the	 Jeep,	 Dylan	 is

instantly	 at	 my	 side,	 holding	 my	 arm	 to	 assist	 with



38

the	 jump	 to	 the	 ground,	 but	 right	 as	 I’m	 about	 to

step	 out,	 he	 grabs	 my	 waist	 with	 both	 of	 his	 hands

and	 lifts	 me	 out.

“Oh,”	 I	 say,	 startled	 and	 feeling	 incredibly

bril iant	 with	 words	 because	 a	 handsome	 guy	 has

surprised	 me.

“Thought	 I’d	 save	 you	 a	 step	 or	 two,”	 he	 says,

stil 	 keeping	 a	 firm	 grip	 on	 my	 waist.

I	 raise	 my	 sunglasses	 and	 prop	 them	 on	 my

head,	 but	 can	 think	 of	 nothing	 to	 say	 to	 him.

“Come	 on,	 let’s	 go!”	 Archie	 shouts	 with	 his

back	 to	 us,	 already	 halfway	 up	 the	 stone	 path	 to

the	 front	 door.

“Ah.”	 Dylan	 puts	 his	 hands	 down	 and	 studies

my	 face.	 “It’s	 nice	 to	 finally	 have	 you	 here.”

“Thank	 you,”	 I	 say	 awkwardly.	 “Despite	 the

circumstances,	 I	 think	 I’m	 happy	 to	 be	 here,	 too.	 At

least,	 I’m	 intrigued.”

I	 head	 up	 the	 walkway	 after	 Archie,	 and	 Dylan

fol ows	 close	 enough	 behind	 me	 that	 I	 can	 hear	 his

soft	 breaths.	 I’ve	 only	 just	 met	 him,	 however,	 this

feels	 good	 and	 it	 seems	 right.	 I	 look	 up	 at	 the



39

magnificent	 house	 and	 then	 at	 the	 blue	 sky	 as	 I

wonder	 why	 my	 aunt	 orchestrated	 all	 of	 this	 for	 me.

“The	 first	 step	 creaks	 and	 sounds	 loose,	 but	 it’s

okay,”	 Dylan	 says	 as	 we	 take	 the	 wide,	 wooden

staircase	 up	 to	 the	 porch	 where	 Archie	 is	 waiting

for	 us.	 “It’s	 on	 our	 list.”

“What	 list,	 again?”

“Carson	 and	 I	 have	 been	 working	 for	 Ginnie	 for

the	 last	 three	 months.	 Redoing	 floors	 and	 cabinetry.

Right	 now,	 we’re	 working	 on	 the	 bookshelves.”

“Ginnie	 decided	 that	 she	 wanted	 to	 fix	 up	 the

whole	 house	 and	 add	 some	 new	 things,”	 Archie

adds.

“Why?	 I	 mean,	 she	 was	 il ;	 why	 did	 she	 want	 to

work	 on	 the	 house?	 Oh,	 God.	 I’m	 sorry.	 That	 was	 a

callous	 thing	 to	 say.”

“No	 worries.	 She	 did	 this	 for	 you,	 dear,”	 Archie

answers.

“It’s	 a	 great	 house,”	 Dylan	 says.	 “Great	 bones.

Ginnie	 wanted	 to	 preserve	 it	 even	 if	 she	 couldn’t

be	 here	 to	 enjoy	 it.	 She	 talked	 about	 making	 it	 a

special	 place	 for	 you.”



40

He	 pul s	 a	 set	 of	 keys	 out	 of	 his	 jean	 pocket

and	 unlocks	 the	 heavy	 front	 door	 that	 looks	 as

though	 it	 has	 been	 stripped	 and	 re-‐stained	 with	 a

stunning	 vintage	 doorknocker	 added	 for	 those	 who

don’t	 know	 how	 to	 work	 a	 doorbel .	 I	 then	 realize

there	 is	 no	 doorbel .

Dylan	 pushes	 the	 door	 open	 and	 lets	 Archie	 go

through	 first.	 As	 I	 proceed	 to	 fol ow,	 Dylan	 jumps	 in

front	 of	 me	 and	 I	 slam	 my	 nose	 into	 his	 hard	 chest.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,	 before	 you	 go	 in	 there,	 I	 want	 you	 to

know	 that	 the	 whole	 place	 is	 a	 work	 in	 progress.

Some	 rooms	 are	 pretty	 dirty	 and	 we	 have

equipment	 everywhere.”

I	 rub	 my	 nose	 and	 look	 up	 at	 him. Hera	 sure

produces	 tal 	 dudes.	 I	 judge	 Dylan	 to	 be	 about	 six-‐

two,	 shorter	 than	 Carson,	 but	 almost	 a	 foot	 taller

than	 me.	 “It’s	 fine.	 If	 you	 saw	 my	 apartment,	 you

wouldn’t	 even	 be	 worried	 about	 such	 things.”

“Wel ,	 you’re	 going	 to	 be	 staying	 here	 and	 I

want	 to	 make	 sure	 you’re	 comfortable,”	 he	 says

softly,	 so	 Archie	 can’t	 hear	 I	 presume.	 “Don’t

worry;	 your	 room	 hasn’t	 been	 touched.	 Yet.”



41

He	 grins	 and	 the	 heat	 rises	 in	 my	 face.	 What

does	 yet	 mean? Yet,	 he’s	 going	 to	 actual y	 repair

things	 in	 my	 bedroom?	 Or,	 yet,	 meaning	 he’s	 going

to	 touch	 something	 in	 my	 designated	 bedroom?

And	 why	 does	 my	 brain	 go	 on	 and	 on	 with	 these

sexual	 thoughts? While	 I	 have	 these	 thoughts	 he

grabs	 my	 hand	 and	 leads	 me	 into	 the	 grand

entryway.

“It’s	 a	 mansion,”	 I	 state,	 taking	 in	 the	 polished

wood	 banister	 and	 staircase	 that	 winds	 up	 three

more	 flights.

“No,	 but	 it’s	 very	 large	 and	 requires	 quite	 a	 bit

of	 upkeep.”	 Archie	 appears	 from	 another	 room,

glancing	 at	 our	 hands	 with	 his	 eyebrows	 arched.

Dylan	 is	 stil 	 clenching	 my	 hand	 so	 I	 wriggle	 mine

out	 and	 begin	 to	 walk	 around	 the	 front	 hall	 with	 a

nonchalant	 air	 to	 shake	 off	 the	 Dylan	 effects.

“This	 young	 man	 is	 a	 little	 tuckered	 out,	 and

yes,	 I’m	 referring	 to	 me,	 so	 I’m	 going	 to	 perch

myself	 in	 one	 of	 those	 comfy	 wingbacks.”	 Archie

walks	 back	 into	 the	 living	 room	 towards	 the	 only

chair	 not	 covered	 by	 a	 plastic	 tarp.	 The	 rest	 of	 the

furniture	 has	 been	 pushed	 to	 one	 side	 and	 covered



42

so	 a	 table	 saw	 and	 equipment	 can	 utilize	 most	 of

the	 space.

Archie	 leans	 and	 falls	 into	 the	 chair	 as	 any	 stiff

octogenarian	 might	 and	 the	 image	 of	 him	 makes

me	 think	 of	 Aunt	 Virginia	 sitting	 there	 reading	 her

paper	 as	 she	 drinks	 her	 morning	 cup	 of	 coffee

while	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 work	 around	 her	 sawing

away	 at	 something.	 In	 my	 vision,	 they	 make	 a

racket,	 yet	 Aunt	 Virginia	 welcomes	 the	 noise	 and

the	 company	 of	 two	 energetic,	 handsome	 men.

Then,	 when	 it	 is	 time,	 she	 wil 	 make	 them	 a	 lunch

that	 they’l 	 enjoy	 on	 the	 porch’s	 wicker	 dining	 set.

Maybe	 it’s	 the	 town,	 or	 the	 home	 from	 another	 era,

but	 somehow	 I	 think	 my	 aunt	 had	 a	 wonderful	 life

with	 her	 makeshift	 family	 and	 it	 was	 much	 more

interesting	 than	 the	 one	 I	 lead.

“Dylan,	 give	 this	 lovely	 girl	 a	 tour	 of	 her	 home.

You	 know	 these	 walls	 better	 than	 anyone,”	 Archie

instructs.

“Absolutely.”	 Dylan	 turns	 to	 me.	 “Come	 this

way,	 lovely	 girl.”

I	 fol ow	 him	 up	 the	 winding	 staircase	 and,

while	 I	 admire	 the	 rich	 buttery	 tones	 of	 the	 wood



43

paneling	 and	 the	 modern	 touches	 of	 contemporary

paintings	 to	 make	 the	 home	 brighter,	 I’m	 really

focused	 on	 Dylan’s	 cute	 backside.	 I	 try	 to	 suppress

a	 giggle;	 I	 never	 find	 myself	 in	 these	 types	 of

situations	 and	 it’s	 highly	 amusing	 that	 I	 have	 this

hunky	 guy	 to	 myself.

Dylan	 reaches	 the	 first	 floor	 and	 spins	 around.

“What,	 lovely	 girl?”	 he	 asks.	 “What’s	 so	 funny?

You’re	 bruising	 my	 ego	 with	 all	 that	 giggling	 behind

my	 back.”

“Nothing,	 I’m	 stil 	 in	 shock	 at	 being	 here,	 I

think.	 And	 don’t	 call	 me	 ‘lovely	 girl’.	 It’s	 sweet

coming	 from	 Archie,	 but	 it’s	 a	 little	 smarmy	 coming

from	 you.”

Dylan’s	 smile	 fades	 and	 that	 alone	 makes	 me

waver.	 I	 was	 only	 teasing	 him;	 I	 don’t	 really	 think

he’s	 the	 smarmy	 type,	 so	 why	 did	 I	 say	 something

that	 could	 possibly	 be	 hurtful?

“I’m	 sorry.	 It	 wasn’t	 intended	 to	 be	 creepy.”

“My	 fault.	 I’m	 very	 defensive.	 It’s	 part	 of	 being

an	 only	 child	 driven	 by	 obsessive,	 demanding

parents.”	 I	 give	 him	 a	 weak	 smile	 and	 a	 nervous

laugh.



44

Dylan	 studies	 my	 face	 intently.	 For	 once	 I	 don’t

blush	 and	 look	 away	 like	 I	 normally	 would.	 I	 take	 in

his	 baby-‐face	 good	 looks	 with	 his	 big	 blue	 eyes	 and

ful 	 lips,	 and	 I	 know	 that	 he	 must	 have	 been	 very

popular	 in	 school	 while	 I	 would	 have	 been	 the	 shy

girl	 who	 watched	 him	 from	 a	 distance.	 I	 don’t	 know

how	 long	 the	 moment	 lasts,	 but	 it	 could	 go	 on

forever	 for	 all	 I	 care.	 For	 the	 first	 time,	 I	 don’t	 have

to	 rush	 off	 to	 a	 class	 or	 work,	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 bury

my	 head	 in	 front	 of	 a	 computer	 to	 get	 a	 job	 done

and	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 dance	 with	 a	 guy	 who’s

attractiveness	 disappears	 the	 minute	 he	 opens	 his

mouth	 or	 puts	 his	 hands	 on	 me	 in	 a	 way	 that	 gives

me	 the	 wil ies.	 For	 once,	 I	 can	 breathe	 and	 simply

stare	 at	 this	 person	 in	 front	 of	 me.

“Why	 would	 you	 be	 defensive	 about	 a

compliment?	 I’m	 sure	 you’ve	 heard	 it	 a	 thousand

times	 before,”	 he	 says,	 sounding	 more	 serious.

“Heard	 what	 before?”	 I	 ask,	 distracted	 by	 our

physical	 closeness	 as	 wel 	 as	 my	 wandering	 mind.

“That	 you’re	 beautiful,”	 he	 answers.	 I’m	 stil

studying	 his	 lips	 that	 said	 beautiful	 before	 I

understand	 what	 he’s	 saying.



45

“Oh,	 no.	 I	 mean,	 there’s	 always	 someone	 who

wil 	 say	 something	 flattering,	 but	 for	 the	 most	 part,

my	 parents	 only	 complimented	 my	 grades	 and	 test

scores,”	 I	 say,	 listening	 to	 how	 stupid	 my

explanation	 sounds.

“Your	 boyfriends	 must	 have	 told	 you	 how

pretty	 you	 are.	 You	 know,	 attention	 from	 guys	 who

aren’t	 Archie?	 Guys	 under	 one	 hundred?”

I	 laugh,	 but	 I	 don’t	 have	 an	 answer	 for	 him	 that

doesn’t	 make	 me	 look	 pathetic. Yes,	 I’m	 twenty,

but	 I’ve	 never	 had	 a	 real	 boyfriend	 because	 I’m	 a

serial	 dater.	 One	 date	 per	 guy	 and	 then	 I	 dump

them	 in	 disgust	 because	 I’m	 the	 smart,	 pretty	 girl

who	 only	 attracts	 jerks.	 Please	 don’t	 tel 	 me	 you’re

a	 jerk	 because	 I’m	 having	 too	 much	 fun	 for	 this	 to

end.

“Okay,	 sure.	 Guys	 have	 complimented	 me

before,	 so	 thank	 you	 for	 the	 compliment.	 Now	 let’s

move	 on.”	 I	 forge	 ahead	 and	 end	 up	 in	 what	 must

be	 the	 study.

I	 scan	 the	 room	 which	 is	 fil ed	 with	 leather

couches,	 the	 old,	 cracked	 kind	 that	 you	 can	 sink

into,	 stacks	 of	 books	 on	 the	 floor	 and	 in	 boxes,	 an



46

immense	 desk	 piled	 with	 more	 books,	 a	 ful 	 wall	 of

bay	 windows	 that	 overlook	 hil s	 of	 green	 and	 two

walls	 of	 built-‐in	 bookcases	 that	 are	 unfinished.

“This	 is	 the	 library.	 Carson	 and	 I	 have	 to	 finish

the	 shelving	 and	 stain	 it,	 and	 when	 it’s	 done,	 we’re

going	 to	 load	 about	 four	 thousand	 of	 Ginnie’s

books	 in	 here,	 and	 what	 do	 you	 mean,	 let’s	 move

on?	 Am	 I	 making	 you	 uncomfortable?”

“This	 room	 is	 fantastic.”	 I	 ignore	 his	 question.

“I	 can	 totally	 picture	 myself	 sitting	 at	 that	 desk	 with

my	 computer	 and	 looking	 out	 at	 that	 incredible

view.”	 I	 have	 my	 back	 to	 Dylan	 now	 and	 I’m	 hoping

that	 wil 	 stop	 him	 from	 asking	 about	 my	 personal

life,	 or	 rather,	 my	 sorry-‐ass	 dating	 life.	 Nope,	 that

doesn’t	 stop	 him.	 He	 barrels	 around	 the	 desk,	 in	 his

big,	 dirty	 work	 boots,	 stomping	 on	 my	 newly

inherited	 floor	 and	 gets	 right	 in	 my	 face.

“Can	 I	 assume	 by	 your	 obvious	 jitteriness	 that

you	 don’t	 have	 a	 boyfriend?”	 he	 asks,	 putting	 his

hand	 on	 my	 arm.	 His	 confident	 smile	 is	 back.

“No	 boyfriend.”	 Cringe.	 Admit	 defeat.

“Shit.	 I	 mean,	 excuse	 me.	 Shit,”	 he	 repeats.

Bingo,	 this	 is	 usual y	 when	 I	 discover	 a	 guy	 is	 an



47

ignorant,	 il iterate	 Neanderthal	 and	 I	 lose	 interest.

Actual y,	 Dylan,	 you’ve	 made	 it	 farther	 than	 most

guys.	 You’ve	 held	 my	 interest	 for	 almost	 a	 ful 	 hour!

I	 shake	 off	 his	 hand,	 walk	 to	 the	 window	 and

pretend	 to	 take	 great	 interest	 in	 the	 large,	 ancient

trees	 in	 the	 yard.	 “So	 when	 is	 all	 this	 renovation

work	 going	 to	 be	 done?”	 I	 ask,	 facing	 the	 window.

“When	 are	 you	 and	 your	 brother	 going	 to	 be	 out	 of

here?”

“Oh,	 wait	 a	 minute.”	 He	 laughs	 and	 turns	 me

around.	 “You	 aren’t	 getting	 rid	 of	 me	 that	 fast,	 and

you	 aren’t	 leaving	 this	 town	 without	 me	 getting	 at

least	 one	 date	 with	 you.”

“I	 just	 met	 you.	 How	 did	 we	 go	 from	 talking

about	 finishing	 bookcases	 to	 going	 on	 a	 date?”

“No,	 you	 think	 you	 just	 met	 me.	 I’ve	 known

you	 for	 years.	 Look	 around	 this	 room.	 Really	 look.”

I	 don’t	 know	 what	 he’s	 getting	 at,	 but	 I	 look

around	 the	 room.	 I	 see	 paintings	 on	 the	 floor,

leaning	 against	 the	 wall.	 The	 paintings	 of	 people

and	 abstract	 backgrounds	 are	 familiar;	 maybe

something	 Aunt	 Virginia	 painted	 years	 ago.	 At	 least

she	 and	 I	 have	 our	 art	 in	 common.	 Then	 the	 sun



48

comes	 through	 the	 window	 and	 strikes	 a	 swath	 of

golden	 light	 across	 the	 wide	 pine	 planks	 and	 the

crackled	 leather	 couch	 and	 I	 remember	 those

paintings	 hung	 on	 the	 wall	 where	 the	 bookcases

are	 currently	 being	 built.	 How	 do	 I	 know	 this?

Another	 memory	 assaults	 me;	 I	 am	 jumping	 off

the	 couch	 and	 being	 chased	 by	 a	 laughing	 boy.	 We

hide	 under	 the	 massive	 desk,	 covering	 our	 mouths

to	 suppress	 the	 laughter.	 Another	 voice	 calls	 our

names.	 It’s	 another	 boy,	 older	 than	 us.	 We	 hear

him	 jump	 on	 the	 desk.

“He	 jumped	 on	 the	 desk	 to	 scare	 us,”	 I	 say,

staring	 at	 the	 distance	 between	 the	 couch	 and	 the

desk	 caught	 in	 the	 sunlight.

“What?”	 Dylan	 asks.	 I	 turn	 back	 to	 him	 and	 I

can	 tel 	 he	 is	 excited	 that	 I’m	 remembering

something	 he	 knew	 all	 along.

“It’s	 you,”	 I	 barely	 whisper.

Dylan	 puts	 his	 hands	 up	 to	 my	 face.	 He	 is

gentle,	 but	 his	 firm	 touch	 and	 his	 scent	 give	 me	 a

pleasant	 jolt.	 “Do	 you	 remember	 me?”



49

“I’ve	 been	 here	 before.	 In	 this	 room.”	 Dylan

nods,	 though	 he	 doesn’t	 let	 go	 of	 my	 face.	 “You

were	 the	 boy	 hiding	 with	 me	 under	 the	 desk,	 right?”

“Yes.	 You	 were	 five—almost	 six—and	 I	 was

eight.	 We	 were	 hiding	 from	 Carson.	 Ginnie	 and

your	 mom	 had	 him	 babysit	 us	 while	 they	 went	 to

the	 farmers	 market.”

“Carson	 jumped	 on	 the	 desk	 to	 scare	 us	 and

we	 were	 laughing.”	 I	 notice	 I’m	 shaking.

Dylan	 lets	 go	 of	 my	 face	 and	 rests	 his	 hands	 on

my	 shoulders.	 “Yes,	 that	 was	 us.	 In	 this	 room.

Laughing.	 I	 remember	 everything	 about	 that

summer	 you	 lived	 here.”

“I	 lived	 here	 the	 whole	 summer?”

Dylan	 nods	 his	 head.	 “Carson	 and	 I	 lived	 here

that	 summer,	 too,	 and	 you	 and	 I	 played	 together

every	 day.	 I	 didn’t	 think	 I	 could	 stand	 being	 with	 a

five-‐year-‐old,	 but	 you	 were	 so	 smart	 and	 we	 had	 a

lot	 of	 fun	 together.	 It	 was	 right	 after	 my	 mom	 died

and	 Carson	 became	 so	 serious.	 He	 was	 eleven	 and

felt	 he	 had	 to	 watch	 over	 me.	 He	 stopped	 being	 fun.

And	 then	 you	 came	 to	 town.”



50

I	 take	 in	 everything	 he	 is	 saying	 and	 will	 myself

to	 remember	 more.	 Dylan	 moves	 closer	 and	 puts

his	 head	 down	 to	 mine.	 “I	 have	 been	 waiting	 for

you	 to	 come	 back.”

There	 is	 so	 much	 longing	 in	 that	 statement,

but	 then	 I	 think	 I	 understand	 where	 it’s	 coming

from.	 We	 were	 children	 and	 maybe	 he	 feels	 I’m	 like

a	 long	 lost	 friend,	 perhaps	 someone	 very	 special	 to

him	 because	 I	 was	 regarded	 as	 unique.	 I	 was	 the

smart,	 mouthy	 little	 girl	 who	 could	 play	 with	 boys

and	 often	 act	 older	 than	 my	 age.

I	 feel	 a	 soft,	 forceful	 mouth	 on	 my	 lips.	 I	 open

my	 eyes	 at	 the	 same	 time	 I	 accept	 Dylan’s	 kiss.	 We

both	 pul 	 back	 simultaneously.	 I	 am	 confused	 and

nervous	 while	 Dylan	 simply	 looks	 amused.

“I	 missed	 you,	 Jess.	 I’ve	 thought	 about	 you	 a

lot	 over	 the	 last	 fifteen	 years.”

“I	 can’t	 believe	 you	 remember	 me.	 We	 were

little	 kids	 and	 it	 was	 one	 summer	 of	 hide	 and	 seek

and	 the	 baby	 pool.	 I	 remember	 that	 crappy	 little

pool!”



51

Dylan	 laughs.	 “The	 baby	 pool	 that	 Carson

would	 always	 turn	 over	 to	 make	 us	 miserable.	 Or

he’d	 chase	 us	 with	 the	 water	 hose.	 Remember?”

“My	 God,	 I	 do.	 We	 were	 the	 troublemakers

and	 he	 was	 the	 warden.”

“Don’t	 feel	 sorry	 for	 Carson;	 he	 got	 paid	 some

mighty	 fine	 coin	 to	 watch	 over	 us.”

“He	 didn’t	 say	 anything	 when	 I	 saw	 him	 at

Archie’s	 office.	 He	 barely	 acknowledged	 me.”	 I

think	 of	 the	 cold	 greeting	 I	 received	 from	 Carson

earlier	 that	 day.

Dylan	 shrugs.	 “It’s	 been	 hard	 for	 Carson.	 He

was	 devastated	 when	 our	 mom	 died	 and	 he	 felt	 it

was	 his	 job	 to	 be	 the	 man	 of	 the	 house.	 Our	 dad

was	 stil 	 alive	 then,	 but	 her	 death	 didn’t	 stop	 him

from	 disappearing	 for	 weeks	 at	 a	 time.	 Ginnie	 took

us	 in.	 I	 mean,	 we	 had	 a	 home	 with	 our	 dad,	 but

when	 he	 was	 gone,	 missing	 or	 whatever	 you	 want

to	 call	 it,	 we	 stayed	 here	 with	 Ginnie.”

“I	 didn’t	 know	 any	 of	 this,”	 I	 say	 with	 regret,

but	 also	 with	 a	 touch	 of	 mounting	 anger.	 “My

parents	 didn’t	 stay	 in	 touch	 with	 my	 aunt	 and	 I

didn’t	 know	 what	 happened.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 she	 was



52

stil 	 alive.	 Al 	 these	 memories	 faded.”	 I	 was	 getting

worked	 up	 and	 about	 to	 cry.

“I	 know.”	 Dylan’s	 hands	 are	 back	 on	 my	 arms

to	 comfort	 me.	 “I	 know,	 Jess.	 I	 know	 everything,

but	 we	 promised	 we	 wouldn’t	 find	 you	 and	 tel 	 you.

We	 promised	 Ginnie.”

“But	 I’m	 here	 now.	 Are	 you	 going	 to	 tel 	 me

what’s	 going	 on?”

“You	 better	 believe	 it.	 I’ve	 been	 waiting	 for	 this

day.	 Come	 on,	 let’s	 finish	 the	 tour	 to	 jog	 those

memories	 and	 then	 we’l 	 sit	 down	 with	 Arch	 to	 go

over	 things.”





53





Five



I’m	 surprised	 that	 our	 walk	 through	 three

floors	 and	 a	 basement,	 all	 of	 which	 consisted	 of

twelve	 rooms—five	 of	 which	 are	 bedrooms	 and

five	 bathrooms—doesn’t	 overwhelm	 me.	 I’m	 used

to	 three	 people	 living	 in	 the	 space	 of	 a	 walk-‐in

closet	 with	 one	 lousy,	 cramped	 bathroom.

Bits	 and	 pieces	 of	 memories	 come	 back	 as	 I

enter	 each	 new	 room.	 Some	 haven’t	 changed	 from

what	 I	 can	 remember;	 the	 same	 worn	 furniture	 or

an	 old-‐fashioned	 light	 fixture	 next	 to	 one	 of	 Aunt

Ginnie’s	 abstracts	 is	 enough	 to	 wake	 up	 some	 of

my	 stored	 memories.	 Dylan	 shows	 me	 photos	 in

my	 Aunt’s	 room.	 Dozens	 of	 frames	 showing	 a

beautiful,	 red-‐headed	 woman	 with	 various	 people.

My	 aunt	 was	 stunning;	 the	 camera	 captured	 her

vivacious	 joy.	 There	 are	 even	 a	 few	 photos	 of	 my

mother,	 young	 and	 beautiful,	 with	 me	 and	 two

young	 boys,	 Dylan	 and	 Carson.



54

Dylan	 takes	 his	 time	 walking	 me	 through	 each

room	 and	 describing	 repairs	 that	 have	 been	 done

or	 what	 needs	 to	 be	 done,	 however,	 underneath

his	 calm	 exterior,	 he	 is	 anxious	 to	 talk	 about	 the

years	 that	 have	 passed	 without	 me.

We	 finish	 downstairs	 in	 the	 pantry,	 a	 room	 of

smooth,	 worn,	 wood	 counters	 and	 floor-‐to-‐ceiling

cabinets.	 It’s	 a	 space	 directly	 off	 the	 kitchen

specifically	 designed	 for	 the	 cook	 who	 would

prepare	 elaborate	 meals	 for	 the	 grand	 dinners	 that

used	 to	 be	 hosted	 in	 the	 stately	 home	 over	 the	 last

century.

“This	 pantry	 is	 about	 the	 size	 of	 my	 first	 off-‐

campus	 apartment,”	 I	 tel 	 Dylan.

“There	 you	 two	 are!	 You	 forgot	 about	 me.	 I

forgot	 about	 me.	 I	 fel 	 asleep	 in	 that	 dusty	 chair

and	 you	 were	 gone	 so	 long	 I	 think	 I	 missed	 my

hundredth	 birthday.”	 Archie	 stands	 in	 the	 low

doorway	 to	 the	 pantry.

“Sorry,	 Arch.	 We	 had	 a	 lot	 of	 ground	 to	 cover,”

Dylan	 explains.	 “Jess	 remembers.”

Archie	 takes	 in	 a	 long	 slow	 breath.	 “Oh	 my.”



55

“I	 don’t	 remember	 everything.	 Just	 parts	 of

that	 summer	 I	 was	 here.	 Mostly	 images	 or	 events

that	 were	 highly	 entertaining	 for	 a	 five-‐year-‐old.

Most	 of	 those	 seem	 to	 include	 Dylan,	 but	 I’m

missing	 huge	 chunks.	 Dylan	 said	 you’d	 both	 fil 	 me

in.”

“Oh	 my,”	 Archie	 says	 again.	 “I	 didn’t	 expect	 all

of	 this	 to	 happen	 so	 fast.	 I	 thought	 it	 would	 be

discussed	 over	 days	 as	 you	 go	 through	 your	 aunt’s

possessions;	 however,	 I	 suppose	 the	 game	 has

changed	 now	 that	 you	 have	 a	 new	 awareness.”

“Isn’t	 it	 great?”	 Dylan	 says	 as	 more	 of	 a

statement	 rather	 than	 a	 question.

I’m	 stil 	 caught	 in	 a	 veil	 of	 confusion	 between

the	 kiss	 and	 Dylan	 divulging	 that	 he	 has	 missed	 me

all	 these	 years.	 Missed	 me	 in	 what	 way?

“Hmm,”	 Archie	 says	 with	 a	 tentative	 smile.

“Great	 it	 is,	 my	 dear.”

“Don’t	 do	 the	 Yoda	 thing	 on	 me,	 Arch,”	 Dylan

says.	 “I’m	 going	 to	 take	 Jess’s	 bags	 up	 to	 the	 yel ow

room.”



56

“That’s	 my	 old	 room,	 the	 one	 with	 the	 white

lilies	 on	 the	 yel ow	 wallpaper,	 right?”	 I	 shout	 like

I’m	 a	 game	 show	 contestant.

Archie	 is	 a	 little	 taken	 back	 by	 my	 enthusiasm.

“If	 this	 is	 how	 it	 works,	 I	 can	 tel 	 it’s	 going	 to	 be	 an

exhausting	 evening.”

Dylan	 is	 laughing.	 “Isn’t	 it	 a	 hoot?	 She’s	 like	 an

amnesia	 patient.”

Archie	 looks	 horrified	 with	 that	 comparison.

“Let’s	 make	 this	 less	 morbid,	 shall	 we?	 First,	 we’l

need	 food	 and	 beverages.	 Dylan,	 call	 Lauren	 and

Imogene.	 We’re	 going	 to	 need	 them.”

“I	 seriously	 doubt	 they	 want	 to	 shop	 and	 cook

for	 us	 after	 they’ve	 been	 working	 all	 day	 serving

other	 people,”	 Dylan	 comments.

“Of	 course,	 Dylan.	 I	 want	 you	 to	 order	 food

from	 Bonnie’s	 and	 have	 the	 girls	 bring	 it.	 We	 need

enough	 for	 five	 of	 us,	 no	 seven.	 I’m	 going	 to	 call…

you	 know	 what?	 No,	 wait.”	 Archie	 taps	 his	 head

with	 his	 finger.

“You’re	 slipping	 into	 Yoda	 again.	 Make	 sense,

old	 man.”



57

“Oh,	 fine.	 Order	 enough	 food	 to	 feed	 seven

and	 go	 down	 in	 the	 cel ar	 and	 bring	 up	 three

bottles	 of	 Bordeaux,”	 Archie	 says,	 leading	 us	 out	 of

the	 pantry	 and	 back	 to	 the	 front	 entryway.	 “Jessica,

I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 be	 overwhelmed	 with	 all	 these

people	 trying	 to	 fil 	 in	 missing	 pieces,	 but	 we’l

make	 this	 a	 celebratory	 occasion,	 not	 a	 time	 for

eulogies.”

“Great,	 a	 party.	 Do	 I	 have	 to	 call	 Carson?”	 I

sense	 that	 Dylan	 has	 no	 intention	 of	 calling	 his

brother.	 There’s	 some	 type	 of	 sibling	 conflict	 going

on	 there	 which	 is	 lost	 on	 me.

“Wel ,	 Carson	 should	 be	 here,	 but	 our	 moody

friend	 seems	 to	 have	 other	 things	 on	 his	 mind	 at

the	 moment.”	 Archie	 takes	 a	 cel 	 phone	 out	 of	 his

suit	 pocket.	 “I’m	 going	 to	 go	 outside	 and	 call	 Lois

and	 Eleanor.”

“You	 don’t	 need	 to	 leave	 if	 you	 want	 privacy.

I’l 	 go	 upstairs	 and	 unpack,”	 I	 say.

“No,	 dear.	 There’s	 terrible	 cel 	 phone	 service

here.	 This	 house	 is	 like	 a	 vortex	 of	 technological

mishaps.	 It	 drives	 me	 insane	 when	 I’m	 talking	 to



58

someone	 on	 my	 phone	 and	 they	 simply	 disappear.

It	 never	 seemed	 to	 bother	 Ginnie,	 though.”

“You	 can	 help	 me,”	 Dylan	 says,	 grabbing	 my

hand	 and	 rushing	 me	 down	 the	 porch	 steps	 to	 his

Jeep.

“Slow	 down,	 my	 legs	 are	 half	 as	 long	 as	 yours.”

Dylan	 pul s	 me	 in	 fast,	 swinging	 me	 against	 his

body	 and	 capturing	 me	 with	 his	 hands	 in	 my	 hair.	 I

only	 get	 a	 glance	 of	 his	 determined	 expression

before	 his	 mouth	 is	 warm	 and	 urgent	 on	 mine.	 I

close	 my	 eyes	 and	 give	 in	 to	 the	 glorious	 rush	 of	 his

aggressive	 kiss.	 I	 can’t	 believe	 I’m	 letting	 him	 put

his	 tongue	 down	 my	 throat,	 while	 at	 the	 same	 time

I	 don’t	 want	 him	 to	 stop.	 I	 pul 	 away	 and	 gape	 at

him,	 almost	 panting	 with	 my	 lips	 stil 	 wet	 and

tender.

“God,	 you’re	 beautiful,”	 he	 says,	 edging	 closer

to	 me.

“Why	 do	 you	 think	 you	 can	 kiss	 me	 like	 that?	 I

wasn’t	 your	 girlfriend	 at	 the	 age	 of	 five,	 so	 where

do	 you	 get	 off	 pretending	 that	 I	 am	 now?”	 I’m	 not

angry,	 yet	 I	 feel	 like	 I	 am	 losing	 control	 around	 him

and	 that’s	 definitely	 something	 that	 is	 new	 to	 me.



59

“It	 felt	 right,”	 he	 says,	 moving	 even	 closer	 and

letting	 his	 hands	 run	 up	 and	 down	 my	 bare	 arms.

“There’s	 something	 between	 us,	 right?	 You	 were

kissing	 me	 back.”

I	 groan	 in	 frustration	 and	 lean	 against	 his	 Jeep.

“This	 has	 to	 stop.	 You	 move	 too	 fast,	 mister.	 I

remember	 you	 as	 a	 little	 boy,	 I	 barely	 know	 you

now.”

“Yeah,	 I	 keep	 forgetting	 that,	 even	 though	 I’ve

been	 thinking	 about	 you	 for	 over	 a	 decade,	 I’m	 new

to	 you.	 I’l 	 give	 you	 a	 little	 time	 to	 catch	 up,”	 he

says,	 giving	 me	 one	 of	 those	 damn	 winks.

“Why	 do	 you	 say	 it	 like	 that?	 That	 you’ve	 been

waiting	 for	 me	 all	 these	 years?	 Why?	 A	 long	 time

ago,	 I	 was	 your	 little	 friend	 for	 a	 summer,	 but	 we

didn’t	 keep	 in	 touch,	 so	 why	 do	 you	 have	 this

exaggerated	 view	 of	 me?”

“You	 were	 special	 to	 me.	 You	 weren’t	 like	 a

sister,	 that’s	 for	 sure.	 I	 kind	 of	 thought	 of	 you	 as	 a

magical	 creature.	 You	 were	 so	 smart,	 even	 at	 five.

The	 clever	 things	 that	 came	 out	 of	 your	 mouth

would	 amaze	 me.	 Carson	 had	 to	 take	 a	 summer

math	 program,	 and	 you’d	 glance	 at	 his	 homework



60

then	 rattle	 off	 the	 answers	 to	 problems	 he	 needed

a	 calculator	 for.	 Not	 to	 mention	 that	 your

vocabulary	 was	 far	 beyond	 my	 level.	 You’d	 read	 the

morning	 paper	 to	 Ginnie	 like	 a	 news	 anchor.	 Then

there	 was	 your	 hair,	 it	 was	 just	 like	 it	 is	 now,	 red

and	 long	 with	 blond	 streaks	 from	 the	 sun.	 It	 would

get	 curly	 and	 wild	 after	 a	 rainstorm.	 You	 looked	 like

some	 kind	 of	 powerful	 fairy,”	 he	 explains	 with	 his

hands	 miming	 my	 wild	 hair.	 “You	 look	 the	 same.

Just	 taller	 and,	 wel ,	 more	 like	 a	 woman	 of	 course.”

I	 am	 quiet	 as	 I	 dwel 	 on	 his	 flattering

comments.	 To	 be	 remembered	 and	 revered	 is	 an

extraordinary	 feeling	 for	 me;	 I	 don’t	 think	 my

parents	 have	 ever	 thought	 of	 me	 as	 positively	 as

Dylan	 does.

“Thank	 you,”	 I	 say	 as	 I	 wrap	 my	 arms	 around

myself.

“For	 what?	 For	 kissing	 you?”

“For	 tel ing	 me	 these	 things	 about	 myself.”	 I

pick	 up	 my	 art	 supply	 box	 while	 Dylan	 grabs	 the

two	 suitcases	 and	 we	 start	 walking	 back	 to	 the

house.	 “The	 jury	 is	 stil 	 out	 on	 the	 kiss.”

Dylan	 laughs.	 “It	 wasn’t	 good	 enough?”



61

Oh,	 it	 was	 good	 enough.	 Good	 and	 steamy.

“My	 life	 is	 in	 New	 York.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 make	 things

complicated	 here	 while	 I’m	 visiting.”

“We’l 	 see	 about	 that,”	 Dylan	 says	 as	 he	 holds

the	 front	 door	 open	 for	 me.





62





Six



As	 the	 house	 fil s	 up	 with	 people,	 I	 can	 hear

the	 cheerfully	 raucous	 voices	 carrying	 up	 to	 the

third	 floor	 where	 I	 am	 unpacking	 in	 my	 old

bedroom	 with	 the	 faded	 yel ow	 wallpaper.	 I	 hang	 a

couple	 of	 blouses	 and	 a	 summer	 dress	 in	 the	 empty

closet	 that	 smel s	 like	 cedar.	 Then	 I	 put	 my	 jeans,	 T-‐

shirts,	 and	 underwear	 in	 a	 creaky,	 stiff	 dresser	 that

I	 don’t	 recall	 being	 in	 this	 room.

“You	 know,	 you	 could	 stay	 in	 Ginnie’s	 old

room.”	 Dylan	 enters	 my	 bedroom	 with	 my	 art

portfolio	 case	 that	 I	 left	 downstairs.	 “It’s	 bigger	 and

has	 a	 nice	 view	 of	 the	 front	 yard.	 Plus,	 she

renovated	 the	 master	 bathroom	 and	 put	 in	 one	 of

those	 spa	 tubs.”

“No,	 I	 want	 to	 stay	 in	 my	 old	 room.”

“You	 forgot	 this.”	 Dylan	 puts	 the	 portfolio	 on

the	 bed.



63

“I	 think	 I’l 	 take	 that	 down	 to	 Ginnie’s	 studio.	 I

brought	 my	 art	 supplies.”

“Yeah,	 I	 heard	 you’re	 a	 painter,	 too.”

I	 nod	 and	 turn	 back	 to	 the	 dresser.	 “Dylan,	 was

this	 here	 when	 I	 was	 a	 kid?”	 I	 ask,	 pointing	 to	 the

dresser.

“No,	 I	 think	 that	 used	 to	 be	 in	 another

bedroom.	 When	 you	 stayed	 here	 there	 was	 a	 giant

basket	 ful 	 of	 toys	 against	 this	 wall	 and	 a	 little

rocking	 chair.	 Those	 are	 in	 the	 basement.”

“Could	 you	 push	 the	 dresser	 to	 the	 right	 for

me?”	 I	 ask,	 studying	 the	 wall	 to	 the	 left	 of	 the

dresser.

Dylan	 doesn’t	 question	 my	 request;	 he	 simply

lifts	 the	 left	 side	 of	 the	 dresser	 as	 if	 it	 weighs

nothing	 and	 gently	 pushes	 it	 aside.	 I	 drop	 to	 my

knees	 and	 look	 at	 the	 red	 crayon	 scrawled	 on	 the

wall. Jess.

“Hey,	 would	 you	 look	 at	 that,”	 Dylan	 says,

crouching	 down	 next	 to	 me.	 He	 grins.	 “I	 told	 ya	 you

were	 smart.	 You	 were	 marking	 your	 territory,	 even

at	 five.”



64

Our	 faces	 are	 inches	 apart.	 I	 smile,	 happy	 that

these	 memories	 are	 bringing	 back	 a	 flood	 of	 good

emotions.

“You	 know,	 I’m	 harnessing	 the	 strength	 of	 one

hundred	 soldiers	 right	 now,	 doing	 everything	 in	 my

weakening	 wil 	 power	 not	 to	 kiss	 you.”	 His	 warm

breath	 caresses	 my	 face.

“It’s	 very	 admirable.”	 I	 stand	 up	 before	 my

body	 tries	 to	 betray	 me	 by	 kissing	 him	 first.

“Okay,	 I	 guess	 that’s	 enough	 temptation.	 How

about	 we	 set	 up	 your	 studio?”	 Dylan	 suggests.

Eventually,	 Dylan	 and	 I	 make	 it	 back

downstairs	 to	 join	 the	 others	 who	 have	 come	 to

visit.	 After	 dinner,	 the	 dining	 room	 is	 covered	 in

dirty	 dishes,	 empty	 wine	 goblets	 and	 remnants	 of

the	 fried	 chicken,	 mashed	 potatoes	 and	 various

salads	 Bonnie	 made	 for	 our	 impromptu	 dinner

meeting.	 I	 sit	 between	 Lauren	 and	 Dylan	 and	 across

from	 Archie	 and	 Imogene.	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor,	 Aunt

Virginia’s	 dearest	 friends,	 sit	 at	 either	 end	 of	 the

table.	 They	 are	 both	 in	 their	 sixties,	 and	 very

striking	 and	 pretty,	 showing	 off	 every	 wel -‐earned

wrinkle	 along	 with	 fashionably	 styled	 hair	 that



65

doesn’t	 hide	 their	 silver	 and	 gray.	 They	 look	 very	 fit

in	 their	 bright	 linen	 tunics	 and	 the	 yoga	 pants	 they

say	 they	 prefer	 to	 wear.

“Keeping	 up	 your	 physical	 health	 at	 our	 age	 is

full-‐time	 work,	 so	 we	 do	 yoga	 and	 Pilates	 five	 days

a	 week.	 Might	 as	 wel 	 keep	 the	 pants	 on,”	 Lois	 says

to	 me	 in	 an	 exasperated	 tone.	 “Sometimes	 I	 get	 so

sick	 and	 tired	 of	 bending	 over	 and	 having	 to	 look	 at

someone	 else’s	 rear	 end	 in	 front	 of	 me.	 Honestly.

Not	 to	 mention	 all	 these	 new-‐age	 people	 and	 their

phony	 ‘namaste’	 greetings.	 Between	 the	 expensive

classes,	 retreats	 and	 the	 clothing	 lines,	 this	 yoga

business	 is	 really	 a	 racket.	 It	 would	 be	 nice	 to	 take

it	 beyond	 the	 pants,	 if	 you	 know	 what	 I	 mean.”

“We’re	 opening	 our	 own	 studio	 in	 Hera	 soon

so	 we	 don’t	 have	 to	 keep	 driving	 to	 Woodstock	 for

classes,”	 Eleanor	 adds.	 “Oh!	 I	 just	 thought	 of	 a

name	 for	 our	 studio,	 Lois.	 Beyond	 The	 Pants!”

Lois	 and	 I	 both	 laugh.	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 give

each	 other	 shrugs.	 They	 are	 used	 to	 this	 type	 of

banter	 among	 people	 who	 are	 more	 like	 family

than	 friends.	 I’m	 not.	 My	 parents	 are	 both	 uptight

prudes	 who	 found	 their	 soul	 mate	 by	 seeking	 out



66

the	 only	 other	 person	 in	 the	 tri-‐state	 area	 that	 was

born	 without	 a	 sense	 of	 humor.	 My	 family	 doesn’t

hang	 out	 and	 laugh.	 We	 argue	 and	 debate.	 Rather,

my	 mother	 and	 father	 argue	 and	 debate	 with	 me,

their	 only	 child;	 the	 kid	 who	 is	 supposed	 to	 live	 up

to	 all	 of	 their	 expectations.

After	 several	 hot	 and	 heavy	 stolen	 kisses	 from

Dylan	 earlier	 and	 the	 laid	 back	 sassiness	 of	 these

women,	 young	 and	 old,	 I	 am	 very	 comfortable	 in

their	 company.

I’m	 not	 a	 big	 drinker	 since	 I’m	 not	 of	 the	 legal

drinking	 age,	 so	 the	 half	 glass	 of	 wine	 I	 drank	 is

making	 me	 tired	 as	 wel 	 as	 unbearably	 aware	 of	 my

proximity	 to	 Dylan	 and	 his	 muscular	 leg,	 which	 he

has	 conveniently	 positioned	 against	 mine.	 It	 does

not	 go	 unnoticed	 by	 the	 others	 when	 he	 rests	 his

arm	 across	 the	 back	 of	 my	 chair	 as	 if	 we	 are	 a

couple	 at	 a	 dinner	 soiree.

Archie	 briefly	 glances	 at	 Dylan	 with	 a	 raised

eyebrow.	 “I	 think	 we’ve	 had	 time	 to	 get	 to	 know

Jessica.	 It’s	 probably	 time	 we	 talk	 about	 how	 she

got	 here,”	 he	 announces.



67

The	 letter	 from	 Aunt	 Ginny	 is	 stil 	 sealed	 in	 the

ivory	 envelope.	 It	 is	 now	 damp	 from	 my	 sweaty

hands	 having	 clutched	 it	 in	 my	 lap	 all	 through

dinner.	 I	 rest	 the	 letter	 on	 the	 empty	 place	 setting

before	 me	 as	 Imogene	 voluntarily	 walks	 around	 the

table	 col ecting	 dirty	 dishes.

“Ah,	 would	 you	 like	 to	 read	 that	 alone?”	 Archie

asks	 me.

“I’m	 not	 sure.”	 I	 look	 around	 the	 room	 at

everyone.

“If	 it	 helps	 any,	 Ginnie	 was	 not	 the	 kind	 of

person	 that	 liked	 to	 surprise	 people.	 She	 was

always	 very	 direct.	 I	 don’t	 think	 there	 wil 	 be

anything	 unusual	 in	 the	 letter.	 It’s	 more	 like	 a

goodbye	 message,”	 Dylan	 says.

Archie	 clears	 his	 throat	 and	 Dylan	 glances	 at

him.

“I	 mean,	 it’s	 probably	 a	 ‘Hel o,	 Jessica’	 letter,

‘Welcome	 to	 Hera’,”	 Dylan	 redirects.	 His	 thoughtful

attempt	 to	 ease	 whatever	 sad	 blows	 I’m	 expecting

is	 touching.	 I’m	 becoming	 alarmed	 at	 how	 easy	 I’m

falling	 for	 this	 cute	 guy	 because	 falling	 for	 such

males	 is	 not	 in	 my	 genetic	 make-‐up.	 I	 come	 from



68

hard-‐driven	 people	 with	 an	 unforgiving	 view

towards	 the	 sentimental.

“I’l 	 read	 it	 now.	 You	 were	 all	 her	 family,	 so	 it

seems	 appropriate	 that	 you	 hear	 it,	 too.”

A	 loud	 crash,	 a	 banging	 door	 and	 something

heavy	 falling	 to	 the	 floor	 comes	 from	 the	 front

entryway	 and	 disrupts	 our	 silence.

“Sweet	 Jesus!”	 Lois	 exclaims.

“Shit.”	 Dylan	 stands	 abruptly	 and	 his	 chair	 falls

back	 and	 clatters	 to	 the	 floor.

We	 all	 scurry	 to	 the	 front	 door	 to	 see	 Carson

standing	 there	 with	 a	 dril 	 box	 at	 his	 feet.

“No	 wonder	 you	 didn’t	 answer	 your	 phone.

You’re	 already	 here,”	 he	 speaks	 angrily	 to	 Dylan.

“Carson,	 what	 are	 you	 doing?”	 Archie	 asks.	 It

sounds	 like	 he’s	 trying	 to	 be	 as	 soothing	 as	 possible

to	 calm	 Carson	 down.

“Dylan	 and	 I	 have	 been	 working	 on	 the	 library

at	 night.	 You	 know	 I	 have	 a	 day	 job,”	 Carson	 hisses

to	 everyone,	 but	 then	 he	 looks	 at	 me.	 “So	 you’re

staying	 here?”

“We	 didn’t	 say	 we	 were	 working	 tonight.

Besides,	 Jess	 is	 staying	 here,	 so	 we	 have	 to	 change



69

our	 hours	 back	 to	 days.	 She’s	 not	 going	 to	 be	 able

to	 sleep	 through	 the	 dril ing	 and	 pounding,”	 Dylan

says	 before	 I	 can	 answer	 Carson’s	 question.

“Carson,	 do	 you	 ever	 stop	 working?	 Honestly,

you	 need	 some	 Zen,”	 Lois	 tel s	 him	 while	 Eleanor

and	 Lauren	 nod	 in	 agreement.

“Huh?”	 Carson	 grunts.

Other	 than	 the	 same	 tall	 muscular	 physique

from	 hard	 labor	 and	 an	 inherent	 handsomeness,

Carson	 doesn’t	 really	 resemble	 Dylan.	 His	 serious

blue	 eyes	 against	 his	 dark	 hair,	 sculpted

cheekbones	 and	 strong	 chin	 are	 nothing	 like

Dylan’s	 cute	 baby	 face	 charm.

“So,”	 Carson	 directs	 to	 me.	 “Are	 you	 here	 to

marry	 me?”

There’s	 an	 audible	 gasp	 from	 Lauren.

“Say	 what?”	 Imogene	 asks	 in	 a	 laughing	 tone.

“What?”	 I	 whisper.

“Ignore	 him,	 Jess,”	 Dylan	 says.	 “He	 always	 has

something	 cynical	 up	 his	 sleeve.”

“Maybe	 you	 forgot,	 little	 brother,	 but	 this

woman	 said	 I’d	 be	 her	 husband.	 Let	 me	 see,	 I	 think

her	 exact	 words	 were	 ‘Carson	 Blackard,	 you	 can	 be



70

quite	 a	 nasty	 boy	 when	 you	 want,	 but	 someday	 if

you’re	 nice,	 I’l 	 marry	 you’. ”

Everyone,	 but	 me,	 Dylan	 and	 Carson,	 is

howling	 with	 laughter.

“I	 remember	 when	 you	 said	 that,	 Jessica,”	 Lois

says.	 “It	 was	 when	 you	 discovered	 Carson	 had

eaten	 all	 of	 your	 homemade	 cookies	 and	 he

blamed	 it	 on	 Dylan.	 We	 were	 having	 dinner	 outside

and	 you	 made	 this	 announcement	 to	 him	 and

stormed	 back	 into	 the	 house.	 You	 were	 so	 cute.	 We

had	 such	 a	 good	 laugh	 watching	 you	 scold	 Carson

and	 then	 declare	 he’d	 be	 your	 husband.”

“I	 don’t	 remember	 that,”	 Dylan	 says,	 shaking

his	 head.

“You	 were	 a	 bossy	 little	 piece	 of	 work,”	 Carson

says	 to	 me,	 although	 he	 doesn’t	 smile	 as	 you’d

expect	 when	 people	 are	 sharing	 humorous	 stories.

His	 eyes	 quickly	 take	 me	 in	 from	 head	 to	 toe.

He	 looks	 like	 he’s	 glaring,	 but	 I	 catch	 his	 roaming

observation	 even	 if	 the	 others	 don’t.	 He’s	 checking

me	 out	 and	 I	 get	 the	 impression	 that	 he’s	 not

thril ed	 to	 see	 me.	 Maybe	 he	 sees	 me	 as	 problem—

an	 obstacle	 in	 their	 daily	 life—and	 a	 distraction	 for



71

Dylan	 who	 is	 supposed	 to	 be	 working	 with	 him.	 Or

maybe	 he	 liked	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 home	 without	 me	 in

it	 because	 I’m	 a	 reminder	 of	 a	 time	 that	 was	 painful.

Perhaps	 Dylan	 saw	 me	 as	 a	 godsend,	 the	 friend	 he

needed,	 and	 Carson	 saw	 me	 as	 a	 new	 responsibility,

the	 bratty	 kid	 he	 had	 to	 babysit.

“Sorry,	 but	 I	 don’t	 remember	 that	 at	 all.	 Which

is	 a	 good	 thing,	 I	 suppose,”	 I	 say.	 “And	 by	 the	 way,

the	 wedding	 is	 off.”

Dylan	 and	 the	 others	 laugh	 and	 I’m	 pretty	 sure

I	 see	 a	 tiny	 smirk	 break	 Carson’s	 clenched	 jaw.

“Sorry	 to	 hear	 that,	 Jess.”	 He	 picks	 up	 his	 drill

box.

Hearing	 my	 name	 on	 his	 lips	 gives	 me	 a

moment	 of	 surprise.	 The	 emotion	 coursing	 through

me	 is	 pure	 elation.	 He	 used	 my	 proper	 name	 and

not	 Babycakes,	 the	 nickname	 that	 has	 come	 back

to	 haunt	 my	 images	 of	 this	 house.	 He	 sees	 me	 as	 a

woman	 now	 and	 not	 the	 annoying	 five-‐year-‐old

who	 apparently	 bossed	 everyone	 around.

“I’m	 going	 to	 drop	 this	 off	 in	 the	 library	 before

I	 go.”	 Carson	 takes	 the	 dril 	 box	 up	 a	 few	 steps	 and

then	 pauses	 to	 look	 back	 at	 me.	 “Babycakes,	 let	 me



72

know	 when	 I	 can	 get	 back	 in	 here	 to	 work,	 okay?”

My	 spirits	 sink	 again. Babycakes. I	 hold	 no	 special

regard	 for	 that	 name,	 especially	 when	 it’s	 said	 in	 a

snide	 voice.

“Right,	 Babycakes,	 the	 little	 spitfire	 of	 that

exciting	 summer,”	 Archie	 nods.	 “I	 had	 forgotten

that	 nickname.”

“Babyyyyycaaaaakes,”	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene

croon	 in	 unison.	 “How	 sweet.”

“There	 wil 	 be	 no	 Babycakes	 while	 I’m	 here,”	 I

retort.	 “Understood?”	 I	 hear	 Carson	 laughing	 from

upstairs.

“I	 prefer	 Jess	 anyway,”	 Dylan	 consoles.



After	 the	 incident	 with	 Carson,	 we	 take	 our

coffee	 and	 pies	 onto	 the	 porch,	 which	 is	 fil ed	 with

citronel a	 candles	 in	 clear	 glasses	 lining	 the	 railing

and	 positioned	 on	 tables.	 They	 give	 off	 a	 dreamy,

yellow	 glow	 as	 they	 keep	 the	 bugs	 away.	 The	 porch

is	 very	 wide	 with	 two	 wicker	 couches,	 a	 coffee

table,	 several	 wicker	 chairs	 with	 end	 tables	 on	 one

end	 and	 then	 a	 big	 rope	 hammock	 that	 takes	 up

the	 other	 end.



73

I	 sit	 next	 to	 Lauren	 on	 one	 of	 the	 loveseats	 and

lean	 forward	 towards	 the	 coffee	 table	 so	 I	 can	 read

Aunt	 Virginia’s	 letter	 by	 the	 light	 of	 one	 of	 the

candles.	 Everyone	 stops	 chattering	 and	 focuses	 on

me.	 I	 start	 tearing	 open	 the	 letter	 as	 gently	 as

possible	 when	 I	 hear	 the	 front	 door	 creak	 open	 and

close.	 I	 look	 up	 to	 see	 Carson	 fold	 his	 thick	 arms

and	 lean	 against	 the	 doorframe.	 Our	 eyes	 meet	 and

then	 I	 look	 down	 again	 at	 my	 letter.	 I	 begin	 to	 read

out	 loud:



“Dear	 Jessica,

It	 is	 with	 a	 very	 heavy	 heart	 that	 I	 write	 this

letter.	 Had	 I	 been	 a	 braver	 woman,	 I	 would	 have

ignored	 foolish	 family	 protocol	 and	 contacted	 you

years	 ago.	 I	 hope	 being	 in	 my	 home,	 which	 is	 now

yours,	 reminds	 you	 of	 me	 as	 well	 as	 the	 people	 that

loved	 you	 and	 missed	 you	 terribly	 for	 al 	 these

wasted	 years.	 I	 was	 a	 fool	 for	 not	 staying	 in	 your

life.	 I	 let	 your	 parents’	 anger	 and	 judgment	 dictate

and,	 for	 that,	 I	 am	 sorry.	 Sometimes	 we	 broads

screw	 up.	 Let	 that	 be	 a	 lesson.”

I	 pause	 as	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 laugh.



74

“Onto	 more	 interesting	 things.	 You	 were	 a

lively,	 precocious	 girl	 who	 brightened	 my	 home,	 my

life	 and	 those	 around	 you.	 I	 saw	 the	 spark	 of	 your

talents	 and	 intel igence	 and	 watched	 them	 ignite

into	 powerful	 flames.	 I	 wasn’t	 with	 you	 in	 person,

but	 I	 watched	 you	 from	 afar.	 Your	 extraordinary

gifts	 in	 academics	 made	 me	 so	 proud	 when	 you

graduated	 col ege	 at	 an	 age	 when	 most	 are

beginning.	 Your	 expressions	 in	 painting	 are	 dazzling.

Whatever	 you	 do	 in	 life,	 never,	 never	 stop	 painting.

It	 must	 be	 a	 shock	 to	 hear	 from	 me.	 I	 would

understand	 if	 you	 are	 hurt	 and	 angry	 over	 the

conflict	 between	 your	 parents	 and	 me.	 Let	 me	 say

again	 how	 sorry	 I	 am	 for	 that.	 Years	 ago,	 your

mother	 and	 I	 were	 very	 close	 until	 I	 made	 the

mistake	 of	 trying	 to	 come	 between	 her	 and	 your

father.	 Your	 mother	 was	 similar	 to	 you	 in

academics	 and	 art,	 however,	 with	 no	 slight

intended	 to	 Michel e,	 she	 was	 a	 watered	 down

version	 of	 you.	 Nonetheless,	 she	 was	 my	 only	 family

at	 the	 time	 and	 I	 felt	 marrying	 your	 father	 would	 be

the	 death	 of	 her	 independence.	 I	 wil 	 no	 longer

belabor	 that	 issue.	 It’s	 in	 the	 past.	 Now	 I	 want	 to



75

make	 sure	 I	 leave	 you	 with	 a	 sense	 of	 family	 and

belonging	 for	 I	 know	 you	 have	 led	 quite	 a	 solitary

path	 through	 your	 young	 years.

Hera	 became	 my	 home	 over	 thirty	 years	 ago

when	 I	 was	 at	 a	 down	 point	 in	 my	 life.	 No	 husband

and	 children	 of	 my	 own,	 I	 was	 thril ed	 when	 you

and	 your	 mother	 came	 to	 spend	 that	 one	 summer

with	 me.	 Unfortunately,	 the	 period	 that	 brought

you	 and	 I	 closer	 together,	 drove	 your	 mother	 and

me	 farther	 apart.	 Your	 parents	 demanded	 I	 not	 see

you	 while	 they	 also	 created	 the	 ridiculous	 scenario

of	 my	 death	 or	 non-‐existence,	 yet	 in	 a	 sense,	 I	 never

left	 your	 side.

Right	 now,	 everything	 I	 love	 and	 hold	 dear	 is	 in

Hera,	 including	 you.	 I	 hope	 the	 house	 inspires	 you

and	 gives	 you	 space	 to	 create	 your	 beautiful	 pieces.

And	 I	 hope	 you	 find	 comfort	 and	 joy	 among	 my

friends.	 They	 remember	 the	 little	 Jessie	 who	 took

charge	 of	 this	 house	 one	 bright,	 happy	 summer.	 If

you	 need	 any	 help	 with	 my	 estate	 or	 personal	 items,

please	 know	 that	 Archie,	 Eleanor	 and	 Lois	 are	 there

for	 you,	 as	 are	 al 	 of	 my	 friends.	 Please	 don’t	 be

afraid	 to	 ask	 Carson	 for	 help,	 he	 can	 fix	 anything.”



76

I	 glance	 up	 at	 Carson	 and	 he	 looks	 just	 as

surprised	 as	 me	 to	 hear	 himself	 mentioned	 in	 the

letter.

“This	 is	 another	 beginning	 for	 you.	 Embrace	 it

and	 be	 happy.	 And	 please,	 please,	 love	 and	 take

care	 of	 Bert.

Love,

Aunt	 Ginnie”



“Bert?”	 I	 ask.

“Sweet	 Potato	 Pie!”	 Lois	 shouts.	 “I	 forgot	 to

bring	 Bert!”

Everyone	 is	 laughing,	 but	 I’m	 stil 	 feeling	 misty-‐

eyed	 from	 the	 letter	 and	 can’t	 imagine	 who	 Bert

could	 be.

Carson	 notices	 my	 confusion.	 “Bert	 is	 Gin’s

two-‐year-‐old	 bul dog.	 He’s	 been	 staying	 at	 Lois’s

house	 for	 the	 last	 week.”	 I	 appreciate	 that	 he

speaks	 to	 me	 in	 a	 normal	 tone	 without	 the	 sarcasm.

“I’ve	 inherited	 a	 dog,	 too?”	 Now	 I	 know	 this

won’t	 work	 out.	 My	 New	 York	 apartment	 can’t

handle	 a	 dog	 and	 neither	 can	 my	 roommates.



77

“I’l 	 bring	 Bert	 by	 tomorrow	 when	 Carson	 and	 I

come	 back,”	 Dylan	 tel s	 me.	 “Once	 you	 get	 past	 all

the	 farting	 and	 snorting,	 you’l 	 love	 Bert.”

“You’re	 going	 to	 be	 working	 here	 tomorrow?”	 I

ask.

“Is	 that	 a	 problem?”	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 are

both	 looking	 at	 me,	 gauging	 my	 reaction	 I	 suppose.

Time	 for	 your	 big	 girl	 pants. I	 remember	 that

was	 one	 of	 my	 aunt’s	 favorite	 lines	 she	 used	 on	 my

annoyed	 mother.	 Carson’s	 unforgiving	 glare	 brings

that	 memory	 back.	 I	 shake	 my	 head,	 stil 	 feeling

befuddled	 by	 the	 last	 twenty-‐four	 hours.	 It’s	 all	 too

much	 too	 soon.

“Damn.	 I	 knew	 this	 wasn’t	 going	 to	 be	 easy,”

Eleanor	 says	 to	 me.	 “Ginnie	 left	 us	 with	 a	 lot	 of

explaining	 to	 do.	 It’s	 a	 nice	 letter,	 but	 it	 doesn’t

help	 in	 the	 real	 world;	 right,	 sweetie?”

“Oh	 my,”	 Archie	 says	 and	 I	 fear	 that	 this	 is	 his

standard	 response	 to	 most	 things.	 “I	 just	 don’t

have	 the	 intestinal	 fortitude	 for	 this.	 I’m	 very	 happy

Jessica	 is	 with	 us	 now,	 but	 it’s	 all	 so	 tragic.”

I	 don’t	 know	 what	 to	 say	 to	 these	 people.	 They

seem	 to	 have	 very	 high	 expectations	 of	 me	 and	 my



78

head	 is	 swimming	 with	 information	 while	 my

emotions	 are	 running	 on	 high-‐speed.	 Plus,	 now	 I

find	 out	 that	 I’m	 a	 dog	 owner.	 They	 might	 as	 wel

have	 told	 me	 I’m	 getting	 a	 baby	 in	 the	 morning.	 I’ve

been	 managing	 my	 own	 dul 	 life	 crafted	 out	 by

working	 hard,	 saving	 money	 for	 future	 non-‐existent

plans,	 and	 living	 on	 a	 lot	 of	 ramen	 noodles.	 Now	 I

have	 a	 huge,	 beautiful	 though	 aging	 home	 to

maintain	 and	 a	 farting	 dog.

Why	 did	 Ginnie	 have	 to	 die	 before	 I	 could	 get

to	 know	 her?	 I	 could	 use	 some	 type	 of	 adult

guidance	 right	 about	 now.	 I	 know	 I’m	 supposed	 to

be	 a	 grown-‐up,	 but	 most	 of	 the	 time	 I	 feel	 like	 a	 kid

in	 an	 adult’s	 body.	 The	 only	 time	 the	 big	 girl	 pants

make	 their	 appearance	 is	 when	 I’m	 talking	 about

computer	 simulations	 and	 code.

I’ve	 been	 bamboozled.	 I	 get	 a	 super	 deal	 at	 an

unbelievable	 cost,	 a	 furnished	 house	 and	 potty-‐

trained	 dog,	 but	 I	 never	 get	 to	 see	 Aunt	 Virginia

again	 while	 the	 people	 of	 Hera	 are	 supposed	 to	 be

a	 replacement	 for	 my	 family.	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 read

between	 the	 lines	 to	 understand	 what	 my	 aunt	 was

trying	 to	 convey	 in	 her	 letter.	 It’s	 a	 peace	 offering



79

attached	 to	 a	 lot	 of	 people	 she	 wants	 back	 in	 my

life.

Lauren	 gets	 up	 to	 serve	 more	 coffee.	 Everyone

is	 jabbering	 while	 I	 put	 myself	 through	 this	 mind

maze,	 it’s	 like	 a	 data	 surge	 on	 my	 brain.

“Hey,”	 Carson	 says	 quietly,	 coming	 over	 to

replace	 Lauren’s	 empty	 seat	 next	 to	 me.	 “Are	 you

okay?”

Oh,	 God.	 His	 eyes	 turn	 me	 into	 a	 quivering

blob.	 To	 think	 I	 had	 the	 audacity	 as	 a	 child	 to	 say

he’d	 be	 my	 husband.	 It	 makes	 me	 wish	 I	 stil 	 had

that	 confidence	 to	 speak	 my	 mind.	 I	 look	 into

Carson’s	 eyes	 and	 search	 his	 face,	 completely

forgetting	 to	 respond	 to	 his	 question.

Dylan	 takes	 notice	 of	 Carson’s	 attention

towards	 me.	 “Jess?”	 he	 asks,	 bringing	 my	 focus

away	 from	 Carson.

“She’s	 overwhelmed,”	 Archie	 says.

“You’re	 going	 to	 stay	 for	 a	 while,	 right?”

Imogene	 asks.	 “At	 least	 live	 here	 for	 the	 summer?”

Lauren	 nods	 along	 with	 Imogene’s	 comment	 as

if	 they’ve	 come	 up	 with	 a	 splendid	 plan.



80

“I	 have	 a	 job	 in	 New	 York.	 I	 have	 an	 apartment

in	 New	 York.	 My	 life	 is	 there,	 my	 career,”	 I	 say	 half-‐

heartedly.

“Jessie,	 Lois	 and	 I	 wil 	 be	 helping	 you	 go

through	 the	 house	 and	 Ginnie’s	 things	 and	 we’l 	 tel

you	 whatever	 you	 want	 to	 know.	 We’l 	 do	 it	 nice

and	 easy,”	 Eleanor	 says.	 “Can’t	 you	 take	 a	 leave	 of

absence	 from	 your	 job?”

“It	 doesn’t	 work	 that	 way.	 There’s	 always

someone	 to	 replace	 you.	 I’m	 not	 in	 a	 position	 to

take	 a	 summer	 off.”

“She’d	 get	 bored	 here,”	 Carson	 comments.	 His

voice	 is	 deep	 and	 strong;	 there’s	 no	 sign	 of	 that

caring	 tone	 from	 a	 moment	 ago	 and	 there	 is	 a	 hint

of	 something	 else,	 maybe	 distrust	 or	 cynicism.

“She’d	 want	 to	 run	 back	 to	 the	 city	 after	 one	 week

in	 this	 place.”

“Carson,	 stop	 being	 so	 negative,”	 Imogene

snaps	 with	 her	 hands	 on	 her	 hips.	 “She	 may	 get

bored	 being	 around	 your	 sorry,	 crabby	 ass,	 but

Lauren	 and	 I	 are	 boatloads	 of	 fun.”

Carson	 scoffs.



81

“Fun!	 Fun!	 Fun!”	 Imogene	 kicks	 Carson’s	 leg

three	 times	 as	 she	 says	 it.	 He	 doesn’t	 even	 flinch	 in

pain.

“Whatever.	 I	 have	 to	 get	 going.”	 He	 gets	 up

and	 leaves	 my	 side.	 I	 feel	 an	 instant	 loneliness	 with

his	 departure.	 I	 wish	 I	 could	 run	 down	 the	 steps

after	 him	 and	 ask	 him	 to	 take	 me	 on	 a	 nighttime

drive.	 Anywhere.	 Anyplace	 where	 I	 don’t	 have	 to

make	 decisions.	 “See	 you	 in	 the	 morning,	 Dylan.

Bright	 and	 early!”	 Carson	 shouts	 from	 his	 truck

before	 driving	 off.

“Great,	 just	 what	 I	 love,	 working	 at	 dawn	 on	 a

Sunday,”	 Dylan	 says	 to	 me.	 Somehow	 I	 don’t	 think

he	 really	 minds,	 though.	 There’s	 something

brewing	 between	 his	 golden	 locks	 besides	 a	 pretty

face.	 He	 likes	 his	 brother’s	 attention	 and	 he	 wants

me	 to	 notice	 that	 he’s	 needed.

“What	 could	 you	 possibly	 be	 doing	 at	 dawn?”	 I

ask.	 “Chop	 down	 trees	 and	 hunt	 bears?”

Dylan	 laughs,	 but	 my	 imagination	 shows	 them

doing	 exactly	 that,	 swinging	 axes.





82

After	 the	 dinner	 is	 cleared	 up,	 the	 dishes	 are

done	 and	 I’m	 given	 several	 more	 overloads	 of	 the

history	 I	 can’t	 remember,	 everyone	 bids	 me

goodbye.	 Dylan	 lingers	 and	 is	 the	 last	 to	 leave.

“If	 you	 get	 scared	 staying	 in	 this	 big	 house	 all

alone,	 just	 call	 me.	 I’l 	 run	 right	 over.”	 What	 a	 flirt.

I’ve	 had	 plenty	 of	 guys	 hit	 on	 me,	 mostly	 drunk	 frat

types	 that	 want	 sex,	 but	 none	 as	 sweet	 as	 Dylan.

He’s	 the	 kind	 of	 guy	 who	 has	 always	 been	 out	 of

my	 league.	 They	 notice	 me,	 but	 turn	 away	 once	 I

mention	 my	 major	 or	 my	 work.

Dylan	 would	 fit	 in	 at	 the	 Hamptons	 with	 a

pretty,	 pedigreed	 girl	 on	 his	 arm	 who	 excels	 at

society	 benefits	 and	 interior	 design.

“Bye.”	 I	 push	 him	 out	 the	 door.

“You	 can’t	 get	 rid	 of	 me.	 I’l 	 be	 back	 tomorrow,”

he	 calls	 out	 into	 the	 night.



Sleep	 does	 not	 come	 easily.	 The	 country	 makes

its	 own	 kind	 of	 racket	 that’s	 different	 from	 the	 city,

yet	 even	 louder.	 Crickets	 chirping,	 owls–or

something–hooting	 and	 buzzing	 insects	 outside	 my

screened	 window.	 The	 moon	 casts	 dark	 shadows



83

across	 the	 bedroom	 and	 I	 am	 amazed	 that	 I	 slept

here	 as	 a	 child	 unafraid.	 Of	 course,	 then	 the	 house

was	 ful 	 of	 people;	 Aunt	 Virginia,	 my	 mother,

Carson	 and	 Dylan	 in	 the	 rooms	 next	 door.	 There

are	 no	 humans	 within	 a	 mile	 of	 me	 now	 and	 it

terrifies	 me.

I	 keep	 my	 mind	 busy	 with	 things	 I	 must	 do.	 I’l

need	 to	 call	 5	 Alpha	 and	 ask	 about	 an	 extended

leave	 from	 my	 job	 and	 health	 coverage.	 I	 need	 to

call	 Kate	 and	 Marissa	 to	 let	 them	 know	 I’l 	 be	 gone

awhile	 and	 that	 I’l 	 mail	 my	 rent	 check	 to	 them.	 Call

my	 parents	 and	 scream	 at	 them,	 or	 alternatively,

never	 speak	 to	 them	 again.	 I	 need	 to	 go	 to	 the	 bank

in	 Woodstock	 and	 sign	 papers	 for	 the	 account	 Aunt

Virginia	 left	 in	 my	 trust.	 Fix	 this	 house	 up	 and

decide	 if	 I	 need	 to	 sel 	 it.	 I	 rethink	 that	 idea	 and

consider	 Dylan,	 his	 attractiveness	 as	 wel 	 as	 his

evident	 interest	 towards	 me	 and	 what	 I	 might	 be

able	 to	 have	 if	 I	 stayed	 here	 longer.

I	 continue	 to	 mul 	 the	 same	 thoughts	 and	 ideas

over	 and	 over	 until	 the	 room	 brightens	 a	 bit	 and	 I

know	 it	 wil 	 soon	 be	 sunrise.	 The	 last	 things	 I	 think

of	 in	 my	 big,	 lonely	 house	 are	 wishing	 a	 subway	 line



84

ran	 under	 the	 foundation	 so	 its	 rumbling	 vibrations

could	 lul 	 me	 to	 sleep	 and	 Carson	 Blackard’s	 blue

eyes	 waiting	 for	 me	 to	 answer	 him.

Are	 you	 okay? No,	 Carson,	 I’m	 not,	 but	 my

aunt	 says	 you	 can	 fix	 anything.





85





Seven



A	 wet,	 grunting	 sound	 persists	 in	 my	 dream.	 I

am	 at	 a	 party	 back	 in	 New	 York.	 The	 guests	 are	 not

people	 I	 recognize	 and	 more	 than	 one	 guy	 has

asked	 me	 to	 dance	 even	 though	 there	 isn’t	 any

music	 playing.	 I	 am	 walking	 away	 from	 the	 party

and	 down	 a	 hallway,	 but	 someone	 is	 fol owing	 me

and	 there’s	 that	 wet	 grunting	 sound	 again.	 I	 know

I’m	 dreaming	 when	 I	 become	 very	 analytical	 in	 my

dreams.	 Sometimes	 I	 can	 force	 myself	 to	 wake	 up

while	 at	 other	 times	 it’s	 like	 I’m	 heavily	 sedated

and	 I	 don’t	 have	 the	 wil 	 to	 pul 	 myself	 out	 of	 the

drugged-‐like	 state.

Something	 warm	 and	 wet	 touches	 my	 leg.	 No,

licks	 my	 leg.	 I	 pry	 my	 eyes	 open	 and,	 in	 that

moment,	 I	 see	 a	 lump	 of	 blubber	 with	 giant	 jowls

resting	 next	 to	 my	 leg.	 He	 is	 panting	 with	 a	 thread

of	 saliva	 hanging	 from	 his	 mouth.	 He	 grunts,	 shakes

his	 head	 so	 his	 spittle	 hits	 my	 face	 and	 then	 plops



86

his	 head	 back	 down	 on	 the	 bed	 as	 if	 he	 is	 satisfied

with	 his	 new	 owner.

“Ah,	 you	 must	 be	 Bert,”	 I	 say	 to	 the	 bulldog.

His	 eyes	 perk	 and	 he	 glances	 at	 me	 upon

hearing	 his	 name.

“I	 bet	 you	 are	 the	 worst	 roommate,”	 I	 say

groggily	 and	 decide	 to	 go	 back	 to	 sleep.



Violent	 pounding	 underneath	 my	 bed	 jolts	 me

awake.	 Hera	 doesn’t	 have	 earthquakes,	 at	 least	 not

ones	 accompanied	 by	 hammering	 and	 sawing.	 The

commotion	 makes	 my	 bed	 jump	 and	 Bert	 and	 me

with	 it.

“For	 the	 love	 of	 sarsaparil a!”	 I	 shout,	 now	 ful y

awake.

“Hey,	 good,”	 Carson	 says,	 appearing	 at	 my

door.	 “You	 got	 your	 country	 on.	 Glad	 to	 see	 it.	 Now

get	 up	 or	 you’re	 going	 to	 suffer	 much	 worse.”

“What	 the	 HEY	 are	 you	 doing	 down	 there?”	 I

yell.

“Dylan	 and	 I	 are	 finishing	 the	 library	 shelves,

Babycakes.	 Nice	 to	 see	 you	 and	 Bert	 getting	 along

so	 wel .”	 He	 smiles	 and	 leaves.



87

“Why	 do	 we	 need	 bookcases?”	 I	 yel 	 after	 him.

“It’s	 the	 digital	 age,	 in	 case	 you	 haven’t	 noticed.”

Bert	 looks	 at	 me	 with	 his	 tired,	 red-‐veined,

droopy	 eyes.

“It	 was	 a	 pretty	 good	 comeback.”	 Bert	 merely

closes	 his	 eyes	 and	 feigns	 sleep.

I	 realize	 I	 have	 been	 sleeping	 on	 top	 of	 the

covers	 in	 a	 skimpy,	 sheer	 white	 T-‐shirt	 and	 bikini

panties	 which	 means	 Carson	 got	 a	 good	 gander	 at

my	 almost	 naked	 body.	 Either	 he	 wasn’t	 impressed

or	 he	 was	 being	 polite	 about	 it.	 Somehow,	 I	 doubt

he’s	 the	 polite	 type.

I	 put	 my	 long	 hair	 in	 one	 of	 those	 messy	 top

knots	 with	 curls	 and	 frizz	 spiking	 out;	 the	 kind	 of

grab-‐and-‐go	 do	 that	 is	 always	 a	 no-‐no	 in	 public,

however,	 women	 do	 it	 anyway.	 I	 do	 it	 because,

really,	 whom	 do	 I	 have	 to	 impress?	 After	 a	 quick

hot	 shower,	 I	 throw	 on	 a	 pair	 of	 very	 short	 cut-‐off

jeans,	 a	 green	 tank	 top	 and	 some	 flip-‐flops.	 The

house	 doesn’t	 have	 air	 conditioning	 of	 any	 kind	 and

I	 already	 feel	 the	 oppressive	 heat	 of	 an	 early

summer	 day	 coming	 on.



88

As	 if	 he	 knows	 I’m	 in	 charge	 now,	 Bert

automatically	 jumps	 off	 the	 bed	 and	 fol ows	 me

downstairs	 to	 the	 second	 floor	 where	 the

construction	 nightmare	 is	 taking	 place.	 Dylan	 is	 the

first	 person	 I	 see	 when	 I	 walk	 into	 the	 library	 and	 I

quickly	 regret	 not	 fixing	 my	 hair	 and	 putting	 on

some	 make-‐up.	 He’s	 up	 on	 a	 ladder	 with	 wood

planks	 and	 a	 dril 	 in	 his	 hand.

“Good	 morning,	 gorgeous.”	 He	 gives	 me	 a	 big

smile.

“Hi,”	 I	 reply	 back,	 wondering	 if	 I	 should	 go	 back

upstairs	 and	 make	 myself	 more	 presentable,

however,	 that	 would	 be	 too	 obvious.

Bert	 grunts,	 snorts	 and	 waddles	 over	 to	 Carson

who	 is	 across	 the	 room	 sanding	 boards.	 He	 kneels

down	 and	 pets	 Bert.	 “Hey,	 little	 buddy.”

“I	 assume	 you	 brought	 Bert	 here	 this	 morning

and	 put	 him	 in	 my	 bed?”	 I	 say	 to	 Carson.

“We	 brought	 him	 with	 us,	 but	 he	 ran	 upstairs

and	 let	 himself	 into	 your	 room.”	 Carson	 begins

roughhousing	 with	 an	 eager	 Bert.

“He	 was	 probably	 hoping	 to	 find	 Ginnie,”	 Dylan

adds.	 “And	 when	 he	 didn’t,	 he	 must	 have	 searched



89

the	 other	 bedrooms.	 Then	 he	 saw	 Sleeping	 Beauty

and	 decided	 to	 join	 her.”

Carson	 lets	 out	 a	 snicker	 at	 Dylan’s	 flirting,	 but

I	 don’t	 mind.	 I	 like	 the	 flattery.	 I	 smile	 and	 bat	 my

eyelashes	 at	 Dylan	 until	 he	 laughs.	 Carson	 frowns

at	 me	 and	 throws	 his	 work	 gloves	 on	 the	 floor.

“Dylan	 let’s	 break	 for	 lunch,”	 he	 says	 curtly.

“Lunch?”	 I	 ask.	 “I	 was	 just	 going	 to	 put	 on	 a	 pot

of	 coffee	 and	 make	 some	 breakfast.”

“Listen,	 Babycakes,	 you’re	 going	 to	 have	 to	 rise

earlier	 if	 you	 want	 to	 keep	 up	 with	 what	 goes	 on

around	 here.	 We	 started	 at	 six	 to	 prep	 these

boards	 at	 the	 shop	 and	 now	 it’s	 almost	 noon,	 so	 we

need	 to	 eat	 lunch,”	 Carson	 says.

“It’s	 Sunday,”	 I	 retort.	 “Who	 does	 construction

on	 Sunday?	 In	 New	 York	 this	 is	 when	 we	 go	 out	 for

brunch.	 You	 know;	 eggs,	 pancakes	 and	 mimosas.”

Carson	 isn’t	 amused	 and	 brushes	 by	 me	 on	 his

way	 downstairs.	 The	 contact	 of	 his	 bare	 arm

against	 mine	 is	 electric.	 Carson	 turns	 back	 enough

to	 catch	 me	 suck	 in	 a	 quiet	 breath.	 He	 doesn’t	 look

too	 composed	 either	 before	 walking	 out	 of	 the



90

room.	 What	 was	 that?	 My	 body	 and	 brain	 don’t

react	 to	 men	 like	 that.

“He’s	 grouchy.	 Don’t	 take	 it	 personally.	 I’m

sorry	 we	 woke	 you,	 too.	 I	 wanted	 to	 let	 you	 sleep





in,	 but	 Carson	 wants	 to	 stick	 to	 his	 rigid	 schedule.”

Dylan	 climbs	 down	 the	 ladder	 and	 removes	 his

gloves	 as	 he	 approaches	 me.

“It’s	 okay.	 I	 should	 have	 gotten	 up	 earlier.	 I

need	 to	 learn	 my	 way	 around	 this	 house	 and

inventory	 my	 aunt’s	 possessions.	 That	 sounds	 very

insensitive	 of	 me,	 but	 there	 are	 so	 many	 books	 and

canvases	 and	 wine.”	 I	 am	 amused	 at	 the	 idea	 of	 me

being	 a	 wine	 col ector.

“It	 can	 wait.”	 Dylan	 lifts	 a	 strand	 of	 hair	 off	 my

face.	 It	 is	 an	 intimate	 gesture	 that	 sends	 those

sweet	 shivers	 down	 my	 body.	 I	 wouldn’t	 mind	 a

summer	 fling	 for	 once	 in	 my	 life.	 He	 is	 simply	 too

cute.	 A	 part	 of	 me	 wants	 him	 to	 kiss	 me	 now,	 fast

and	 furiously.	 He	 stares	 at	 me	 intently	 and	 for	 a

moment	 I	 think	 he’s	 considering	 it,	 too,	 but	 then	 he

pul s	 his	 hand	 back.	 “Get	 your	 breakfast	 and	 meet

us	 on	 the	 porch.”	 I	 suppose	 my	 admonishments



91

from	 the	 previous	 night	 have	 forced	 him	 to	 use

some	 restraint	 and	 avoid	 a	 kiss.



The	 kitchen	 is	 in	 the	 back	 on	 the	 east	 side	 of

the	 house.	 The	 remaining	 morning	 light	 stil 	 fil s	 the

room,	 making	 it	 bright	 and	 cheery.	 It’s	 a	 dated

kitchen,	 not	 one	 of	 those	 high-‐end	 jobs	 where	 you

can	 entertain	 and	 feed	 your	 guests	 at	 the	 same

time.	 Some	 of	 it	 must	 date	 back	 to	 the	 late	 1800’s,

like	 the	 wooden	 slat	 walls.	 There’s	 also	 a	 large,

stained	 and	 slightly	 chipped	 porcelain	 farmhouse

sink,	 a	 round,	 oak	 table	 with	 four	 mismatched,

ladder-‐back	 chairs	 and	 one	 of	 those	 small,	 round-‐

edged	 refrigerators	 from	 the	 1940’s	 that	 hums

loudly	 and	 is	 inefficient	 at	 keeping	 perishables	 cold.

While	 most	 things	 are	 out	 of	 style,	 Aunt

Virginia	 did	 at	 least	 invest	 in	 an	 expensive	 eight-‐

burner	 Viking	 range	 and	 an	 elaborate	 coffee	 and

cappuccino	 machine.	 I	 can’t	 cook,	 however,	 I	 sure

do	 love	 infusing	 my	 body	 with	 high	 doses	 of

caffeine.

There	 are	 a	 few	 bags	 of	 gourmet	 coffee	 beans

on	 the	 counter	 along	 with	 a	 grinder	 and,	 having



92

worked	 at	 a	 coffeehouse	 while	 I	 was	 in	 col ege,	 I

manage	 to	 figure	 out	 how	 to	 work	 the	 complex

coffee	 machine	 fairly	 quickly.

The	 fridge	 is	 stocked	 with	 local	 farm	 eggs,

cream,	 butter,	 pre-‐cut	 carrot	 and	 celery	 sticks	 and

apples,	 which	 tel s	 me	 Archie	 must	 have	 made	 sure

I	 had	 some	 staples.	 The	 cupboards	 are	 the	 same

honey	 colored	 stain	 as	 the	 walls.	 I	 search	 through

them	 and	 find	 granola,	 bread,	 peanut	 butter,	 jel y

and	 a	 few	 cans	 of	 chicken	 noodle	 soup.

Underneath	 the	 counter	 I	 find	 bags	 of	 dog	 food.

Bert	 sees	 my	 discovery	 and	 then	 trots	 over	 to	 the

far	 wall	 where,	 below	 the	 rotary	 phone	 with	 the

long	 dangling	 cord,	 there	 are	 two	 metal	 dog	 bowls.

Bert	 nuzzles	 one	 and	 returns	 to	 me	 with	 a	 mouth

full	 of	 dry,	 crunchy	 nibbles.

“Good.	 It	 looks	 like	 someone	 knew	 enough	 to

leave	 you	 food	 and	 water.	 Just	 so	 you	 know,	 I’ve

never	 owned	 a	 pet,	 so	 you’l 	 have	 to	 speak	 up	 if	 I

forget	 to	 feed	 you.”	 Bert	 keeps	 chewing	 while	 he

looks	 at	 me	 as	 if	 we	 have	 a	 perfect	 understanding

of	 one	 another.



93

As	 my	 cappuccino	 finishes	 gurgling	 and

frothing	 into	 my	 waiting	 cup,	 I	 grab	 an	 apple	 and

then	 take	 my	 breakfast	 out	 the	 kitchen	 door	 that

leads	 to	 the	 porch	 on	 the	 east	 side	 of	 the	 house.	 As

I	 walk	 outside,	 I	 find	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 seated	 not

far	 from	 the	 door	 at	 a	 bistro-‐style	 table	 with	 three

chairs. How	 quaint.	 I	 get	 to	 dine	 with	 the	 two	 giant

lumberjacks,	 I	 think	 to	 myself	 as	 I	 careful y	 juggle

the	 oversized	 mug	 and	 apple	 over	 to	 the	 table.

Dylan	 jumps	 up	 and	 pul s	 out	 the	 empty	 chair	 for

me	 as	 Carson	 continues	 eating	 his	 sandwich

without	 even	 so	 much	 as	 looking	 at	 me.

“Is	 that	 all	 you’re	 going	 to	 eat?”	 Dylan	 asks.

“I’m	 fine.	 I’m	 stil 	 stuffed	 from	 all	 the	 food

yesterday.	 Really,	 an	 apple	 is	 all	 I	 need.”

“Let	 me	 go	 make	 you	 an	 omelet,”	 Dylan	 offers.

“Shit.	 She	 does	 quadratic	 equations	 for	 a	 living,

she	 can	 manage	 on	 her	 own,”	 Carson	 snaps.

I	 am	 touched	 by	 Dylan’s	 attentiveness	 and

keenly	 surprised	 by	 Carson’s	 awareness	 about	 me.	 I

know	 my	 aunt	 kept	 them	 informed	 about	 my	 life,

but	 to	 think	 Carson	 has	 been	 making	 a	 conscious

effort	 to	 understand	 my	 work	 is	 a	 little	 mind-‐



94

boggling.	 He’s	 a	 little	 too	 aloof	 or	 cocky	 to	 be

interested	 in	 me,	 so	 it	 must	 be	 Dylan’s	 attention

towards	 me	 that	 irritates	 him,	 as	 if	 I’m

undermining	 their	 work	 schedule.

“I’m	 trying	 to	 be	 polite.”	 It’s	 the	 first	 time	 I	 see

Dylan	 register	 anger.	 “You	 could	 try	 it.”

“You	 can	 find	 your	 way	 around	 the	 kitchen,

right?”	 Carson	 asks	 me	 in	 a	 measured	 tone	 meant

for	 his	 brother.

“I’m	 fine;	 thanks	 for	 your	 concern,”	 I	 say	 and

drink	 my	 coffee.

“We	 need	 to	 get	 back	 to	 work.”	 Carson	 directs

to	 Dylan,	 although	 he’s	 looking	 at	 me.	 He	 grabs	 his

paper	 lunch	 bag	 and	 can	 of	 soda.	 “Come	 on,”	 he

barks	 to	 Dylan.

I	 gather	 I’m	 a	 thorn	 in	 Carson’s	 side.	 I	 don’t

know	 why	 and	 I	 don’t	 care.	 I	 kind	 of	 like	 that	 I

annoy	 him.

Dylan	 looks	 flustered.	 We	 both	 expected	 to

have	 this	 opportunity	 to	 talk,	 yet	 Carson	 is	 the

taskmaster.	 I	 pretend	 to	 not	 care	 that	 they	 are

leaving	 my	 company	 unexpectedly,	 so	 I	 take	 my	 cel

phone	 out	 of	 my	 pocket	 and	 try	 to	 look	 very	 busy.



95

“Sorry	 for	 rushing	 off.	 If	 you	 want	 company,

come	 hang	 out	 in	 the	 library.”	 Dylan	 winks.

“Knock	 it	 off.”	 Carson	 smacks	 the	 back	 of

Dylan’s	 head.

“Shit.	 What’s	 that	 for?”	 Dylan	 rubs	 his	 head.

It’s	 pretty	 evident	 that	 Carson	 isn’t	 keen	 on	 me

hanging	 out	 with	 Dylan.

“Oh,	 don’t	 worry,”	 I	 say,	 trying	 to	 smooth

things	 over.	 “I	 have	 plenty	 to	 do.	 I	 have	 people	 I

have	 to	 call;	 you	 know,	 work,	 my	 friends.”	 I	 hold

the	 dead	 phone	 to	 my	 ear	 as	 if	 I’m	 waiting	 for

someone	 to	 answer.	 The	 battery	 is	 completely

drained,	 but	 I	 keep	 holding	 the	 phone	 to	 my	 ear

like	 a	 fool.

“She	 doesn’t	 want	 to	 be	 in	 the	 same	 room	 as

the	 sawing	 and	 hammering,”	 Carson	 says,	 holding

the	 kitchen	 door	 open	 for	 Dylan	 who	 reluctantly

leaves.	 I	 give	 him	 a	 little	 parade-‐wave	 good	 bye

without	 taking	 the	 stupid	 cel 	 phone	 from	 my	 ear.

Before	 Carson	 closes	 the	 door,	 he	 leans	 back

out.	 “If	 you	 need	 to	 make	 a	 call,	 you’l 	 probably

have	 to	 take	 ten	 paces	 off	 the	 porch	 to	 get	 service.”

I	 nod	 while	 remaining	 extremely	 committed	 to



96

fol owing	 through	 on	 my	 fake	 phone	 call.	 “And	 by

the	 way,”	 he	 continues.	 “I	 found	 your	 phone

charger	 on	 the	 second	 floor,	 so	 I	 put	 it	 on	 your

dresser	 this	 morning	 while	 you	 were	 sleeping.”

Then	 his	 mouth	 curves	 slightly	 at	 the	 corners	 and	 I

know	 the	 jig	 is	 up.	 I	 put	 my	 dead	 phone	 down	 on

the	 table.

“Thanks.	 You’re	 a	 peach.”

He	 chuckles	 as	 he	 leaves	 me	 alone	 with	 Bert.

“I	 don’t	 know	 if	 I’m	 cut	 out	 for	 this	 country	 life,

Bert.”

He	 is	 sprawled	 on	 the	 floor	 at	 my	 feet	 as	 if	 he’s

overcome	 by	 fatigue.	 Looking	 at	 him	 makes	 me

tired	 and	 I	 get	 the	 feeling	 that	 this	 is	 pretty	 much

what	 Bert	 does	 all	 day.

“My	 aunt	 should	 have	 named	 you	 Hangover.”





97





Eight



I	 head	 back	 up	 to	 my	 room	 and	 plug	 my	 phone

into	 the	 charger,	 which	 Carson	 not	 only	 left	 on	 my

dresser,	 but	 also	 plugged	 into	 the	 wall	 socket

buried	 behind	 the	 dresser.	 How	 he	 moved	 the

heavy	 furniture	 this	 morning	 without	 making	 a

sound	 is	 beyond	 me.	 Thinking	 of	 him	 standing

inches	 from	 my	 sleeping	 body	 leaves	 me	 slightly

breathless.	 I	 have	 a	 brief	 thought	 of	 him	 looking	 at

my	 naked	 body	 that	 was	 completely	 visible	 through

my	 see-‐through	 T-‐shirt. Oh	 my,	 as	 Archie	 would	 say.

Next,	 I	 head	 to	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 painting	 studio,

which	 is	 on	 the	 second	 floor	 at	 the	 back	 of	 the

house.	 It	 is	 separated	 from	 the	 library	 by	 the

playroom	 that	 is	 sandwiched	 between	 them.	 The

playroom	 was	 created	 the	 summer	 I	 stayed	 here

and	 it	 is	 where	 my	 dol house	 and	 other	 artifacts	 of

my	 shared	 childhood	 with	 Carson	 and	 Dylan	 stil

reside.



98

I	 only	 take	 a	 quick	 glance	 around	 the	 room,

wondering	 what	 I	 should	 do	 with	 all	 the	 board

games	 and	 baskets	 of	 toys	 lining	 the	 walls.	 Why	 did

my	 aunt	 hold	 on	 to	 these	 childhood	 items	 all	 these

years?	 The	 toys	 and	 our	 beanbag	 chairs	 on	 shaggy

throw	 rugs	 are	 evidence	 of	 the	 times	 when	 we

were	 sequestered	 inside	 by	 rainy	 days.	 I	 don’t	 want

to	 spend	 time	 going	 through	 each	 and	 every	 item

that	 wil 	 only	 bring	 back	 the	 happier	 memories	 I’ve

been	 expected	 to	 forget.

No	 sooner	 do	 I	 think	 this	 when	 another	 vision

returns,	 Carson	 picking	 up	 after	 Dylan	 and	 me

while	 tel ing	 us	 to	 start	 behaving.	 I	 also	 recall

following	 him	 around	 a	 lot,	 demanding	 answers	 to

impossible	 questions.	 I	 remember	 Carson	 being

incredibly	 patient	 sometimes,	 letting	 me	 help	 with

his	 Lego	 models	 or	 having	 me	 stand	 on	 a	 chair	 next

to	 him	 while	 he	 made	 us	 sandwiches.

I	 know	 I’m	 intel igent.	 Everyone	 has	 always

overused	 the	 “you’re	 so	 smart”	 phrase	 with	 me.

The	 I.Q.	 tests	 my	 parents	 have	 made	 me	 take	 tel

me	 I’m	 a	 genius,	 so	 how	 have	 I	 let	 my	 brain	 block

out	 my	 memory	 of	 these	 people	 and	 this	 place?



99

The	 pounding	 from	 the	 library	 becomes

deafening	 again,	 so	 I	 head	 in	 the	 opposite	 direction

to	 my	 studio.	 Aunt	 Virginia	 was	 a	 tidy	 artist.	 Her

oils	 and	 acrylics	 are	 stored	 neatly	 on	 a	 worktable

along	 with	 clean	 brushes	 organized	 by	 size	 and

material,	 horse	 hair	 and	 synthetic.	 About	 a	 dozen

of	 her	 large,	 finished	 canvases	 lean	 against	 two

walls.

I	 open	 my	 large	 portfolio	 case	 and	 take	 out

eight	 of	 my	 finished	 paintings.	 I	 tack	 them	 on	 the

bare	 walls	 with	 poster	 putty	 so	 they	 won’t	 get

damaged.	 I	 know	 other	 artists	 wouldn’t	 do	 this,	 but

I	 don’t	 really	 consider	 myself	 an	 artist	 and	 I	 can	 be

very	 careless	 with	 my	 pieces.	 For	 me	 it’s	 all	 part	 of

the	 process.	 I	 enjoy	 making	 something	 I	 like	 to	 look

at.	 It’s	 about	 expressing	 myself	 through	 paint	 in

ways	 that	 I	 cannot	 communicate	 through	 language.

Perhaps	 that’s	 why	 I	 have	 trouble	 with	 the	 rules	 of

dating.	 I	 have	 neither	 the	 patience	 for	 nor	 the

comprehension	 on	 how	 to	 speak	 to	 men.

I	 scan	 the	 walls	 fil ed	 with	 my	 paintings	 and	 am

pleased	 to	 be	 surrounded	 by	 familiar	 images	 I’ve

created.	 There	 are	 two	 empty	 wooden	 easels	 and	 a



100

large	 drafting	 table	 in	 the	 room.	 I	 set	 my

watercolor	 paper	 on	 the	 drafting	 table,	 and	 study	 a

handful	 of	 my	 charcoal	 and	 ink	 drawings	 that	 I	 wil

enhance	 with	 watercolors.

My	 current	 project	 is	 a	 young	 woman	 in	 a

ballerina	 costume	 and	 combat	 boots.	 She	 stands	 in

the	 middle	 of	 a	 busy	 section	 of	 midtown	 New	 York

City	 with	 cars	 and	 pedestrians	 passing	 by	 and

skyscrapers	 looming	 above.	 An	 old	 man	 who	 could

be	 homeless	 or	 just	 tired	 and	 haggard	 is	 standing

next	 her	 with	 an	 expression	 of	 defeat.	 The	 young

woman	 appears	 to	 be	 enraptured	 by	 her

surroundings.	 Her	 arms	 float	 at	 her	 sides	 as	 if	 she	 is

dancing	 while	 her	 long,	 puffy	 ballerina	 skirt	 twirls.

I	 begin	 to	 drizzle	 watercolors	 down	 parts	 of	 the

drawing,	 painting	 in	 the	 girl	 with	 vibrant	 colors	 to

offset	 against	 the	 black	 and	 white	 grimness	 of	 the

man.	 I’ve	 been	 doing	 these	 types	 of	 paintings	 for	 a

few	 years	 and	 I	 enjoy	 them	 so	 much	 that	 I	 obsess

about	 future	 ideas	 while	 I’m	 doing	 my	 day	 job	 or

hanging	 out	 with	 friends.	 My	 mind	 is	 always

thinking	 of	 new	 images	 I	 want	 to	 explore.



101

My	 roommates	 and	 col eagues	 at	 5	 Alpha	 call

my	 paintings	 grunge	 art	 because	 I	 combine	 so

many	 images	 of	 pop	 culture	 and	 world	 news,

blending	 the	 humor	 of	 society	 with	 the	 grimness	 of

reality.	 Some	 people	 seem	 to	 really	 like	 it,	 but

others	 have	 told	 me	 it’s	 kind	 of	 scary.

When	 I	 gave	 a	 couple	 of	 pieces	 as	 gifts	 to	 my

boss,	 he	 got	 me	 hooked	 up	 with	 a	 friend	 of	 his	 who

owns	 a	 gallery	 in	 Chelsea.	 I	 didn’t	 think	 much	 of	 it,

yet	 the	 art	 dealer,	 Tom,	 was	 persistent.	 He	 came	 to

my	 ramshackle	 apartment	 and	 insisted	 on	 taking

ten	 of	 my	 paintings	 to	 hang	 in	 his	 gallery.	 When	 I

didn’t	 initially	 jump	 at	 the	 chance,	 Tom	 reminded

me	 that	 having	 a	 dealer	 asking	 to	 represent	 you

was	 like	 winning	 the	 lottery	 and	 no	 artist	 can	 afford

to	 be	 self-‐deprecating.	 That	 shut	 me	 up.	 I	 handed

over	 all	 of	 my	 paintings	 with	 gratitude.

There	 are	 starving	 artists	 everywhere	 wanting

to	 get	 noticed.	 I	 realized	 that,	 however,	 he	 didn’t

seem	 to	 understand	 that	 I	 never	 started	 out	 with

the	 intention	 of	 sel ing	 my	 paintings.	 I	 did	 it

because	 the	 images	 hounded	 me	 until	 I	 put	 them

down	 on	 paper.	 I	 did	 it	 to	 escape	 from	 the	 daily



102

grind	 of	 work	 as	 wel 	 as	 to	 escape	 the	 numbers	 that

plague	 my	 brain.	 It’s	 true.

Sometimes,	 my	 brain	 feels	 like	 it’s	 an

automated	 system	 running	 code	 on	 its	 own	 and	 I’m

forced	 to	 visualize	 the	 numbers	 as	 they	 scrol

through	 my	 mind.	 I	 can	 be	 eating	 lunch	 and	 some

random	 number	 wil 	 pop	 in	 my	 mind	 and	 I’l

whisper	 out	 loud, “Seventy	 mil ion.” Seventy	 mil ion

what?	 The	 numbers	 change	 and	 they	 generally

come	 to	 me	 during	 stressful	 times	 when	 my	 brain	 is

deliberating	 over	 a	 predicament.	 I’m	 really	 not	 sure

what	 it	 is;	 if	 it’s	 an	 affliction,	 a	 form	 of	 anxiety,	 a

part	 of	 obsessive-‐compulsive	 disorder,	 but	 I

manage	 with	 it	 while,	 at	 the	 same	 time,	 I	 find	 that

it	 compels	 me	 to	 draw	 and	 paint	 more.

Once	 I	 finish	 a	 piece,	 I	 feel	 an	 incredible

release	 and	 sense	 of	 freedom.	 Katie	 says	 it’s	 an

art gasm	 because	 I	 haven’t	 gotten	 laid.	 She’s	 blunt

like	 that.	 It’s	 what	 makes	 her	 a	 good	 roommate.

Besides,	 maybe	 she’s	 right.	 I’ve	 dated	 enough	 and

done	 plenty	 of	 things	 over	 and	 under	 the	 clothes,

but	 even	 with	 the	 guys	 I	 think	 I	 could	 fall	 in	 love



103

with,	 I	 reach	 a	 point	 where	 I	 realize	 I	 don’t	 want	 to

have	 sex	 with	 them.

I	 never	 wanted	 to	 be	 a	 twenty-‐year-‐old	 virgin,

yet	 for	 some	 reason,	 I’m	 holding	 back.	 The	 last	 guy

I	 dated	 was	 a	 pretty	 good	 catch,	 enough	 so	 that

one	 night	 I	 was	 naked	 in	 his	 bed	 and	 doing	 just

about	 everything.	 We	 were	 both	 eagerly	 horny	 and

sweaty;	 however,	 when	 he	 climbed	 on	 top	 of	 me,	 I

immediately	 pushed	 him	 aside	 and	 struggled	 away.

The	 desire	 had	 deflated	 in	 a	 flash.

“Nope,	 this	 isn’t	 going	 to	 work,”	 I	 said	 to	 him.	 I

wasn’t	 angry,	 scared	 or	 weepy;	 I	 just	 realized	 I

didn’t	 want	 that	 with	 him.	 He	 was	 pissed.	 Watching

him	 trying	 to	 put	 his	 pants	 on	 with	 an	 erection	 and

then	 wrapping	 his	 hoodie	 around	 his	 waist	 so	 he

could	 escape	 my	 apartment,	 left	 me	 wondering	 if	 I

was	 a	 lesbian	 and	 just	 didn’t	 know	 it.	 Sharing	 a	 tiny

bathroom	 with	 two	 other	 women	 tel s	 me,	 no,	 I

definitely	 love	 the	 male	 body.	 I	 also	 love	 having

crushes	 and	 the	 idea	 of	 falling	 in	 love	 with	 a	 man.

Yep,	 when	 I	 saw	 Dylan,	 that	 rush	 of	 lust	 and

desire	 hit	 me	 like	 a	 bug	 on	 a	 windshield.	 Splat!

Could	 I	 fall	 in	 love	 with	 Dylan?	 I	 don’t	 know	 about



104

that,	 especially	 since	 I	 keep	 thinking	 about	 his	 rude

older	 brother.	 If	 I	 want	 a	 summer	 fling,	 Dylan

seems	 like	 a	 sure	 thing.	 He’s	 sending	 all	 the	 right

signals,	 but	 I’m	 very	 good	 at	 making	 things	 not

work	 out.	 I’m	 very	 good	 at	 taking	 the	 hard	 road,

which	 is	 probably	 why	 I’m	 attracted	 to	 Carson.

I	 laugh	 to	 myself	 and	 then,	 without	 thinking,	 I

whisper,	 “Fifty	 mil ion.”

“You	 stil 	 do	 that?”	 A	 deep	 voice	 startles	 me,	 a

voice	 that	 I	 like	 very	 much.

I	 turn	 around	 and	 find	 Carson	 standing	 at	 the

open	 door	 to	 the	 studio.	 He	 is	 incredibly	 handsome

with	 his	 chiseled,	 serious	 face	 and	 his	 broad

shoulders	 that	 veer	 down	 into	 a	 muscular	 torso.	 A

leather	 tool	 belt	 is	 slung	 low	 on	 his	 narrow	 hips	 and

it	 simply	 makes	 him	 sexier.

“What?”	 I	 ask.

“That	 whispering	 thing.	 You	 used	 to	 whisper

numbers	 to	 yourself	 all	 the	 time.”

“I	 did?	 You	 actually	 remember	 that?”

He	 nods	 and	 then	 enters	 the	 room	 as	 if	 he	 was

waiting	 for	 a	 safe	 time	 to	 pass	 between	 us.	 He

walks	 around	 the	 studio	 and	 studies	 each	 painting	 I



105

stuck	 on	 the	 wall.	 He	 is	 quiet	 as	 he	 takes	 his	 time

with	 each	 piece.	 It’s	 almost	 more	 difficult	 than	 if	 he

saw	 me	 naked.	 After	 a	 few	 minutes,	 he	 turns	 back

to	 me	 and	 his	 expression	 has	 all	 the	 earlier	 tension

and	 crankiness	 washed	 from	 it.

“These	 are	 good.	 Provocative,”	 he	 comments.

I	 pause	 and	 then	 stammer,	 completely

surprised	 by	 his	 compliment.

“Thank	 you.	 I	 didn’t	 think	 you’d	 like	 them.”

“Why?”	 He	 stares	 at	 me	 as	 if	 it’s	 a	 standoff.

“Because	 you	 always	 thought	 I	 was	 a	 pest.	 At

least,	 that’s	 what	 it	 sounds	 like	 even	 though	 I	 don’t

recall	 it	 being	 that	 way	 when	 I	 was	 a	 kid.”

Carson	 laughs	 lightly	 and	 comes	 closer	 to	 me.

“You’re	 talented.	 I	 knew	 that	 then	 and	 I	 see	 that

now.	 You’ve	 grown	 into	 something	 that	 is	 your	 own.

Not	 many	 people	 get	 to	 be	 so	 fortunate.”

I	 savor	 the	 praise	 coming	 from	 his	 deep,

alluring	 voice	 and	 I	 feel	 lucky	 to	 see	 him	 smile.	 Is

that	 a	 rarity	 for	 him?	 I	 suspect	 so.

“You	 weren’t	 a	 pest,”	 he	 says,	 now	 close

enough	 that	 I	 can	 see	 the	 pulse	 in	 his	 neck	 and	 his

bicep,	 strangled	 by	 the	 snug,	 short	 sleeve	 of	 his	 T-‐



106

shirt.	 He	 didn’t	 shave	 this	 morning,	 and	 there	 are	 a

few	 spots	 of	 sawdust	 caught	 in	 his	 stubble	 and

across	 the	 hairs	 on	 his	 arm.	 He	 is	 filthy	 from	 work

and	 normally	 I	 wouldn’t	 let	 someone	 like	 that	 walk

into	 my	 clean	 space,	 but	 on	 Carson,	 it’s	 so

appealing.

“Wow,”	 Dylan	 says	 as	 he	 walks	 right	 to	 the

wall	 of	 paintings.	 “Cute	 girl	 with	 a	 grenade	 and	 a

bear	 holding	 a	 peace	 sign.	 Weird	 stuff.”

Carson	 gives	 me	 a	 sympathetic	 shrug.	 It’s	 the

first	 time	 I	 feel	 that	 he	 is	 on	 my	 side.	 Maybe	 I’ve

done	 something	 to	 win	 him	 over.

“Ginnie	 did	 some	 pretty	 neat	 abstracts,	 but

these	 are	 really	 out	 there,”	 Dylan	 continues.

“Do	 you	 like	 them,	 though?”	 I	 ask.

“Yeah,”	 Dylan	 says.	 “They	 make	 a	 bold

statement	 without	 being	 pretentious.”

“All	 right,	 that’s	 enough	 of	 that.”	 Carson	 rakes

his	 hand	 through	 his	 dark,	 unruly	 hair.	 “Back	 to

work.”	 He	 looks	 at	 me	 a	 moment	 and	 I	 am

captivated	 by	 his	 blue	 eyes	 and	 long	 eyelashes.	 I

think	 I	 just	 got	 caught	 staring	 with	 a	 little	 too	 much

interest	 on	 my	 part	 so	 I	 turn	 away	 quickly.



107

Carson	 leaves,	 but	 Dylan	 stays.	 He	 fil s	 the	 spot

that	 Carson	 has	 just	 been	 occupying	 and	 I	 catch

myself	 breathing	 in	 all	 the	 maleness	 that	 surrounds

me.	 I	 have	 never	 welcomed	 so	 much	 testosterone

at	 one	 time.	 The	 men	 at	 5	 Alpha	 are	 col eagues	 that

I’ve	 never	 been	 attracted	 to;	 however,	 Dylan	 and

Carson	 have	 my	 insides	 fluttering	 like	 a	 butterfly	 on

high-‐octane.	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 to	 do	 with	 my

hands	 or	 my	 gaze	 without	 appearing	 to	 be

swooning.	 I	 grab	 a	 fistful	 of	 paintbrushes	 and	 a

bottle	 of	 gel	 ink	 to	 keep	 my	 hands	 busy.	 Dylan

fol ows	 and	 is	 right	 behind	 me,	 closing	 in	 on	 all	 the

empty	 air	 I	 was	 planning	 on	 using	 to	 breathe.

“Hey,”	 he	 says	 softly.	 “Would	 you	 go	 out	 with

me	 for	 dinner?”

“Um.”	 I	 fidget	 and	 think	 of	 all	 the	 possible

reasons	 why	 this	 would	 be	 a	 bad	 idea,	 but	 then	 the

obvious	 one	 hits	 me	 in	 the	 face.	 My	 first	 dates

never	 turn	 into	 second	 dates	 and	 if	 things	 are	 going

to	 go	 sour	 with	 Dylan,	 how	 does	 that	 affect	 me

being	 in	 the	 same	 town	 with	 him?	 Even	 if	 I	 sel 	 this

house,	 he’s	 doing	 all	 the	 repair	 and	 renovation

work.	 “I	 don’t	 know	 if	 I	 can.”



108

“Tomorrow	 night.	 I’l 	 take	 you	 to	 this	 nice	 little

restaurant	 in	 Woodstock.	 I’d	 like	 to	 get	 to	 know

you	 without	 everyone	 else	 hovering	 around	 us.”

“I’m	 calling	 my	 office	 today	 and	 I	 may	 have	 to

head	 back	 to	 the	 city	 tomorrow	 and	 then	 finish	 up

here	 next	 weekend.”

“You	 don’t	 have	 to	 leave	 tomorrow,	 Jess.	 Call

your	 boss.	 He’l 	 tel 	 you	 to	 take	 your	 time.”

“How	 do	 you	 know?	 My	 company	 believes	 in

working	 around	 the	 clock.	 You	 know	 what	 people

do	 during	 their	 time	 off?	 Work!	 That’s	 what	 they

do.”

Dylan	 smiles	 at	 me	 and	 then	 swoops	 in	 for	 a

kiss.	 It	 is	 a	 long,	 lingering	 kiss	 that	 excites	 me	 and

leaves	 me	 wanting	 more	 before	 I	 finally	 push	 away.

“Dinner	 tomorrow	 night,”	 he	 says,	 looking	 just

as	 heated	 as	 I	 feel.	 “I	 have	 to	 work	 in	 the	 shop

tomorrow.	 We	 have	 a	 lot	 of	 orders	 so	 I	 won’t	 be

here	 during	 the	 day.”

“What	 shop?”	 My	 voice	 is	 weak.	 I	 really	 want

to	 kiss	 him	 again.

“Carson’s	 workshop.	 We	 make	 furniture.”



109

“I	 didn’t	 know	 that,”	 I	 say,	 thinking	 they	 were

handymen.	 Archie	 had	 mentioned	 something	 about

furniture,	 but	 I	 must	 have	 forgotten	 that	 they	 have

actual	 jobs	 other	 than	 working	 on	 Aunt	 Virginia’s

house.

“I’l 	 take	 you	 there	 sometime	 and	 introduce

you	 to	 the	 crew.	 They’re	 more	 fun	 than	 Carson.”

“I	 need	 to	 make	 some	 calls	 now,	 but	 I’l 	 let	 you

know	 about	 tomorrow	 night,”	 I	 tel 	 him,	 thinking

that	 I’l 	 have	 to	 turn	 him	 down.

“Oh,	 we’re	 going.	 That’s	 not	 an	 issue.”	 Dylan

heads	 back	 down	 the	 hall	 to	 the	 library	 where

Carson	 has	 been	 hammering	 away.



First	 I	 call	 my	 boss,	 Nathan.	 I	 sit	 on	 the	 front

stoop	 of	 the	 house	 with	 my	 phone,	 catching	 the

afternoon	 rays.

It’s	 a	 Sunday,	 but	 it’s	 not	 unusual	 for	 people	 in

our	 office	 to	 call	 each	 other	 on	 weekends	 or

vacations	 if	 there’s	 a	 computer	 glitch	 that	 has	 to	 be

fixed	 immediately.	 I’ve	 probably	 spent	 more	 time

talking	 to	 Nathan	 on	 my	 cel 	 phone	 than	 I	 have	 in

person.



110

Surprisingly,	 Nathan	 is	 very	 accommodating.

He	 is	 amazed	 that	 I	 have	 inherited	 a	 country	 home

and	 suggests	 that	 I	 stay	 longer	 to	 figure	 out	 what

I’m	 going	 to	 do	 with	 the	 property.	 He	 also	 says	 he’l

send	 out	 a	 computer	 and	 other	 equipment	 with

some	 of	 the	 guys	 from	 IT	 and	 then	 I	 can	 work	 from

the	 house.

“I’m	 not	 letting	 you	 resign,	 Jessica,”	 he	 says	 to

me.	 “We	 have	 too	 many	 good	 projects	 cooking

with	 you.	 I	 may	 even	 come	 out	 and	 visit	 my	 little

country	 mouse.”

Nathan’s	 plan	 is	 surprisingly	 good.	 It	 never

occurred	 to	 me	 to	 work	 from	 here,	 at	 least	 for	 a

while.	 Plus,	 the	 IT	 guys	 wil 	 do	 all	 the	 set-‐up;	 they’l

bring	 in	 a	 few	 nice,	 big	 27-‐inch	 monitors	 and	 a

printer	 along	 with	 whatever	 else	 I	 need	 here.

Nathan	 is	 even	 going	 to	 wire	 the	 house	 for	 Internet

service	 since	 Aunt	 Virginia	 didn’t	 even	 use	 a

computer.	 Apparently,	 she	 counted	 on	 her	 cel

phone	 for	 access	 to	 the	 Internet	 and	 she	 only	 got

that	 when	 she	 left	 her	 home.



111

Next	 I	 call	 my	 roommates.	 Marissa	 picks	 up

and	 then	 Kate	 gets	 on	 the	 other	 cordless	 phone.

“Oh.	 My.	 God!”	 they	 say	 in	 unison.

“Who	 gets	 a	 whole	 house	 when	 someone

dies?”	 Kate	 asks.

“Um,	 a	 lot	 of	 people	 inherit	 property,”	 I

answer.

“Yes,	 but	 who	 do	 we	 know	 that	 gets	 a	 house

you	 can	 vacation	 in?	 This	 is	 unbelievable!”	 Kate

says	 excitedly,	 as	 if	 she	 won	 a	 prize.

“Sorry,	 for	 your	 loss,”	 Marissa	 says,	 trying	 to

get	 Kate	 to	 tone	 down	 her	 jubilation	 over	 my	 il -‐

gotten	 gains.

The	 conversation	 is	 short	 and	 ends	 with	 me

reminding	 them	 to	 deposit	 my	 check	 and	 pay	 our

landlord	 on	 time,	 since	 I’m	 the	 one	 that	 usually

handles	 all	 the	 bil 	 paying.	 I	 beg	 them	 to	 tape	 a

large	 note	 about	 the	 bil 	 due	 dates	 on	 the	 fridge.

Before	 saying	 goodbye,	 Kate	 inquires	 about	 a	 pool

or	 local	 amenities	 in	 case	 she	 and	 Marissa	 want	 to

visit	 for	 a	 weekend.	 I	 explain	 that	 it’s	 an	 old	 house

without	 modern	 day	 conveniences,	 but	 the	 luxury

it	 offers	 is	 scenic	 solitude.	 That	 doesn’t	 seem	 to



112

deter	 Kate,	 not	 after	 hearing	 that	 my	 workmen	 are

attractive,	 hunky	 young	 men.

“Shit,”	 I	 say	 after	 ending	 the	 call.	 Bert	 is

leaning	 against	 my	 back	 and	 does	 a	 partial	 rol 	 into

me	 so	 his	 stubby	 legs	 are	 in	 the	 air	 and	 I’m	 pushed

farther	 off	 the	 step.	 “Honey,	 if	 this	 is	 how	 you’re

going	 to	 spend	 your	 day,	 we’ve	 got	 a	 problem,”	 I

tel 	 him.

A	 small	 car	 comes	 up	 the	 driveway,	 leaving	 a

trail	 of	 dust	 in	 its	 path.	 I	 abruptly	 stand	 up	 to	 see

who	 it	 is	 and	 Bert	 rol s	 off	 the	 top	 step,	 crashing

into	 my	 feet.	 He	 gets	 up	 with	 a	 grunt	 and	 shakes

himself	 off	 before	 moving	 back	 into	 the	 shade	 of

the	 porch.	 “Come	 on,	 Hangover,	 it’s	 time	 to	 get	 up

already.”

“What	 did	 you	 call	 him?”	 Lauren	 asks	 as	 she

and	 Imogene	 get	 out	 of	 the	 little	 car	 with	 beach

towels	 and	 tote	 bags.

“Hangover,	 that’s	 funny,”	 Imogene	 comments.

“We’re	 here	 to	 sunbathe.	 Figure	 you	 could	 use

some	 company	 and	 we	 have	 the	 afternoon	 off	 to

work	 on	 our	 tans,”	 Lauren	 says.



113

“I’m	 not	 much	 of	 a	 sunbather.	 I’m	 as	 pale	 as

they	 come,”	 I	 say.	 “But	 I	 sure	 could	 use	 some

company.	 This	 pooch	 doesn’t	 talk	 much.”

“Bert	 is	 sweet,	 but	 he’s	 lazy.	 You’l 	 never	 see

him	 playing	 catch	 or	 anything	 like	 that.	 We	 always

lie	 out	 over	 there.”	 Imogene	 points	 to	 the	 west	 side

of	 the	 house	 to	 the	 open	 sunny	 grass	 under	 the

library	 window.

“Okay,	 that	 sounds	 good.”	 I	 help	 them	 carry	 a

grocery	 bag	 of	 chips	 and	 water	 out	 to	 the

designated	 spot.

They’ve	 brought	 a	 beach	 towel	 for	 me,	 too.	 I

spread	 out	 the	 towels	 as	 they	 peel	 off	 their	 tank

tops	 and	 shorts	 to	 reveal	 very	 skimpy	 bikinis

underneath.	 Lauren	 is	 a	 very	 tan,	 wil owy,	 blond

with	 the	 perfect	 figure	 you	 see	 in	 catalogues	 and

magazines.	 She	 piles	 her	 lengthy,	 blond	 hair	 on	 top

of	 her	 head	 like	 me,	 showing	 off	 her	 long,	 graceful

neck.

Imogene,	 on	 the	 other	 hand,	 is	 a	 ful -‐figured

gal	 with	 a	 large	 bosom.	 She	 isn’t	 shy	 about	 wearing

a	 bikini	 which	 offers	 no	 support	 for	 her	 heavy

breasts	 and	 ample	 waist,	 though.	 She	 has	 fairer



114

skin	 than	 Lauren,	 so	 I’l 	 probably	 have	 to	 nag	 her

about	 sun	 exposure	 and	 skin	 cancer.	 Being	 a	 fair-‐

skinned	 redhead,	 I’m	 big	 on	 SPF	 and	 hats,	 even

though	 I	 have	 allowed	 myself	 to	 get	 a	 hint	 of	 a	 tan

and	 sprinkle	 of	 tiny	 freckles	 across	 my	 nose	 so	 I	 can

show	 some	 skin	 in	 the	 summer.

“I	 didn’t	 bring	 a	 suit,”	 I	 say.	 “I	 had	 no	 idea	 I’d

be	 relaxing	 in	 the	 sun	 when	 I	 planned	 this	 trip.”

“We	 know	 that,	 dummy.	 I	 brought	 you	 one	 of

my	 suits.”	 Lauren	 pul s	 a	 red	 one-‐piece	 out	 of	 her

tote	 bag	 and	 hands	 it	 to	 me.	 “Don’t	 worry;	 it’s

clean,	 practically	 brand	 new.”

“All	 right,”	 I	 say	 hesitantly.	 “Let	 me	 go	 change

upstairs.	 Did	 you	 bring	 sunscreen?”

Imogene	 holds	 up	 two	 bottles.	 “Of	 course.”



I	 stand	 in	 front	 of	 the	 dresser	 mirror,	 turning

to	 get	 a	 good	 view	 of	 my	 rear.	 The	 swimsuit	 is	 a

very	 bright	 red,	 but	 I	 have	 to	 admit,	 it’s	 flattering	 in

a	 1940’s	 pin-‐up	 girl	 sort	 of	 way.	 I	 don’t	 have	 a	 big

chest,	 yet	 the	 halter	 makes	 me	 look	 ful er	 on	 top

and	 the	 ruching	 on	 the	 sides	 with	 the	 high-‐cut	 leg

openings	 makes	 my	 legs	 look	 very	 long	 and	 slender.



115

Since	 I	 don’t	 have	 the	 instant	 power	 to	 give

myself	 bigger	 boobs	 or	 longer	 legs,	 I	 decide	 that	 I’m

pleased	 with	 how	 I	 look.	 I	 grab	 one	 of	 Aunt

Virginia’s	 large,	 sombrero-‐style	 sun	 hats	 and	 head

back	 downstairs.

As	 I	 pass	 the	 second	 floor,	 I	 hear	 “What	 the—”

from	 Carson	 as	 he	 sees	 the	 flash	 of	 red	 dashing

down	 the	 stairs.

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 have	 brought	 out	 a

serving	 tray	 from	 the	 kitchen	 and	 have	 it	 loaded

with	 beverages,	 bowls	 of	 chips,	 and	 pretzels.

“You	 can’t	 wear	 that	 hat!	 You	 won’t	 get	 any

sun,”	 Lauren	 exclaims.	 “It	 looks	 like	 you	 have	 an

umbrel a	 on	 your	 head.”

“That’s	 the	 point,”	 Imogene	 remarks.	 “She

doesn’t	 want	 to	 burn.	 Wow,	 Jess,	 you	 look	 fabulous

in	 that	 suit.	 Very	 sexy	 for	 a	 one-‐piece.”

“Very,”	 Lauren	 adds.

“I	 like	 it,	 too,”	 I	 agree.	 “Thanks	 for	 bringing	 it.”

I	 plop	 down	 on	 one	 of	 the	 towels	 and	 lean

back	 on	 my	 hands.	 The	 view	 is	 majestic.	 Rol ing

green	 hil s,	 blue	 sky,	 and	 it’s	 my	 view.

“This	 is	 heaven,”	 I	 say.



116

“Hmm.”	 Lauren	 is	 on	 her	 back,	 arms	 raised

above	 her	 head	 for	 even	 tanning.	 It	 makes	 me

giggle.

“Don’t	 laugh,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “She’s	 a	 pro	 at

perfecting	 the	 kil er	 tan.	 Too	 bad	 that	 someday	 it

may	 kil 	 her.”

“Leave	 me	 alone,”	 Lauren	 says	 without

opening	 her	 eyes.

“I	 wouldn’t	 mind	 a	 little	 more	 color	 for	 my

date,	 so	 I	 don’t	 look	 like	 death,”	 I	 say	 before	 kicking

myself.	 I	 may	 have	 resigned	 myself	 to	 the	 idea	 of

Dylan’s	 dinner	 invitation,	 but	 I	 didn’t	 want	 anyone

else	 to	 know	 that	 I	 was	 going	 out	 with	 him.	 At	 least

not	 yet,	 not	 on	 the	 heels	 of	 my	 aunt’s	 death;	 the

part	 about	 me	 being	 new	 to	 town	 and	 looking	 like	 a

cheap	 hussy	 bothers	 me.

“Date?”	 Imogene	 shouts.	 “With	 who?”	 She	 and

Lauren	 both	 prop	 themselves	 up	 on	 their	 elbows,

waiting	 for	 me	 to	 respond.

“Dylan	 is	 taking	 me	 out	 for	 dinner	 tomorrow

night.”

“Dylan.	 Of	 course.	 He’s	 been	 all	 over	 you,”

Imogene	 notes.



117

“That’s	 fast	 even	 for	 Dylan,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “He’s

a	 great	 guy	 and	 so	 cute,	 he	 gets	 the	 women,	 but

we	 only	 see	 him	 hanging	 out	 with	 them	 at	 bars	 or

parties.	 He	 never	 dates	 one	 person,	 Jess.”

“Yeah,	 he	 gets	 his	 pick	 of	 women,	 that’s	 for

sure,”	 Imogene	 adds.	 “I’ve	 seen	 him	 rol ing	 down

the	 street	 at	 dawn,	 coming	 back	 from	 a	 one	 night-‐

stand,	 but	 I	 don’t	 think	 I’ve	 ever	 seen	 him	 on	 a	 real

date.	 He’s	 one	 of	 those	 guys	 that	 goes	 out	 with	 a

group	 of	 people	 and	 ends	 up	 sleeping	 with

different	 women	 every	 time.”

“Ugh.	 Wel ,	 then	 maybe	 I	 shouldn’t	 go.	 I	 mean,

I’m	 not	 looking	 to	 date	 someone.	 I	 assumed	 this

was	 just	 a	 friendly	 dinner	 invitation,	 but	 now	 it

sounds	 like	 a	 bad	 idea.”

“No,	 you	 should	 go,”	 Imogene	 insists.	 “He’s

sexy	 hot	 and	 he	 obviously	 likes	 you	 a	 lot.	 I	 would	 go

in	 a	 heartbeat	 if	 a	 guy	 like	 him	 asked	 me	 out,	 but

not	 Dylan.	 He’s	 a	 like	 a	 brother	 to	 us.”

“Yeah.”	 Lauren	 makes	 a	 little	 face	 to	 Imogene

who	 shakes	 her	 off.	 They’re	 hiding	 something	 from

me.	 “We	 can’t	 date	 Dylan.	 Not	 that	 he’d	 ask	 us.	 He

is	 too	 much	 like	 a	 brother.	 I	 am	 a	 little	 jealous,



118

though.	 I’ve	 lived	 here	 my	 whole	 life	 and	 I’ve	 had

some	 crappy	 boyfriends	 and,	 no	 matter	 what	 I	 do,	 I

can’t	 get	 that	 idiot	 Leo	 to	 even	 notice	 me.	 You’re

here	 two	 days	 and	 you	 have	 a	 stud	 hot	 on	 your	 tail.”

“Who’s	 Leo?”

“One	 of	 the	 guys	 that	 works	 at	 the	 Blackard

workshop.	 He’s	 very	 quiet	 around	 women,”

Imogene	 answers.

“I	 bet	 Dylan	 is	 taking	 you	 to	 Cucina,”	 Lauren

says.	 “He	 loves	 that	 place.	 If	 he’s	 taking	 you	 to	 a

place	 he	 loves,	 then	 that’s	 a	 big	 deal.	 It	 means	 he’s

sharing	 something	 important	 with	 you.”

“I	 think	 you’re	 reading	 too	 much	 into	 this.	 I

don’t	 really	 live	 here.	 Remember?	 I	 have	 a	 job	 and

a	 place	 in	 the	 city.	 I	 don’t	 think	 Dylan	 thinks	 it’s

more	 than	 dinner.”	 I	 say	 this	 more	 to	 convince

myself,	 however,	 after	 those	 kisses,	 I	 don’t	 even

know	 if	 I	 can	 buy	 my	 own	 story.	 He’s	 a	 guy;	 he

wants	 sex	 and	 so	 do	 I.	 Finally.

“When	 are	 you	 leaving?	 I	 thought	 Archie

convinced	 you	 to	 stay	 a	 while?”	 Lauren	 sounds

genuinely	 sad.



119

“I	 guess	 I’m	 not	 leaving	 any	 time	 soon.	 I	 spoke

to	 my	 boss	 and	 he’s	 setting	 up	 my	 office	 here	 so	 I

can	 work	 long	 distance	 and	 I	 received	 some	 money

from	 my	 aunt.	 I	 also	 have	 some	 in	 savings,	 so	 I’m

stil 	 paying	 my	 share	 on	 my	 rental.	 So,	 no,	 I’m	 not

leaving	 anytime	 soon,	 but	 I	 have	 to	 come	 up	 with	 a

real	 life	 plan.	 I	 can’t	 go	 on	 with	 all	 these	 balls	 in	 the

air.”

Imogene	 laughs.	 “Life	 plan?	 You’re	 twenty.

God,	 I	 keep	 thinking	 you’re	 older	 because	 you	 are

so	 mature,	 but	 you	 do	 look	 like	 a	 teenager.”

“Okay,	 good,	 that’s	 settled.	 You’re	 not	 leaving

and	 you	 have	 a	 real	 date	 with	 a	 cute	 guy,”	 Lauren

says.	 “You	 suck.”

She	 lies	 down	 again	 and	 closes	 her	 eyes.

“Good	 for	 you,	 Jess.”	 Imogene	 takes	 a

cigarette	 out	 of	 her	 bag	 and	 lights	 it,	 taking	 a	 long

drag	 on	 it	 before	 blowing	 the	 smoke	 out	 slowly.

Lauren,	 who	 is	 lying	 between	 us,	 waves	 her

hand	 to	 get	 the	 smoke	 away	 from	 her	 face.

“You’d	 both	 like	 my	 roommates,	 Kate	 and

Marissa.	 You	 two	 are	 similar	 to	 them.”



120

“Col ege

educated

and

unemployed?”

Imogene	 asks.

“If	 you	 mean	 employed	 in	 fields	 other	 than

what	 they	 studied	 for,	 then	 yes.	 But	 the	 whole

dating	 scene,	 too.	 Kate	 and	 Marissa	 either	 have

bad	 dates	 or	 go	 through	 dry	 spel s.	 Why	 is	 it	 so

difficult?	 I	 don’t	 know	 anyone	 in	 a	 good

relationship.	 It’s	 odd.	 In	 high	 school,	 I	 was	 too

young	 and	 it	 didn’t	 help	 being	 a	 skinny	 geek,	 yet

finally,	 by	 the	 end	 of	 col ege,	 it	 was	 working	 out	 for

me.	 I	 thought.	 I	 looked	 infinitely	 better	 and	 I	 was

getting	 plenty	 of	 one-‐time	 dates,	 but	 no	 winners.”

“You	 started	 col ege	 at	 what?	 Fourteen?”

Lauren	 asks.	 “How	 many	 serious	 boyfriends	 did	 you

have?”

“Serious	 ones?	 None.”

“Have	 you	 had	 your	 heart	 broken?”	 Imogene

turns	 her	 head	 away	 from	 us	 and	 blows	 another

plume	 of	 smoke	 towards	 the	 butterflies	 hovering

around	 us.	 I	 imagine	 them	 all	 dropping	 to	 the

ground	 with	 black	 lung	 disease.

“No,	 I’ve	 never	 been	 in	 love.”

“I	 think	 I’m	 in	 love	 with	 Leo,”	 Lauren	 says.



121

“You	 have	 to	 have	 a	 conversation	 with	 him	 for

that	 to	 happen.”	 Imogene	 laughs.

“What	 are	 you	 going	 to	 wear	 on	 your	 date	 with

Dylan?”	 Lauren	 asks.

“More	 importantly,	 should	 the	 opportunity

arise,	 if	 you	 know	 what	 I	 mean,	 are	 you	 going	 to

sleep	 with	 him?”	 Imogene	 asks.

I	 decide	 to	 put	 all	 my	 cards	 on	 the	 table.	 I	 like

these	 two	 and,	 if	 they	 can	 offer	 any	 advice	 on

improving	 my	 romantic	 life,	 or	 lack	 thereof,	 I	 want

in.	 “If	 that	 happens,	 it	 wil 	 be	 a	 first.”

Lauren	 shields	 her	 eyes	 from	 the	 sun	 with	 her

hand	 and	 studies	 me.	 “You’re	 serious,	 aren’t	 you?

You’re	 a	 virgin.	 You’ve	 honestly	 never	 fucked	 a

guy?”

“It	 makes	 sense,”	 Imogene	 says	 more

delicately.	 “She’s	 so	 much	 younger	 than	 everyone,

she’s	 just	 catching	 up.	 But	 you’re	 very	 pretty;	 you

have	 to	 expect	 guys	 to	 hit	 on	 you.”

“Back	 up	 a	 minute	 here,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “What

about	 other	 stuff?	 Blow	 jobs	 and	 hand	 jobs.	 Did

you	 ever	 go	 down	 on	 a	 guy?	 Did	 a	 guy	 ever	 go

down	 on	 you?”



122

“Leave	 her	 alone,”	 Imogene	 slaps	 Lauren’s	 arm.

I’m	 not	 bothered	 by	 her	 questions.	 When	 I	 was

sixteen	 and	 studying	 with	 a	 bunch	 of	 nineteen-‐

year-‐old	 sorority	 girls,	 I	 was	 intimidated,	 but	 now

my	 confidence	 is	 stronger	 and	 I’m	 not	 terrified	 to

be	 imperfect.	 I’m	 only	 a	 little	 nervous.

“I’ve	 done	 plenty,	 but	 not	 the	 actual	 deed.”

Truth	 be	 told,	 I	 tried	 to	 give	 a	 guy	 a	 blow	 job	 once,

but	 holding	 his	 penis	 in	 my	 hand	 made	 me	 realize	 I

really	 disliked	 the	 guy.	 There	 was	 also	 one	 time,

when	 a	 guy	 pul ed	 my	 panties	 down,	 I	 suddenly

didn’t	 want	 his	 face	 between	 my	 legs.	 It	 wasn’t	 the

sexual	 acts,	 it	 was	 the	 guys.	 They	 always	 turned	 me

off	 somehow;	 they	 were	 simply	 wrong	 for	 me.

“You	 mean	 the	 actual	 fucking,	 penis	 in	 and

humping	 and	 bumping?”	 Lauren	 continues	 her

questioning.

“It	 sounds	 lovely	 when	 you	 put	 it	 like	 that.”

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 laugh	 and	 then	 I	 join	 in.

“Maybe	 Dylan	 wil 	 be	 your	 lucky	 stud,”

Imogene	 says.



123

“Maybe	 he’l 	 hammer	 it	 home	 for	 you,”	 Lauren

says,	 stil 	 laughing.	 “I	 bet	 he’s	 good	 in	 bed.	 He

probably	 delivers	 a	 great	 orgasm.”

“I’l 	 settle	 for	 a	 good	 gril ed	 steak,	 heavy	 on	 the

butter.”	 I	 get	 up	 while	 they	 howl	 with	 laughter	 over

my	 comment.	 “I’m	 going	 to	 the	 kitchen	 to	 make

some	 real	 drinks.	 I	 found	 vodka	 in	 the	 freezer.”

They’re	 stil 	 laughing,	 so	 I	 toss	 my	 sombrero	 on	 the

ground	 and	 walk	 back	 to	 the	 house.



I’m	 mixing	 vodka	 with	 cranberry	 juice	 as	 I	 pour

it	 into	 tall	 tumblers	 when	 I	 hear	 someone’s	 intake

of	 breath	 behind	 me.	 I	 turn	 around	 and	 Carson	 is

staring	 at	 my	 legs	 and	 working	 his	 way	 up	 to	 my

face.	 I’m	 generally	 not	 the	 kind	 of	 person	 who	 feels

comfortable	 walking	 around	 in	 a	 bathing	 suit	 unless

I’m	 at	 a	 beach	 or	 pool	 with	 others	 similarly	 dressed,

I	 wish	 I	 had	 thrown	 on	 some	 kind	 of	 cover-‐up,	 but	 I

forgot	 to	 bring	 one	 outside.

“Hi,”	 I	 say.	 He	 has	 that	 serious	 face	 again,	 not

the	 soft,	 contemplative	 expression	 from	 earlier	 in

the	 studio.	 “I’m	 making	 vodka	 cranberries	 for	 the

gals.	 May	 I	 make	 a	 couple	 for	 you	 and	 Dylan?”



124

“No,	 we’re	 working.”	 He’s	 authoritative,

almost	 scolding	 me	 with	 his	 eyes.

“It’s	 getting	 late;	 don’t	 you	 want	 to	 quit	 and

have	 some	 of	 your	 weekend—”

“Dylan	 said	 he’s	 taking	 you	 out	 tomorrow

night,”	 Carson	 cuts	 me	 off,	 definitely	 not	 interested

in	 my	 suggestion	 about	 ending	 his	 workday.

“Yes,	 that’s	 right.	 He	 asked	 me	 out	 for	 dinner.”

“Why	 are	 you	 doing	 this?”

I’m	 a	 little	 insulted	 that	 he’s	 talking	 to	 me	 with

accusation	 ringing	 in	 his	 tone,	 clearly	 blaming	 me

for	 something.

“Dylan	 asked	 me	 out	 for	 dinner.	 It’s	 pretty

straightforward.	 Is	 there	 a	 problem	 with	 me	 going

out	 with	 him?”

“Yes.”

Now	 I	 am	 more	 than	 frustrated,	 I	 want	 to

scream	 at	 his	 stony	 expression.	 “Would	 it	 be

possible	 for	 you	 to	 use	 a	 few	 more	 nouns	 and	 verbs,

so	 I	 know	 exactly	 why	 you 	 have	 a	 problem	 with	 me

going	 out	 to	 dinner	 with	 your	 brother?”

Carson	 takes	 a	 couple	 long	 strides	 and	 is	 in	 my

face	 before	 I	 can	 count	 to	 one.	 He	 has	 to	 lean	 over



125

to	 be	 at	 my	 eye	 level.	 He	 places	 his	 hands	 on	 the

counter	 on	 either	 side	 of	 me	 so	 I’m	 trapped.	 “He

thinks	 you’re	 going	 to	 stay	 here	 for	 good.	 He	 thinks

he	 has	 a	 chance	 with	 you.	 I	 want	 you	 to	 be	 honest

with	 him	 and	 explain	 that	 you’l 	 be	 going	 back	 to

your	 real	 life	 in	 New	 York.”

He	 moves	 so	 close	 to	 my	 face,	 I	 find	 myself

staring	 back	 into	 his	 beautiful	 eyes	 that	 never	 leave

mine.	 He	 is	 nothing	 like	 Dylan;	 I	 can	 see	 that	 in	 this

moment.	 Carson	 is	 only	 three	 years	 older	 than	 his

brother;	 however,	 he	 might	 as	 wel 	 be	 twenty	 years

older.	 He	 carries	 a	 weight—a	 burden	 in	 him—that

is	 marked	 by	 a	 serious,	 unwavering	 demeanor.	 I

think	 a	 part	 of	 me	 remembers	 this	 about	 him	 and

another	 part	 of	 me	 remembers	 trying	 to	 coax	 the

fun	 side	 out	 of	 him.	 I	 know	 I	 have	 seen	 him	 laugh,

the	 memory	 is	 there,	 buried	 with	 all	 the	 other	 fuzzy

images,	 yet	 right	 now,	 I	 only	 see	 a	 man	 who	 is

trying	 to	 look	 strong	 because	 there’s	 something

that	 worries	 him.

If	 he’s	 trying	 to	 be	 intimidating	 and	 rouse	 my

anxiety,	 it’s	 working.	 After	 a	 short	 stare-‐off



126

between	 us,	 he	 moves	 back.	 My	 small	 victory	 is

that	 he	 seems	 to	 be	 at	 a	 loss	 for	 words,	 too.

“I	 haven’t	 decided	 what	 I’m	 doing.	 My	 boss

gave	 me	 a	 great	 opportunity	 to	 work	 from	 here,

from	 this	 house.”

Carson	 looks	 surprised	 and	 crosses	 his	 arms.

“So	 you’re	 staying	 here?	 You’re	 going	 to	 live	 in	 the

house	 full-‐time?”	 He	 doesn’t	 sound	 convinced	 at	 all.

“That’s	 my	 plan,	 at	 least	 for	 now.”

“Ah,	 at	 least	 for	 now	 and	 how	 long	 do	 you

think	 ‘for	 now’	 wil 	 last?”

“Wel ,	 Carson,	 I	 don’t	 know	 that,”	 I	 snap.	 “I

want	 to	 try	 something	 new	 and	 fun;	 something

where	 I	 get	 to	 work	 from	 home	 and	 I	 can	 have	 a

real	 studio	 for	 painting.	 Besides,	 what	 the	 hel

business	 is	 it	 of	 yours	 anyway?”

“It’s	 my	 business	 when	 it	 involves	 my	 brother.”

“He’s	 not	 a	 child.	 He’s	 twenty-‐three-‐years-‐old.”

I’m	 getting	 angrier.	 “He’s	 older	 than	 me	 and	 can

take	 care	 of	 himself.”

“You	 don’t	 know	 anything	 about	 Dylan.	 This

may	 be	 a	 new,	 fun	 thing	 for	 you.	 Isn’t	 that	 what



127

you	 called	 it?	 Something	 new	 and	 fun?	 This	 is

Dylan’s	 life.”

“It’s	 my	 life,	 too.”	 I’m	 good	 at	 sounding	 like	 a

petulant	 child.	 “What	 the	 fuck	 are	 you	 talking

about?”

My	 sudden	 rage	 startles	 him;	 I	 see	 him

physically	 back	 off	 and	 gather	 his	 thoughts,

bringing	 it	 down	 a	 notch.

“I	 didn’t	 mean	 for	 it	 to	 come	 out	 like	 that.”	 His

tone	 is	 nicer,	 though	 forced.	 This	 is	 a	 painful

subject	 for	 him	 to	 talk	 about	 and	 it	 wil 	 probably

put	 me	 on	 his	 permanent	 shit	 list.	 “The	 thing	 is,	 I

don’t	 want	 Dylan	 to	 get	 his	 hopes	 up	 and	 then	 get

hurt.”

“Hurt	 by	 me?”	 I	 sound	 incredulous.	 “Dylan,	 the

big	 flirt?	 He’s	 somewhat	 of	 a	 womanizer	 from	 what

I’ve	 heard.	 You	 think	 I’m	 going	 to	 hurt	 him?	 That’s

rich.”

Carson	 shakes	 his	 head	 and	 rubs	 his	 hand	 back

and	 forth	 on	 his	 jaw.	 It’s	 a	 good	 move	 on	 him,	 very

cool	 and	 sexy.	 I	 wonder	 what	 he’s	 hiding.

“This	 is	 too	 difficult	 to	 explain.”



128

“Hey,	 I’m	 the	 woman	 who	 does	 quadratic

equations.	 You	 said	 so	 yourself.	 I	 think	 I’m	 capable

of	 understanding	 whatever	 dilemma	 you	 think	 we

have	 here.”

“I	 wish	 it	 was	 that	 simple.	 But	 I	 know	 you’l 	 get

bored	 living	 in	 this	 little	 town.	 You’l 	 want	 to	 go

back.	 New	 York	 has	 more	 to	 offer	 you.”

“Really?	 You’re	 a	 psychic,	 too?	 That’s	 amazing.

5	 Alpha	 could	 probably	 use	 your	 abilities.”	 My

sarcasm	 is	 almost	 palpable.	 I	 have	 been	 fighting	 for

years	 to	 be	 taken	 seriously	 as	 an	 adult	 and	 here	 I

am	 behaving	 like	 a	 child.

“I’m	 not	 trying	 to	 be	 an	 ass.	 I’m	 sorry.	 You’ve

made	 a	 lot	 of	 people	 happy	 coming	 here.”	 I	 believe

him,	 although	 I	 also	 don’t	 think	 he’s	 one	 of	 those

happy	 people.

“Thank	 you.”

“I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 break	 Dylan’s	 heart,”	 he

mumbles.

As	 much	 as	 I	 want	 to	 scoff	 at	 that	 hilarious

concept,	 I	 don’t.	 I	 shrug,	 feeling	 completely	 naked

in	 this	 vivid	 red	 bathing	 suit	 that	 is	 meant	 for

someone	 more	 glamorous,	 so	 I	 cross	 my	 arms.



129

Carson	 senses	 my	 discomfort.	 “You	 look	 really

good,	 Jess.	 You	 were	 a	 little	 hellion	 when	 you	 were

a	 kid,	 but	 you’ve	 become	 a	 very	 beautiful	 woman.”

He	 instantly	 looks	 like	 he	 regrets	 saying	 that	 and

heads	 quickly	 for	 the	 door.

I	 love	 that	 he	 says	 that	 to	 me	 while,	 at	 the

same	 time,	 I	 know	 I	 want	 more	 of	 that	 from	 Carson.

From	 Carson,	 my	 big	 fat	 brain	 tel s	 me.

“I’ve	 never	 broken	 anyone’s	 heart,”	 I	 blurt	 out

before	 he’s	 out	 of	 earshot.

At	 the	 kitchen	 door,	 he	 turns	 back	 around	 and

produces	 the	 slightest	 smile	 as	 though	 it	 distresses

him.

“Yes,	 you	 have,”	 he	 says	 and	 leaves.

Whose	 heart?	 Aunt	 Virginia’s?	 My	 parents’?

The	 last	 guy	 I	 dated	 who	 slept	 with	 the	 neighbor

girl	 after	 I	 kicked	 him	 out	 of	 bed?	 Carson	 is	 using	 a

code	 I	 can’t	 decipher.	 I	 want	 to	 chase	 after	 him	 and

demand	 that	 he	 explain	 what	 he’s	 afraid	 of

between	 Dylan	 and	 me,	 or	 more	 accurately	 myself

in	 general.

I	 want	 to	 be	 near	 Carson,	 end	 of	 story.

However,	 experience	 has	 taught	 me	 that	 guys	 are



130

turned	 off	 by	 brainiacs.	 Even	 if	 I	 wear	 a	 push-‐up	 bra

and	 sex	 up	 a	 dress,	 I	 invariably	 let	 something	 slip;

an	 innocuous	 comment	 about	 science	 or	 math,	 it

doesn’t	 matter,	 it’s	 enough	 to	 send	 the	 gorgeous,

good-‐looking	 guys	 for	 the	 hil s.

One	 man	 I	 met	 at	 a	 glitzy	 party	 on	 the	 Upper

Eastside	 seemed	 terrific,	 intel igent	 and	 handsome.

I	 thought	 it	 was	 a	 sign	 that	 my	 bad	 man-‐luck	 had

changed.	 After	 a	 nice	 dinner	 at	 Cesca,	 he	 swooped

me	 into	 his	 arms	 for	 a	 kiss.	 I	 was	 overjoyed	 and

started	 to	 say	 something	 I	 thought	 was	 clever	 when

he	 covered	 my	 mouth	 with	 two	 fingers	 and	 actually

said,	 “Please	 don’t	 talk.	 I	 really	 want	 to	 take	 you

home	 and	 fuck	 you.”	 His	 balls	 got	 to	 meet	 my	 knee

up	 close	 and	 personal	 before	 I	 stole	 his	 cab.





131





Nine



“What	 took	 so	 long,	 partner?	 I’m	 mighty

parched,”	 Imogene	 says	 as	 I	 set	 the	 tray	 of	 drinks

on	 the	 grass.

“A	 little	 hold-‐up	 with	 Carson.	 Apparently,	 he	 is

not	 happy	 about	 me	 going	 out	 with	 his	 brother.”

“Carson	 is	 very	 protective	 of	 Dylan,”	 Lauren

tel s	 me.

“Why?	 Dylan	 seems	 pretty	 capable	 of	 fending

for	 himself.”

“He	 is,”	 Imogene	 adds.	 “But	 they	 went	 through

a	 lot	 together	 as	 kids.	 First	 their	 mom	 died	 when

they	 were	 very	 young,	 then	 their	 dad	 was	 pretty

useless	 and	 Carson	 had	 to	 take	 over	 at	 a	 young	 age.”

“That’s	 the	 summer	 they	 moved	 in	 with	 Ginnie.

You	 and	 your	 mom	 were	 here,”	 Lauren	 says.

“Shit,	 I	 have	 to	 call	 my	 mom,”	 I	 say	 and	 then

immediately	 brush	 the	 thought	 away.	 “Okay,	 so



132

they	 moved	 in	 here	 that	 summer	 and	 then	 they

moved	 back	 with	 their	 dad?”

“That’s	 just	 it;	 their	 dad	 never	 really	 came	 back.

Not	 to	 parent	 them	 at	 least.	 Carson	 took	 Dylan

back	 to	 their	 home	 and	 he	 did	 everything.	 Carson

has	 always	 been	 the	 parent	 to	 Dylan,”	 Imogene

says.	 “They	 had	 a	 trailer	 home	 and	 not	 a	 nice	 one.

Their	 dad	 would	 float	 back	 into	 town	 when	 he	 felt

like	 it	 or	 when	 the	 money	 from	 his	 sales	 job	 ran

out.”

“He	 was	 a	 drunk,”	 Lauren	 adds.	 “I	 remember

him	 stumbling	 into	 Dylan’s	 class	 to	 pick	 him	 up	 and

he	 was	 so	 intoxicated	 that	 the	 school	 had	 the

police	 pick	 him	 up.”

“Then	 that	 part	 of	 their	 life	 ended	 when	 their

dad	 kil ed	 himself,”	 Imogene	 interjects.

“Oh,”	 I	 say.	 “I	 didn’t	 know.”

“It	 was	 pretty	 rough	 for	 them.	 They	 were	 close

to	 their	 mom.	 When	 she	 got	 sick,	 that	 whole	 family

fel 	 apart,	 especially	 their	 dad.	 When	 she	 died,	 that

was	 the	 first	 time	 their	 dad	 disappeared,”	 Lauren

explains.	 “That’s	 why	 Ginnie	 had	 them	 come	 spend

that	 summer	 here,	 so	 she	 could	 help	 them	 figure



133

out	 what	 to	 do	 next.	 They	 could	 have	 stayed	 in

Ginnie’s	 house	 forever,	 but	 Carson	 wanted	 to	 show

he	 was	 brave	 and	 strong.	 I	 think	 it	 was	 more	 likely

that	 he	 was	 really	 afraid	 to	 be	 dependent	 on

people	 again.	 Besides	 that,	 though,	 he	 wanted	 to

move	 Dylan	 back	 to	 the	 trailer	 park	 and	 get	 him

back	 in	 school.	 Carson	 believed	 he	 could	 make

things	 normal	 for	 his	 brother	 and	 himself.”

“And	 he	 did,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “Although,	 I	 think

the	 only	 reason	 they	 got	 under	 the	 radar	 of	 the

state	 was	 because	 Ginnie	 would	 help	 out	 with

groceries	 and	 utility	 bil s.	 I	 was	 in	 awe	 when	 I’d	 see

them	 walking	 to	 school,	 doing	 everything	 on	 their

own.	 Carson	 was	 very	 serious	 about	 being	 in

charge	 and	 keeping	 his	 brother	 in	 line.	 Then	 their

messed	 up	 dad	 came	 back	 and	 blew	 his	 brains	 out

behind	 the	 trailer	 one	 day.”

“Oh,	 God,”	 I	 exclaim.	 “I	 can’t	 believe	 what

they’ve	 gone	 through.	 Why	 didn’t	 they	 go	 into

foster	 care	 when	 their	 dad	 died?”

“Because	 Carson	 was	 eighteen,	 he	 got

approval	 to	 be	 Dylan’s	 legal	 guardian	 or	 something

so	 they	 could	 stay	 there.	 Between	 their	 parents’



134

deaths,	 they	 spent	 seven	 years	 raising	 themselves;

well,	 with	 the	 help	 of	 Ginnie	 and	 my	 mom	 who	 did

a	 lot	 of	 cooking	 for	 them.	 Really,	 the	 whole	 town

was	 watching	 over	 them,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “It	 seems

so	 long	 ago,	 but	 it	 really	 wasn’t.	 Then,	 when	 Lauren

and	 I	 went	 off	 to	 col ege,	 Dylan	 was	 already	 gone.

He	 got	 into	 Colgate.	 We	 came	 back	 every	 summer

to	 work	 at	 Grandma’s	 diner	 and	 by	 then,	 Carson’s

business	 was	 growing	 really	 wel .”

“Wait	 a	 sec,	 Dylan	 went	 to	 col ege	 and	 Carson

stayed	 here?”

“Carson	 couldn’t	 go	 to	 col ege,”	 Lauren

answers.	 “He	 had	 to	 stay	 here.	 Dylan	 was	 only

fifteen,	 so	 Carson	 forfeited	 his	 scholarship	 to

Columbia,	 but	 he	 made	 sure	 Dylan	 went	 to	 col ege.

They’re	 both	 smart,	 but	 Carson	 has	 something

wicked	 going	 on	 in	 that	 brain	 of	 his.	 Dylan	 went	 to

Colgate	 on	 scholarship,	 too,	 while	 Carson	 helped

pay	 his	 bil s.	 By	 then,	 he	 had	 started	 his	 furniture

business.	 He	 learned	 the	 trade	 from	 a	 local	 guy

who	 was	 retiring.	 Carson	 was	 like	 an	 apprentice

before	 his	 furniture	 and	 woodworking	 skills

became	 very	 popular	 with	 some	 of	 the	 wealthier



135

residents	 and	 tourists	 so	 he	 got	 good	 contacts	 at

high-‐end	 stores	 in	 the	 city	 and	 around	 the	 country.

He	 did	 go	 into	 the	 city	 for	 part-‐time	 classes	 at

Columbia	 as	 wel ,	 but	 he	 never	 got	 his	 degree.”

“Carson	 is	 doing	 all	 right	 for	 himself.	 As	 well	 as

for	 Dylan,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “Lauren	 and	 I	 should	 go

work	 for	 Carson	 ‘cause	 so	 far	 our	 col ege	 degrees

are	 not	 landing	 us	 jobs.	 And	 Carson	 pays	 more	 than

my	 grandmother.”

“So	 it’s	 all	 working	 out	 for	 them,”	 I	 muse.

“Dylan	 is	 a	 grown	 man	 with	 a	 col ege	 degree	 and

his	 brother	 is	 worried	 that	 I’m	 a	 distraction?”

Imogene	 laughs	 and	 reaches	 for	 another

cigarette.	 “No,	 he	 doesn’t	 think	 that.	 He’s	 trying	 to

keep	 Dylan	 focused	 on	 his	 career,	 I	 suppose.	 He

wants	 to	 make	 sure	 Dylan’s	 life	 is	 more	 stable	 now.

The	 last	 fifteen	 years	 were	 a	 struggle	 to	 get	 where

they	 are	 now.”

“What	 is	 Dylan’s	 degree	 in?”

“Geology	 and	 business.	 Isn’t	 that	 interesting?”

Lauren	 says.	 “All	 he	 wants	 is	 to	 work	 for	 Carson,

though.	 They’re	 very	 talented.	 Have	 you	 seen	 the

furniture	 they	 make?”



136

“I	 think	 I	 saw	 some	 of	 it	 in	 Archie’s	 office.”

Imogene	 nods	 her	 head	 with	 her	 cigarette

clenched	 in	 her	 mouth	 as	 she	 reapplies	 sunscreen.

“Dylan	 is	 adorable.	 I	 think	 it’s	 sweet	 that	 he’s

interested	 in	 you,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “He	 got	 excel ent

grades	 when	 he	 was	 off	 at	 col ege,	 but	 apparently

he	 had	 a	 little	 too	 much	 fun	 with	 the	 ladies.	 He

could	 use	 a	 sensible	 influence	 like	 you	 in	 his	 life.”

“I	 thought	 Carson	 was	 a	 sensible	 influence.”

“I	 mean	 the	 female	 kind;	 you	 know,	 to	 settle

him	 down,”	 Lauren	 says.

“Gee,	 I	 don’t	 like	 the	 sound	 of	 that.	 What	 was

he	 doing	 with	 all	 these	 women?”

“Screwing	 around,”	 Lauren	 answers	 with	 a

shrug.	 “What	 does	 any	 handsome	 guy	 with	 a	 dick

do?	 Fuck	 ‘em	 and	 leave	 ‘em.”

“Then	 why	 the	 hel 	 would	 I	 want	 to	 go	 out	 with

him?”

“Lauren,”	 Imogene	 scolds	 before	 turning	 to	 me.

“Jess,	 Dylan	 has	 matured.	 A	 little.	 He’s	 not	 the

same	 playboy	 he	 was	 in	 col ege.”

“A	 little.	 Huh?	 But	 he’s	 stil 	 a	 playboy,	 right?

Just	 a	 different	 kind	 of	 playboy.”



137

“Oh,	 he	 likes	 you.	 Imogene	 is	 right.	 Dylan	 has

grown	 up	 a	 lot	 in	 the	 last	 couple	 of	 years.	 I	 can

totally	 see	 you	 together,”	 Lauren	 says.

“Carson	 believes	 otherwise.	 Honestly,	 why	 do

you	 think	 he	 doesn’t	 want	 me	 going	 out	 with

Dylan?”

Imogene	 shrugs.	 “Carson	 is	 kind	 of	 a	 mystery.

We	 know	 he	 was	 seeing	 some	 woman	 who	 worked

in	 one	 of	 the	 New	 York	 showrooms,	 one	 of	 his

distributors,	 I	 think.	 Anyway,	 I	 think	 he	 stopped

seeing	 her	 a	 while	 ago.	 Whoever	 he	 was	 dating,	 he

never	 brought	 her	 around	 here.	 Maybe	 if	 Dylan

gets	 paired	 off	 with	 someone,	 Carson	 is	 afraid	 of

being	 alone,”	 Imogene	 suggests.	 “Hey,	 maybe	 I’m

onto	 something	 here.	 Carson	 keeps	 whatever

personal	 life	 he	 has	 a	 complete	 secret	 from	 us.	 If	 he

isn’t	 at	 the	 shop,	 he’s	 roaming	 around	 in	 his	 big

house.”

“Does	 Dylan	 live	 with	 him?”

“God,	 no,	 they’d	 be	 at	 each	 other’s	 throats	 all

the	 time,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “It’s	 enough	 they	 work

together.	 Carson	 built	 a	 very	 nice	 house	 up	 the

road	 from	 here.	 He	 has	 the	 same	 views	 as	 you,	 but



138

his	 house	 is	 one	 of	 those	 eco-‐friendly,	 green

designs.	 It	 has	 a	 lot	 of	 glass	 and	 concrete,	 but	 it’s

very	 comfortable.	 I’ve	 only	 been	 there	 a	 few	 times

for	 company	 parties.	 Dylan	 lives	 with	 Leo.”

“They’re	 in	 an	 old	 farmhouse	 that	 Leo	 is

renovating	 by	 himself,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “Dylan	 would

rather	 pay	 rent	 to	 Leo	 than	 live	 for	 free	 with	 his

brother.	 I	 think	 he	 wants	 to	 get	 out	 from	 under

Carson’s	 control.”

“Lordy,	 we	 have	 to	 get	 out	 of	 our	 parents’

houses,”	 Imogene	 says.

“Amen,”	 Lauren	 agrees.

Before	 I	 can	 ask	 more	 questions,	 we’re

interrupted	 by	 a	 loud,	 appreciative	 whistle.	 Dylan

and	 Carson	 are	 walking	 over	 with	 their	 tool	 belts

resembling	 holsters.	 If	 they	 were	 wearing	 cowboy

hats,	 they’d	 look	 like	 gunslingers	 by	 the	 way	 they

swagger	 towards	 us.

“Bathing	 beauties.”	 Dylan	 winks	 at	 me.

“I	 fed	 Bert	 and	 gave	 him	 clean	 water,”	 Carson

directs	 towards	 me.	 “You	 have	 to	 remember	 to

take	 care	 of	 him.	 He’s	 your	 responsibility	 and,	 if



139

you	 don’t	 think	 you	 can	 handle	 him,	 tel 	 me	 now

and	 I’l 	 take	 him.”

I’m	 taken	 aback	 by	 his	 rudeness.

Dylan	 shoots	 him	 an	 icy	 glare.	 “Hey.”

“Geez,	 Carson.	 Lighten	 up.	 Bert’s	 fine,”	 Lauren

says.

“I	 saw	 Bert	 had	 food	 this	 morning,”	 I	 say

timidly,	 hoping	 he	 doesn’t	 see	 I’m	 a	 little	 tipsy	 from

one	 cocktail.

“Our	 porky	 friend,	 Bert,	 is	 okay,”	 Imogene	 says.

“Stop	 being	 such	 a	 control	 freak.”	 After	 three

drinks	 she’s	 pretty	 mouthy.

Carson	 winces	 when	 Imogene	 says	 that,	 but

then	 he	 turns	 to	 me	 and	 his	 expression	 softens.

“Bert	 goes	 through	 a	 lot	 of	 water.	 Gin	 would	 keep	 a

dish	 in	 the	 kitchen	 and	 one	 on	 the	 porch	 for	 him,”

he	 says.	 “Thought	 you’d	 want	 to	 know.”

“Thanks.	 I’l 	 pay	 better	 attention.”

Carson	 nods	 and	 heads	 back	 to	 his	 truck.

Dylan	 kneels	 down	 next	 to	 me.	 “We’re	 done

with	 the	 bookcases.	 We	 have	 to	 strip	 some	 of	 the

dead	 branches	 out	 here.	 Gin	 asked	 us	 to	 do	 it	 two

months	 ago.	 The	 tree	 over	 there	 is	 dead.”	 He



140

points	 to	 a	 brown	 lilting	 tree.	 “We’re	 going	 to	 cut

some	 things	 down	 today	 and	 haul	 it	 later	 if	 that’s

okay	 with	 you.”	 He	 is	 waiting	 for	 my	 answer,	 but	 I

know	 nothing	 about	 home	 care	 and	 trees.

“Ah,	 yeah.	 I	 guess	 that’s	 okay.	 If	 my	 aunt

wanted	 it	 done,	 I	 guess	 you	 should	 do	 it.”

“Good	 call,”	 Imogene	 says,	 slurping	 down	 her

diluted	 vodka	 and	 cranberry.

“Good.”	 Dylan	 smiles	 at	 me	 and	 then	 heads

back	 to	 the	 truck.	 Carson	 hands	 him	 a	 chain	 saw.

“You	 okay	 there?”	 Imogene	 asks.	 “You	 look	 a

little	 worried.”

“This	 whole	 house	 business	 is	 new	 to	 me.	 I

don’t	 know	 if	 I’m	 qualified	 to	 make	 decisions	 about

houses	 and	 trees.”

“You	 can	 always	 ask	 Carson	 or	 Archie	 for	 help,”

Lauren	 offers.	 “Damn,	 it’s	 hot.”	 She	 begins	 spritzing

herself	 with	 the	 water	 sprayer.

“Carson	 doesn’t	 like	 talking	 to	 me.	 I’l 	 ask

Archie	 for	 help.”	 I	 slather	 on	 more	 sunblock.

“What’s	 that?	 I	 don’t	 like	 talking	 to	 you?”

Carson	 stops	 next	 to	 us	 with	 a	 chain	 saw	 propped

up	 in	 his	 gloved	 hands.	 Dylan	 is	 already	 checking



141

out	 the	 dead	 tree	 about	 one	 hundred	 yards	 away

from	 us.

“Nothing.	 Go	 do	 your	 choppy	 thing.”	 I	 make

the	 international	 chopping	 motion	 with	 my	 hand.

“My	 choppy	 thing?”	 I	 can	 see	 a	 twinkle	 behind

his	 sunglasses.	 His	 T-‐shirt	 is	 drenched	 with	 sweat

and	 I	 see	 some	 trickle	 down	 his	 neck.	 I	 look	 away.

Guys	 shouldn’t	 be	 allowed	 to	 look	 that	 good	 when

they	 are	 filthy	 and	 sweating.

Lauren	 giggles	 like	 a	 drunk.

“Just	 go	 chop	 your	 trees	 and	 things,”	 I	 repeat,

waving	 him	 on	 and	 putting	 my	 sombrero	 back	 on

to	 hide	 my	 face.	 He	 walks	 off,	 chuckling.	 “Hope	 you

don’t	 lose	 your	 pecker,”	 I	 mutter	 so	 he	 can’t	 hear.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 laugh	 so	 loudly	 Carson

sneaks	 a	 glance	 back	 at	 me.

For	 a	 while	 after,	 the	 obnoxious	 noise	 from	 the

chainsaws	 drowns	 out	 any	 conversation.	 We	 watch

them	 scale	 trees,	 take	 down	 dead	 limbs	 and	 make

piles.	 They	 are	 far	 enough	 away	 from	 us	 so	 we’re

not	 in	 danger,	 but	 we’re	 close	 enough	 that	 we	 can

admire	 their	 muscles	 in	 action.



142

“Pretty	 hot,”	 Imogene	 shouts	 over	 the	 saws.

“And	 I’m	 not	 talking	 about	 the	 sun.”

Lauren	 props	 herself	 on	 her	 elbows	 to	 watch

Carson	 and	 Dylan.	 “Oh,	 here	 we	 go,	 ladies.	 The

shirts	 are	 coming	 off.	 It’s	 show	 time.”

She’s	 not	 kidding.	 As	 Carson	 walks	 farther

away	 to	 the	 dead	 tree,	 he	 puts	 his	 saw	 on	 the

ground	 and	 takes	 off	 his	 shirt.	 As	 he	 wipes	 his	 neck

and	 forehead	 with	 the	 wet	 T-‐shirt,	 his	 abs	 ripple	 on

his	 flat	 stomach	 while	 the	 muscles	 in	 his	 shoulders

and	 biceps	 look	 impressively	 taut.	 I	 ogle	 him,

knowing	 I’m	 safely	 hidden	 under	 my	 sombrero.

Dylan	 is	 muscular	 and	 tan,	 though	 skinnier	 and

an	 inch	 or	 two	 shorter	 than	 Carson.

“I	 had	 no	 idea	 the	 country	 had	 this	 kind	 of

entertainment.”	 I’m	 mesmerized	 with	 Carson’s

waist	 and	 the	 muscles	 flexing	 just	 above	 his	 jeans.

“Wow.”

“Yes,	 our	 country	 boys	 got	 it	 going	 on,”

Imogene	 says	 in	 a	 country	 twang.

Carson	 stands	 with	 his	 back	 to	 us	 and	 starts	 up

his	 saw	 again.	 The	 sound	 is	 so	 sudden	 and	 loud	 all



143

three	 of	 us	 girls	 flinch	 and	 laugh	 loudly.	 He

certainly	 jolted	 us	 out	 of	 our	 butt-‐gazing	 frenzy.

The	 tree	 is	 not	 as	 tall	 as	 the	 ancient	 one	 next

to	 the	 house,	 so	 after	 a	 few	 swipes	 with	 their	 saws,

Carson	 and	 Dylan	 are	 able	 to	 push	 it	 over.	 It	 snaps

free	 with	 a	 clean	 cut.	 Dylan	 looks	 over	 at	 us	 and

gives	 a	 thumbs	 up.

“If	 they	 are	 going	 to	 do	 this	 every	 day,	 I	 am

staying	 here	 the	 whole	 summer.”	 I	 peer	 out	 from

under	 the	 brim	 of	 the	 hat	 and	 continue	 watching

them.

Imogene	 laughs.	 “Quick,	 Jess,	 this	 would	 be	 a

good	 time	 for	 you	 to	 run	 over	 there	 and	 give	 them

your	 SPF	 speech.	 You	 can	 apply	 the	 lotion	 for	 them.”

“Dylan	 would	 love	 that,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “Carson

would	 have	 a	 cow.	 He’s	 kind	 of	 conservative	 when

it	 comes	 to	 public	 displays	 of	 anything.”

“Yeah,	 I’m	 not	 doing	 any	 of	 that.	 My	 eyeballs

are	 already	 in	 sensory	 overload	 just	 watching	 those

two.”

“Here	 comes	 the	 beefcake.	 They	 are	 so	 fucking

obvious,	 strutting	 in	 front	 of	 us.	 Everyone,	 lie	 down

and	 close	 your	 eyes.	 Don’t	 give	 them	 the



144

satisfaction	 of	 an	 audience.”	 Imogene	 puts	 a	 towel

over	 her	 face.

“How	 drunk	 are	 you?”	 I	 ask.	 “They	 saw	 us

watching	 them	 hop	 around	 the	 trees.”

“Ladies,”	 Carson	 says	 as	 he	 walks	 by	 us	 to	 his

truck.	 I’m	 too	 busy	 to	 respond,	 studying	 the	 eye-‐

catching	 tan	 line	 below	 his	 stomach	 where	 his

jeans	 keep	 dipping,	 exposing	 skin	 that	 is	 paler.

“Carson,”	 Lauren	 acknowledges	 him	 even

though	 her	 eyes	 are	 closed	 while	 she	 works	 on	 her

glorious	 tan.

Dylan	 stands	 in	 front	 of	 me	 and	 blocks	 the	 sun.

“I	 forgot	 to	 tel 	 you	 that	 Carson	 is	 going	 to	 come

back	 tomorrow	 to	 put	 the	 library	 back	 together	 and

then	 you	 can	 set	 up	 your	 computer	 in	 there.”	 He’s

so	 bright	 and	 chipper	 compared	 to	 his	 brother.

“My	 computer?”	 I	 attempt	 to	 think	 back	 to	 my

conversation	 with	 Carson.

“Yeah,	 Carson	 said	 your	 office	 is	 sending	 it

over	 so	 you	 can	 work	 from	 here.	 How	 cool	 is	 that?”

Dylan	 says.

“Very	 cool!”	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 say	 in	 unison

and	 a	 little	 too	 loudly,	 as	 only	 drunks	 would	 do.



145

Carson	 blasts	 the	 truck	 horn	 impatiently.	 He’s

already	 got	 the	 equipment	 loaded	 in	 back	 and	 is	 in

the	 driver’s	 seat.	 His	 hand	 hangs	 out	 the	 window	 to

bang	 the	 side	 of	 the	 door	 loudly	 to	 get	 Dylan’s

attention.

Dylan	 sighs.	 “The	 boss	 calls.	 I	 have	 to	 get	 back

to	 the	 shop.	 Tomorrow	 night,	 we’re	 on.”

“I’l 	 see	 you	 then.”	 I	 try	 to	 sound	 casual,	 but	 I

feel	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene’s	 eyes	 on	 me.

“Bye,	 ladies.”	 With	 that,	 he	 dashes	 off	 to

Carson’s	 truck.

I	 watch	 them	 drive	 away,	 knowing	 that	 the

girls	 are	 stil 	 staring	 at	 me	 with	 grins.

“Well?”	 Imogene	 asks.	 “He	 likes	 you,	 so	 the	 big

question	 is,	 what	 are	 you	 going	 to	 wear?”

“I	 don’t	 know.	 I	 was	 thinking	 of	 clothes,	 maybe

some	 jewelry,	 maybe	 both,”	 I	 answer.	 “I’m

definitely	 wearing	 panties.”

Imogene	 chuckles	 while	 Lauren	 says,	 “Skin.

You	 want	 to	 show	 skin.	 You	 want	 Dylan	 to	 be

heaving	 with	 desire	 to	 the	 point	 that	 he	 wants	 to

jump	 you.”



146

“Oh,	 brother,”	 Imogene	 groans.	 “Guys	 don’t

need	 to	 see	 skin	 to	 be	 horny.	 They	 find	 any	 woman

desirable	 if	 she’s	 walking	 around	 with	 a	 vagina.”

“Unless	 he’s	 gay,”	 I	 remind	 her.

“Yeah,	 don’t	 worry.	 Dylan’s	 not	 gay.	 You	 could

wear	 a	 garbage	 bag	 and	 he’d	 stil 	 be	 crazy	 about

you.	 I	 can	 tel ,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “So,	 are	 you	 going	 to

sleep	 with	 him?”

“Absolutely	 not.	 No	 first	 date	 fucks.”	 I	 want	 to

sound	 as	 tough	 as	 them.





147





Ten



After	 too	 many	 vodka	 cranberries	 in	 the	 hot

afternoon	 sun,	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 take	 over	 two

of	 the	 empty	 bedrooms	 and	 nap	 away	 until	 the

evening.	 I	 keep	 myself	 busy	 in	 the	 studio,	 painting

until	 my	 buzz	 has	 worn	 off	 and	 I	 know	 I	 can’t	 keep

avoiding	 my	 parents.

“I	 can’t	 believe	 you	 didn’t	 call	 us	 when	 you

found	 out,”	 my	 mother	 says	 over	 the	 phone.

“I	 can’t	 believe	 you	 didn’t	 tel 	 me	 Aunt	 Virginia

was	 stil 	 alive,”	 I	 practically	 shout	 into	 the	 phone.

My	 mother	 is	 silent	 on	 the	 other	 end.	 I	 am

holding	 the	 vintage	 phone	 in	 the	 kitchen	 tightly	 to

my	 ear,	 listening	 for	 any	 signs	 of	 life	 on	 the	 other

end.	 My	 mother	 finally	 sighs.

“I’m	 sorry,	 Jess.	 At	 the	 time,	 I	 thought	 it	 was

the	 right	 thing	 to	 do.	 I	 was	 very	 close	 to	 Gin	 when	 I

was	 a	 child	 and	 as	 a	 young	 woman,	 but	 then	 she

came	 between	 your	 father	 and	 me.	 I	 took	 you	 to



148

stay	 with	 Gin	 when	 your	 father	 and	 I	 had	 a	 rough

patch	 in	 those	 early	 years.	 We	 had	 great	 fun,	 I

remember	 it	 wel ,	 but	 your	 father	 came	 to	 take	 us

back.”

“Why	 couldn’t	 we	 have	 all	 stayed	 with	 Ginnie

that	 summer?	 Dad,	 too?”

“Your	 aunt	 disliked	 him.	 She	 made	 that	 known

to	 him	 as	 wel .	 She	 believed	 that	 your	 father	 wasn’t

good	 enough	 for	 me	 because	 she	 thought	 he	 was

very	 control ing.”

“He	 is!”	 I	 shout	 into	 the	 phone.	 “I	 love	 Dad,	 but

he	 is	 very	 stodgy	 and	 very	 control ing	 and	 you

know	 it.	 He	 chose	 my	 col ege	 and	 he	 chose	 my	 field

of	 study.	 He’s	 always	 had	 the	 final	 word	 on

everything	 I	 do	 or	 you	 do.”

“I’m	 sorry	 to	 hear	 you	 say	 it	 like	 that.	 It’s	 his

way	 of	 loving	 people—to	 take	 care	 of	 them.”

“Control ing	 isn’t	 the	 same	 as	 loving.	 Why	 did

you	 run	 to	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 that	 summer?”

My	 mother	 is	 silent	 for	 a	 moment.	 “Robert

cheated	 on	 me.	 I	 found	 out	 that	 he	 had	 been

having	 an	 affair	 with	 a	 woman	 in	 our	 circle	 of

friends	 for	 two	 years.	 I	 took	 you	 to	 Hera	 so	 I	 could



149

figure	 out	 what	 to	 do	 next.	 Your	 aunt	 adored	 you

and	 loved	 having	 us	 there.	 We	 were	 her	 only	 living

family.”

“How	 could	 you	 take	 that	 away	 from	 her?

From	 me?	 I	 loved	 being	 here.	 I	 know	 that.	 You	 tried

to	 scrub	 my	 memories,	 but	 they’re	 coming	 back,

Mom.	 Why	 did	 you	 forgive	 Dad	 for	 cheating,	 but

you	 couldn’t	 forgive	 Aunt	 Ginnie	 for	 butting	 in?”

I	 hear	 my	 mother	 crying	 softly	 on	 the	 other

end,	 sniffles	 she	 tries	 to	 hide.	 I	 wait	 patiently	 and

listen	 to	 her	 as	 I	 wonder	 where	 my	 father	 is	 and

why	 he	 hasn’t	 bothered	 to	 pick	 up	 the	 extension

like	 he	 usually	 does.

“It	 wasn’t	 that	 simple,	 Jess.	 I	 stil 	 loved	 your

father	 and	 I	 didn’t	 want	 to	 lose	 him.	 He	 gave	 me	 an

ultimatum.	 We	 couldn’t	 see	 your	 aunt	 anymore.”

“How	 could	 you	 be	 so	 weak	 to	 agree	 to	 those

terms?	 It	 goes	 against	 everything	 you	 two	 have

taught	 me	 about	 being	 independent	 and	 strong.

What	 did	 Dad	 have	 to	 gain	 by	 giving	 you	 the

ultimatum?”

“I’m	 pretty	 sure	 at	 the	 time	 that	 he	 would

have	 divorced	 me	 if	 I	 hadn’t	 cut	 off	 ties	 with	 Ginnie.



150

Don’t	 think	 badly	 of	 your	 father.	 A	 lot	 has	 changed

in	 the	 last	 fifteen	 years;	 our	 marriage	 is	 stronger

and	 he	 is	 much	 more	 respectful	 and	 loving.”

“If	 that	 were	 true,	 you	 and	 he	 would	 have

reconnected	 with	 Ginnie	 and	 given	 me	 my	 aunt

back.”	 I	 fight	 the	 tears.

“I	 know	 your	 father	 is	 concerned	 about	 you.”

“Ah,	 you	 mean	 he’s	 worried	 that	 I’m	 making

bad	 choices	 and	 he	 wants	 to	 tel 	 me	 what	 to	 do.”

My	 mother	 sighs,	 almost	 as	 if	 she’s	 agreeing

with	 me.	 “He	 loves	 you.”

There’s	 a	 silence	 on	 the	 line,	 neither	 of	 us

know	 what	 to	 say,	 yet	 we	 don’t	 want	 to	 end	 the

call.

“What	 are	 you	 going	 to	 do	 while	 you’re	 there?

What	 about	 your	 job?”

“My	 job	 is	 fine.	 Nathan	 is	 letting	 me	 work	 from

here	 for	 a	 while.	 I’m	 figuring	 some	 things	 out	 on

my	 own	 this	 time.	 Archie	 Bixby	 and	 Ginnie’s	 friends

are	 helping	 me	 with	 the	 house.	 I’l 	 let	 you	 know

what	 my	 future	 plans	 are,	 but	 for	 now,	 I’m	 staying

here	 to	 think	 it	 out.	 I’ve	 never	 really	 had	 a	 vacation,



151

so	 I’m	 using	 part	 of	 the	 summer	 here	 to	 take	 a

break	 from	 the	 city.	 That’s	 all.”

“All	 right,”	 my	 mother	 says.	 Her	 voice	 trembles

so	 I	 know	 she’s	 stil 	 crying.	 I	 don’t	 have	 memories

of	 her	 crying,	 so	 I’m	 not	 sure	 if	 she’s	 crying	 about

losing	 her	 aunt	 or	 if	 she	 thinks	 she’s	 losing	 me.

I	 hear	 my	 father	 in	 the	 background.	 “Michel e,

stop	 crying,	 you’re	 making	 it	 worse.

“Mom,”	 I	 say.	 “You	 should	 cry.	 This	 is	 a	 terrible

and	 sad	 thing.”

“Take	 good	 care	 of	 yourself,	 Jess.	 And	 I	 am

sorry.	 You	 need	 to	 know	 that.	 I	 wish	 we	 had

handled	 it	 differently	 and	 you’d	 had	 some	 years	 to

spend	 with	 your	 aunt	 before	 she	 died.”

“I’m	 sorry	 we	 weren’t	 with	 her	 during	 her

il ness	 and	 at	 the	 end	 of	 her	 life.	 I	 think	 that	 makes

us	 horrible	 people,	 a	 horrible	 family,”	 I	 retort.

“Robert	 and	 I	 are	 responsible	 for	 that,	 not	 you.

Sometimes,	 family	 loyalty	 is	 misplaced	 and	 we

can’t	 undo	 the	 hurt	 we’ve	 caused.	 I	 never	 thought

I’d	 be	 that	 kind	 of	 mother.	 I’m	 sorry.”

“Bye,	 Mom.”



152

“That	 didn’t	 sound	 good,”	 Imogene	 says.	 She

and	 Lauren	 are	 peeking	 in	 the	 kitchen,	 waiting	 for	 a

safe	 time	 to	 enter.

“It’s	 kind	 of	 typical	 with	 my	 mother	 and	 me.”

“That	 sucks,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “I	 can’t	 imagine

not	 being	 close	 to	 my	 parents	 and	 my

grandmother.”

Lauren	 nods.	 “My	 parents	 drive	 me	 crazy,	 but

we’re	 close.”

“You	 were	 probably	 raised	 on	 Harry	 Potter

books	 and	 funny	 sitcoms.	 My	 parents	 entertained

me	 with	 quantum	 physics	 and	 ‘60	 Minutes’.	 We

were	 never	 the	 fun	 family.”

“This	 is	 depressing.	 We	 need	 food,”	 Lauren

says	 as	 they	 scrounge	 through	 the	 fridge.

I	 hang	 up	 the	 plastic	 receiver	 of	 the	 rotary	 wall

phone	 and	 it	 accidentally	 falls	 and	 conks	 me	 on	 the

foot.	 I	 make	 another	 attempt	 and,	 this	 time,	 when	 I

latch	 the	 phone	 on	 the	 chrome	 cradle	 I	 notice	 a

phone	 number	 scrawled	 in	 pencil	 on	 the	 side	 of	 the

phone.	 It’s	 my	 apartment	 number	 in	 New	 York.

Underneath	 it	 is	 another	 phone	 number	 with	 a	 line

through	 it,	 which	 is	 my	 old	 phone	 listing	 for	 my



153

col ege	 dorm.	 Aunt	 Ginnie	 must	 have	 thought	 of

cal ing	 me	 several	 times	 over	 the	 last	 few	 years,

but	 couldn’t	 bring	 herself	 to	 break	 the	 archaic,

destructive	 promise	 she	 made	 with	 my	 parents.

Imogene	 makes	 us	 delicious	 bacon	 and	 cheese

omelets	 and	 we	 polish	 off	 the	 cranberry	 juice	 and

orange	 juice,	 without	 the	 vodka	 this	 time.	 Our

heads	 all	 ache	 a	 little,	 but	 we	 want	 to	 enjoy	 the

nice	 evening	 out	 on	 the	 porch.	 I	 like	 their	 company

and	 feel	 more	 connected	 to	 the	 town	 and	 the

house	 because	 of	 them.	 We	 laugh	 hardily	 like

longtime	 friends	 and	 then	 I	 suggest	 they	 both

spend	 the	 night.	 I	 can’t	 tel 	 if	 we’re	 stil 	 tipsy	 or

entering	 the	 hung-‐over	 stage.

While	 they	 head	 off	 to	 their	 self-‐appointed

bedrooms,	 I	 put	 fresh	 water	 in	 Bert’s	 bowl	 and

then	 head	 upstairs	 to	 the	 studio	 to	 paint	 some

more.	 I	 end	 up	 painting	 until	 after	 midnight.	 My

back	 is	 sore	 from	 sitting	 on	 the	 tall	 stool	 and

leaning	 forward	 to	 drizzle	 vibrant	 colors	 down	 the

watercolor	 paper.	 It’s	 hypnotizing	 watching	 where

the	 paint	 wil 	 puddle	 and	 if	 it	 swirls	 into	 other

colors.	 I	 love	 this	 part	 of	 my	 process,	 the	 beginning.



154

There’s	 no	 messy	 middle	 to	 deal	 with	 yet.	 Like	 the

beginning	 of	 a	 relationship	 or	 a	 work	 project	 before

the	 computer	 code	 becomes	 riddled	 with	 bugs	 and

the	 clients	 become	 demanding.	 Beginnings	 are

exciting	 and	 offer	 so	 much	 hope.

I	 finally	 turn	 in	 for	 the	 night	 as	 Bert	 snuggles

next	 to	 me	 in	 the	 bed.	 This	 time	 I	 make	 sure	 to	 set

the	 alarm	 on	 my	 cel 	 phone	 for	 eight	 in	 the

morning,	 hoping	 this	 wil 	 be	 before	 any

dangerously	 handsome	 workmen	 can	 find	 me	 half-‐

dressed	 in	 bed.

I	 rol 	 on	 my	 side	 and	 hug	 Bert	 who	 eagerly	 licks

my	 face	 and	 grunts.

“God,	 is	 this	 what	 it’s	 come	 to,	 Bert?	 Me

hugging	 a	 slobbering	 dog?	 A	 farting	 dog,	 no	 less?

And,	 geez,	 can	 I	 just	 say	 the	 obvious?”

Bert	 looks	 at	 me	 and	 waits	 for	 my	 answer.

“You	 stink.	 You	 have	 the	 worst	 breath.	 I’ve

never	 had	 a	 dog;	 is	 this	 what	 they	 mean	 by	 dog

breath?	 ‘Cause	 I	 gotta	 say,	 this	 is	 what	 I’d	 call	 a

WMD,	 buddy.”

He	 perks	 his	 head	 at	 me.



155

“Weapon	 of	 mass	 destruction.	 That’s	 what	 you

got	 going	 on	 and	 you’l 	 never	 get	 the	 ladies	 with

that	 breath.”	 I	 scratch	 roughly	 behind	 his	 ears	 the

way	 he	 likes	 and	 then	 can’t	 resist	 hugging	 him

again.

“I’m	 so	 lucky	 I	 have	 you,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 him.





156





Eleven



The	 pounding	 begins	 when	 I’m	 stil 	 in	 a

wonderful,	 dreamy	 position	 with	 the	 cool	 sheets

wrapped	 around	 me	 and	 the	 down	 pil ows	 are

scrunched	 below	 me	 in	 all	 the	 right	 places.	 I	 jolt	 up

and	 realize	 someone	 is	 repeatedly	 slamming	 the

doorknocker	 as	 if	 they’re	 trying	 to	 raise	 the	 dead.

“Jesus	 Effing	 Barnacles!”	 I	 scream.	 Bert	 bolts

off	 the	 bed	 and	 runs	 down	 the	 stairs	 to	 happily

greet	 whoever	 has	 come	 to	 ruin	 my	 morning.

“Traitor!”	 I	 shout	 after	 him.

I	 push	 my	 knotted	 hair	 back	 and	 put	 on	 a	 mint-‐

green	 silk	 robe	 that	 belonged	 to	 Aunt	 Ginnie.	 I

don’t	 bother	 looking	 in	 the	 mirror	 and	 fixing	 myself

up,	 I	 figure	 whoever	 thinks	 calling	 on	 me	 at	 seven

in	 the	 morning	 is	 okay	 deserves	 a	 good	 scare.

When	 I	 reach	 the	 first	 landing,	 the	 front	 door	 is

open	 and	 I	 see	 Carson	 letting	 in	 two	 of	 the	 5	 Alpha

tech	 guys,	 Matthew	 and	 Ken.	 Carson	 is	 saying



157

something	 to	 them	 I	 can’t	 hear	 before	 he	 notices

me	 coming	 down	 the	 stairs.

“You	 are	 definitely	 not	 a	 morning	 person,”	 he

declares.	 “And	 you’ve	 got	 an	 impressive	 temper.”

I	 sigh	 and	 thump	 down	 the	 stairs,	 ignoring	 his

remark.

“Hey,	 Jess,”	 Ken	 greets.

“Hi	 guys,”	 I	 reply.	 “I’m	 surprised	 Nathan	 made

you	 leave	 so	 early.	 I	 didn’t	 even	 know	 you	 were

coming	 today.”

“We	 wanted	 to	 beat	 the	 traffic.	 We	 brought

everything,”	 Matthew	 voices.	 “We’l 	 have	 it	 all	 set

up	 and	 be	 out	 of	 your	 way	 in	 an	 hour	 or	 so.	 Tell	 us

where	 you	 want	 it.”

“Oh,	 but	 I	 want	 it	 in	 the	 library,	 and	 Carson	 stil

has	 to	 put	 it	 together	 and	 clean	 it	 up	 today.”

“It’s	 done,”	 Carson	 addresses	 me	 with	 a	 slight

smile.

“What?	 I	 thought	 you	 just	 got	 here.	 How	 could

it	 be	 done	 already?”

I	 turn	 around	 and	 begin	 jogging	 back	 up	 to	 the

second	 floor	 with	 all	 three	 men	 fol owing	 me.	 I	 am

shocked	 when	 I	 walk	 into	 the	 library.	 The



158

bookcases	 are	 complete;	 stained,	 polished	 and

shining.	 The	 pine	 floor	 is	 glistening	 clean.	 The

furniture	 is	 unwrapped	 and	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 entire

hardcover	 book	 col ection	 has	 been	 arranged	 on

the	 shelves.	 Two	 new	 chairs	 have	 been	 added	 that

blend	 wel 	 with	 the	 rustic	 leather	 couch.	 These

pieces	 have	 high	 backs	 and	 smooth,	 contoured

seats.	 A	 new,	 huge,	 square	 coffee	 table	 has	 been

placed	 in	 front	 of	 the	 couch.	 The	 wood	 is	 a	 bit	 more

weathered	 and	 unfinished,	 which	 adds	 to	 the	 rustic

look	 and	 makes	 it	 more	 eclectic	 than	 a	 traditional

library.	 They	 must	 have	 come	 from	 Carson’s	 shop.

The	 room	 looks	 pristine	 and	 incredible,	 like	 a	 page

out	 of	 an	 interior	 design	 magazine.

“You	 can	 set	 up	 her	 monitor	 here.	 I	 turned	 the

desk	 around	 so	 she	 can	 face	 the	 view	 outside,”

Carson	 explains	 and	 then	 Matthew	 and	 Ken	 leave

my	 side.	 They	 fol ow	 Carson	 and	 listen	 to

everything	 he	 says	 since	 he	 seems	 to	 be	 the

authority	 on	 this	 room.	 They	 talk	 amongst

themselves	 and	 then	 leave	 to	 retrieve	 boxes	 from

the	 SUV	 they	 have	 out	 front.



159

“What	 is	 going	 on?”	 Imogene	 asks.	 She	 is	 stil

wearing	 her	 bikini	 with	 a	 T-‐shirt	 over	 it	 and,	 with

her	 smudged	 raccoon	 eyes	 and	 disheveled	 hair,	 she

could	 pass	 as	 a	 crack	 addict.	 Lauren,	 who	 also	 woke

up	 from	 all	 the	 shouting,	 doesn’t	 fare	 much	 better

in	 her	 Hel o	 Kitty	 T-‐shirt.	 They	 both	 look	 like	 they’re

in	 agony	 from	 their	 heavy	 drinking	 in	 the	 hot	 sun.

I	 ignore	 them	 both	 and	 turn	 back	 to	 the	 one

guy	 who	 seems	 to	 think	 he’s	 stil 	 my	 babysitter.

“When	 did	 you	 do	 all	 this?”	 I	 ask	 Carson,	 who

is	 adjusting	 the	 desk	 position	 and	 what	 looks	 to	 be

a	 new	 table	 lamp.

“This	 morning	 while	 you	 were	 sleeping.”

“What	 time	 did	 you	 get	 here?”	 I	 know	 I	 sound

very	 rude.

“Four-‐thirty.”

“Who	 does	 that?	 Seriously,	 Carson,	 you	 can’t

let	 yourself	 into	 my	 house	 while	 I’m	 sleeping	 and

work	 at	 these	 ungodly	 hours.”

“Carson,	 that’s	 insane,”	 Lauren	 agrees.

“You	 don’t	 like	 the	 room?”	 Carson	 asks	 me.

“Of	 course	 I	 like	 it.	 You	 know	 I	 do	 and	 you	 also

know	 that	 I	 call	 the	 shots	 in	 this	 house,	 not	 you.”



160

Carson	 smiles	 a	 little	 bit	 at	 that.	 He’s	 not	 a

grinner	 like	 Dylan,	 but	 Carson	 seems	 to	 have

moments	 when	 he	 wants	 to	 smile	 yet	 tries	 very

hard	 not	 to.

“I	 knew	 these	 guys	 were	 coming	 early,	 so	 I

thought	 I’d	 have	 the	 room	 ready.”

I	 must	 look	 as	 deranged	 as	 I	 feel.	 “Whoa.	 How

did	 you	 know	 they	 were	 coming	 this	 morning? I

didn’t	 even	 know.”

“When	 we	 were	 here	 yesterday	 I	 heard	 the	 call

come	 in	 on	 the	 answering	 machine.	 I	 assumed	 you

listened	 to	 your	 messages	 last	 night.”

I	 want	 to	 scream	 at	 him.	 I	 want	 the

information	 that	 he’s	 only	 wil ing	 to	 deliver	 in

cryptic	 sound	 bites.	 “What	 answering	 machine?”	 I

raise	 my	 voice.	 “There	 was	 nothing	 on	 my	 cell

phone.”

“Settle	 down,	 Babycakes.”	 He	 puts	 his	 hands

up	 to	 block	 my	 bad	 vibes.	 “Gin’s	 machine	 is	 on	 the

kitchen	 counter.	 That	 ancient	 black	 box?	 You	 can’t

miss	 it.	 Your	 boss,	 Nathan,	 must	 have	 had	 trouble

reaching	 you	 on	 your	 cel 	 phone	 and	 got	 the

number	 to	 the	 house	 from	 information.	 I	 don’t



161

know.	 Oh,	 and	 by	 the	 way,	 he	 also	 sent	 flowers.	 I

put	 them	 on	 the	 dining	 room	 table.”

I’m	 huffing	 and	 puffing	 like	 a	 child,	 angry	 that	 I

am	 so	 clueless	 about	 the	 house,	 what’s	 going	 on

and	 that	 I’m	 sleeping	 through	 everything.	 I	 hate

that	 Carson	 must	 consider	 me	 a	 spoiled	 princess

compared	 to	 what	 he’s	 gone	 through.	 I	 probably

come	 across	 as	 an	 ungrateful	 brat.

“Sorry	 for	 the	 Babycakes	 remark.	 Next	 time,	 I’l

come	 later,”	 he	 says.	 The	 tension	 between	 us	 is

palpable.

“Next	 time?”	 Although	 my	 voice	 is	 calmer,	 I’m

stil 	 angry.	 “You’re	 going	 to	 do	 this	 again?”

“I	 stil 	 have	 more	 work	 that	 I	 promised	 to	 finish

for	 Gin,	 but	 if	 you	 want	 me	 to	 send	 someone	 else,

or	 we	 could	 hire	 out	 a	 different	 crew,	 you	 let	 me

know.”

“The	 room	 looks	 nice.”	 It’s	 more	 of	 a	 hiss	 than

a	 compliment.	 “I	 need	 to	 go	 take	 a	 shower.”	 I	 walk

out	 of	 the	 room,	 stomping	 up	 the	 stairs. Why	 did	 I

mention	 the	 shower?	 Now	 he’s	 picturing	 me	 naked

in	 the	 shower.	 You	 wish.	 Oh,	 shut	 up,	 you	 have	 a

date	 with	 his	 brother.



162

“Maybe	 if	 you	 and	 your	 friends	 weren’t

hungover,	 you	 could	 get	 up	 at	 a	 reasonable	 hour

like	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 world,”	 he	 shouts	 up	 the	 stairs.

“Argh!”	 I	 shout	 back	 and	 slam	 my	 bedroom

door.



I	 stay	 in	 my	 room	 for	 at	 least	 two	 hours.	 I	 take

a	 long,	 hot	 shower,	 shave	 my	 legs	 and	 deep

condition	 my	 hair.	 Then	 I	 spend	 forever	 drying	 my

hair	 with	 product	 to	 remove	 the	 frizz.	 Plus,	 the

process	 of	 making	 long,	 loose	 curls	 takes	 a	 half

hour	 and	 ten	 finger	 burns	 on	 the	 curling	 iron.	 The

make-‐up	 is	 easier;	 I	 only	 apply	 a	 little	 eye	 shadow,

some	 mascara	 and	 gloss	 my	 lips	 with	 a	 red	 tint.	 My

appearance	 is	 vastly	 improved	 since	 that	 horrible

wake-‐up	 call	 and	 my	 monstrous	 behavior.	 I	 have

very	 few	 clothes	 with	 me,	 but	 I	 did	 bring	 a

flattering	 pair	 of	 Capri	 jeans	 that	 go	 wel 	 with	 my

white	 sleeveless	 blouse.	 As	 I	 head	 back	 downstairs

the	 smel 	 of	 coffee	 and	 bacon	 is	 divine.	 I	 make	 it	 to

my	 fabulous	 new	 library	 on	 the	 second	 floor	 and

discover	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren,	 having	 showered



163

and	 dressed,	 lounging	 on	 the	 couch	 with	 Bert,

along	 with	 coffee	 and	 a	 few	 newspapers.

“I	 made	 coffee	 and	 bacon,”	 Imogene	 tel s	 me

as	 I	 come	 into	 the	 room.	 “It’s	 in	 the	 kitchen.	 Oh,

and	 did	 you	 know	 that	 Carson	 brought	 fresh

croissants?	 I	 guess	 he	 picked	 them	 up	 at	 the	 bakery,

hot	 out	 of	 the	 oven,	 before	 he	 came	 over	 here	 and

set-‐up	 this	 fantastic	 room	 for	 you.”

“Hmm,”	 Lauren	 adds.	 “Pretty	 nice	 of	 him.	 I

can’t	 believe	 how	 you	 raked	 him	 over	 the	 coals.

Ouch.”

I	 pinch	 my	 mouth	 shut.	 I	 don’t	 like	 where	 this

is	 going.

“And	 you	 have	 Internet	 access!”	 Lauren

announces,	 waving	 her	 tablet	 in	 the	 air.

“And	 those	 flowers	 from	 your	 boss	 are

gorgeous.	 Time	 to	 come	 out	 of	 your	 cave,	 Miss

Channing,	 you’re	 missing	 the	 day,”	 Imogene	 says.

“Ech,”	 I	 say.	 I	 notice	 all	 my	 equipment,

including	 five	 large	 computer	 monitors,	 are	 set	 up

on	 the	 desk.	 “Where’s	 Carson?”	 Then	 I	 hear

hammering.	 “Never	 mind.”



164

Bert	 fol ows	 me	 downstairs	 and	 we	 find	 Carson

holstering	 his	 hammer	 in	 the	 living	 room.

“Thank	 God,	 you’re	 putting	 that	 away,”	 I	 say	 as

he	 adjusts	 his	 tool	 belt.	 He’s	 stingy	 with	 his	 smiles;

however,	 I	 get	 a	 small	 one.

“How’s	 your	 head?”	 he	 asks,	 gazing	 at	 me

thoroughly.

“I’m	 fine—oh,	 my	 gosh,”	 I	 say,	 realizing	 the

living	 room	 is	 immaculate.	 The	 tarps	 and	 the	 table

saw	 are	 gone.	 The	 furniture	 has	 been	 put	 back	 in

place.	 The	 floor	 is	 polished	 and	 the	 paintings	 on	 the

wall	 have	 been	 uncovered.	 “You’re	 like	 an	 elf.	 You

come	 and	 work	 in	 the	 night	 and	 I	 wake	 up	 to	 these

little	 miracles.”

“It’s	 a	 nice	 room.”	 He	 nods.	 “And,	 F.Y.I.,	 no	 guy

wants	 to	 be	 referred	 to	 as	 an	 elf.”

I	 laugh.	 “Yeah,	 wel ,	 okay.”

“Stil 	 hung-‐over?	 There’s	 breakfast	 in	 the

kitchen.”

“I’m	 not	 hung-‐over	 and,	 don’t	 worry,	 I	 plan	 on

eating	 the	 breakfast.”

“By	 the	 way,	 I	 had	 no	 idea	 you	 had	 so	 many

computers.	 They	 block	 your	 view	 outside.	 I



165

assumed	 they’d	 be	 setting	 up	 one	 monitor,	 so	 if

you	 want	 me	 to	 move	 the	 desk	 to	 the	 side	 of	 the

room,	 I	 can.”

“No,	 I	 like	 where	 it	 is.	 This	 way,	 the	 glare	 from

the	 sun	 won’t	 affect	 my	 screens.	 It	 wil 	 be	 fine,

thanks.”

There’s	 an	 awkward	 pause,	 since	 I	 don’t	 know

what	 to	 say	 to	 Carson.	 His	 tall,	 hunky,	 workman

handsomeness	 makes	 my	 hormones	 stupid	 and	 I

can’t	 help	 gawking.	 Bert	 leaves	 us	 and	 waddles

towards	 the	 kitchen	 so	 I	 take	 that	 moment	 to

excuse	 myself	 from	 Carson’s	 lascivious	 aura.	 “I’m

going	 to	 go	 eat.”

I	 pass	 through	 the	 dining	 room	 and	 notice

Nathan’s	 ginormous	 bouquet	 of	 yel ow	 roses	 and

wonder	 what	 they	 represent.	 Roses	 don’t	 seem

appropriate	 for	 condolences.	 The	 note	 is	 written	 in

Nathan’s	 messy	 scrawl.	 “You’re	 the	 best! ”	 He’s	 such

a	 nerd.	 I	 don’t	 even	 know	 what	 he	 means.

My	 escape	 to	 the	 kitchen	 is	 short-‐lived.	 I	 am

leaning	 against	 the	 counter,	 munching	 on	 a

croissant	 and	 bacon	 together,	 when	 Imogene	 and

Lauren	 thank	 me	 for	 the	 hospitality	 and	 head	 off	 to



166

the	 diner	 for	 their	 day	 shift.	 Then	 Carson	 appears

again	 and	 my	 chest	 constricts	 as	 perspiration	 beads

across	 my	 forehead.

“So	 all	 of	 our	 equipment	 is	 out	 of	 here,	 but	 I

stil 	 have	 to	 come	 back	 and	 tick	 minor	 things	 off

Gin’s	 list.	 I	 have	 to	 measure	 for	 some	 new

appliances	 in	 here	 and	 Gin	 wanted	 me	 to	 strip	 the

face	 of	 the	 cupboards	 and	 paint	 them.”

I	 nod	 and	 wipe	 croissant	 crumbs	 from	 my

mouth.	 I	 would	 like	 to	 avoid	 looking	 at	 him	 because

being	 near	 him	 makes	 me	 fumble,	 verbally	 and

physically,	 however,	 he’s	 not	 getting	 the	 hint.

“Can	 I	 ask	 you	 what	 you	 do	 at	 5	 Alpha	 exactly?

Gin,	 told	 me	 you	 work	 in	 software,	 but	 she	 didn’t

have	 specifics.”

I’m	 flattered	 he	 wants	 to	 know	 more	 about	 me,

although	 he	 is	 the	 type	 of	 person	 who	 pays

attention	 to	 details.	 They	 seem	 to	 matter	 to	 him

greatly,	 whereas	 Dylan	 is	 more	 about	 enjoying	 the

moment.

“I	 have	 a	 few	 different	 project	 teams.	 One	 of

them	 does	 the	 engineering	 designs	 to	 make

integrated	 circuits.	 The	 other	 team	 designs



167

software	 for	 analyzing	 resistivity.”	 I	 decide	 not	 to

provide	 a	 more	 detailed	 explanation	 because	 this	 is

usually	 the	 point	 where	 people	 nod	 along	 and	 then

nod	 off—I	 sound	 that	 boring—but	 Carson	 looks

genuinely	 interested.

“I	 know	 what	 you’re	 talking	 about.	 Those	 two

guys	 said	 you	 are	 a	 hotshot	 at	 the	 firm.	 I	 believe	 it.”

“Ken	 and	 Matthew	 are	 being	 generous.	 5

Alpha	 hires	 hotshots.	 I’m	 nothing	 special	 there.”

“Liar.	 They	 set	 up	 a	 special	 office	 for	 you	 here

because	 they	 don’t	 want	 to	 lose	 you.	 I’m	 going	 to

Google	 you.”	 Oh	 boy,	 he	 flashes	 me	 a	 wide	 grin.

I	 know	 I’m	 blushing.	 Fair-‐skinned	 redheads

turn	 a	 rosy	 pink	 rather	 easily.

“Too	 bad	 you	 don’t	 have	 your	 big	 hat	 to	 cover

up	 that	 lie,”	 Carson	 says	 and	 I	 smile. For	 him,	 I	 think

to	 myself.

“So,	 you	 stil 	 think	 I’m	 a	 lousy	 influence	 on

your	 brother?”

“I	 never	 said	 that.”

“But	 you	 think	 I’m	 wrong	 for	 him.”



168

“I	 never	 said	 that,	 either.	 I	 doubt	 you’re	 wrong

for	 anyone.”	 That	 floors	 me.	 “But	 I’m	 not	 sure

Dylan	 can	 handle	 anyone.	 There’s	 a	 difference.”

“Care	 to	 explain?”

“I’m	 not	 sure	 it’s	 my	 place.”	 His	 demeanor

instantly	 becomes	 more	 subdued	 again.	 What	 is	 it

with	 these	 up	 and	 down	 moods	 of	 his?

“Why	 not?	 You	 seem	 very	 good	 at	 butting	 into

other	 people’s	 lives.”

“Yeah,	 I	 probably	 deserve	 that,	 but	 with	 Dylan

it’s	 different.”

“So,	 you’re	 being	 overly	 protective	 of	 him,	 but

you	 won’t	 really	 tel 	 me	 why	 and	 I’m	 having	 dinner

with	 him,	 which	 you	 may	 or	 may	 not	 find

objectionable.	 Thanks	 for	 making	 things	 clearer	 for

me,”	 I	 snap.

“I’l 	 say	 this.	 Dylan	 is	 a	 good	 person	 and	 he

means	 wel .	 I	 have	 my	 reasons	 to	 be	 concerned

about	 him,	 but	 I’m	 not	 going	 to	 get	 into	 that	 right

now.”

“That	 was	 nice	 and	 cryptic.	 I	 could	 be	 going	 out

to	 dinner	 with	 a	 serial	 kil er	 and	 you’re	 not	 tel ing

me.”



169

Carson	 doesn’t	 look	 amused	 at	 all.	 I’m	 pushing

all	 the	 wrong	 buttons	 now.

“He	 really	 likes	 you,”	 Carson	 says	 as	 though	 it

pains	 him	 to	 admit	 it.	 “So	 are	 you	 going	 to	 start

working	 today?”

“Are	 you	 trying	 to	 change	 the	 subject?	 No,	 I

can’t	 work,	 oh	 wait.	 Did	 Lauren	 mention	 that	 I	 have

Internet	 now?”

“Yes.	 The	 cable	 guy	 was	 here	 this	 morning,	 too.

Gin	 already	 had	 the	 wiring,	 the	 cable	 guy	 only

needed	 to	 install	 the	 box.	 I	 had	 him	 put	 it	 in	 the

pantry	 behind	 the	 door	 so	 it’s	 easy	 to	 get	 to.”

“Then	 I	 guess	 I	 am	 working	 today,”	 I	 say,

relieved	 I	 can	 keep	 col ecting	 a	 paycheck.

Carson	 walks	 to	 the	 front	 door	 while	 Bert	 and	 I

trail	 right	 behind	 him.	 He’s	 like	 a	 wall	 of	 muscle	 in

front	 of	 me.	 Thoughts	 of	 him	 coming	 back	 to	 work

in	 the	 house	 override	 the	 plans	 of	 my	 upcoming

date	 with	 Dylan.	 I’m	 stil 	 daydreaming	 when	 he

stops	 abruptly	 to	 pick	 up	 his	 toolbox	 and	 I	 bash

right	 into	 his	 back.	 Perfect.	 Didn’t	 I	 already	 do	 this

with	 Dylan?



170

Carson	 drops	 the	 box	 and	 turns	 around	 to

catch	 me.	 “I’m	 sorry,	 did	 I	 do	 that?”

“No,	 it	 was	 me.”	 I	 rub	 my	 nose.

He’s	 holding	 me	 by	 the	 waist,	 pul ing	 me	 into

him,	 but	 it’s	 not	 a	 déjà	 vu	 of	 Dylan.	 Carson	 is

something	 else—something	 I	 like	 very	 much—and	 I

suspect	 that	 being	 torn	 between	 two	 men	 in	 my

own	 imaginary,	 lovelorn	 world	 is	 a	 sign	 of	 my

immaturity.	 At	 least,	 that	 would	 be	 the	 first	 thing

my	 mother	 would	 say	 before	 she	 asks	 what	 they	 do

for	 a	 living.	 My	 hands	 are	 wedged	 between	 us,

resting	 against	 his	 hard	 abdomen.

Carson	 doesn’t	 let	 go,	 as	 if	 he’s	 thinking	 of

something	 to	 say	 or	 thinking	 of	 pul ing	 one	 of	 those

fast	 Blackard	 kisses.	 “This	 could	 be	 awkward,”	 he

says	 and	 releases	 his	 grip	 on	 me	 while	 his	 hands

remain	 hovering	 by	 me.

I’m	 not	 sure	 if	 he’s	 having	 the	 same	 thought	 as

me,	 that	 a	 kiss	 would	 be	 awkward	 since	 I’m	 going

out	 with	 Dylan,	 or	 if	 it’s	 awkward	 because	 he	 sees

me	 as	 some	 virginal	 geek	 and	 he’s	 never	 touched

one	 in	 person	 before. It’s	 awkward	 because	 I’m

over-‐thinking	 the	 whole	 scenario!



171

Quickly,	 I	 step	 up	 on	 my	 tippy	 toes	 and	 kiss	 his

cheek.	 “Thanks	 for	 the	 library.	 I	 know	 I’m	 a	 crab	 in

the	 morning,	 but	 thanks	 for	 coming	 in	 early	 to	 fix	 it

up	 for	 me.”

Carson	 doesn’t	 move.	 As	 the	 aroma	 of	 his

freshly	 laundered	 T-‐shirt	 mixed	 with	 sweat

pummels	 my	 brain,	 it	 hits	 me.	 Dylan	 is	 the	 light

version	 of	 Carson.	 Dylan	 is	 a	 dream	 guy	 for	 any

woman,	 even	 me,	 but	 if	 you	 want	 to	 amp	 it	 up	 and

make	 it	 more	 interesting	 with	 a	 guy	 who’s	 complex

and	 intel ectually	 challenging,	 my	 bet	 is	 on	 Carson.

Unfortunately,	 he’s	 difficult	 to	 read	 and	 I’m	 too

inexperienced	 to	 pursue	 someone	 like	 him.

Dylan	 is	 more	 my	 speed,	 laid	 back	 and	 sweet,

and	 I	 have	 agreed	 to	 go	 out	 with	 him.	 That	 little

reminder	 makes	 me	 push	 back	 completely	 from

Carson’s	 arms.	 Once	 out	 of	 his	 grasp	 we	 both	 look

at	 one	 another.	 Is	 he	 considering	 the	 lost	 moment?

What	 may	 have	 happened	 between	 us? 	 Therein

lies	 my	 problem;	 I’m	 between	 them.	 I	 tel 	 myself

that	 I’m	 playing	 a	 dangerous	 game	 even	 if	 I	 think

I’ve	 chosen	 the	 safer	 path	 with	 Dylan.	 I’m	 hardly	 an



172

expert	 on	 this	 topic	 and	 the	 tight	 flutters	 in	 my

chest	 tel 	 me	 that	 I’m	 not	 fooling	 myself.

“I’m	 going	 to	 get	 to	 work	 now,”	 I	 say.

“Yeah,	 I	 have	 to	 get	 going,	 too.	 We’l 	 be	 back

to	 work	 on	 the	 kitchen	 when	 the	 new	 appliances

come	 in.”	 He	 lingers	 in	 the	 doorway,	 as	 though	 he

wants	 to	 say	 something	 else,	 but	 I	 cut	 him	 off

before	 he	 can	 consider	 it.

“Bye.”

“Goodbye,	 Jess.”

I	 close	 the	 door	 so	 I	 don’t	 get	 caught	 watching

him	 walk	 to	 his	 truck.	 Then	 I	 jump	 up	 on	 the

staircase	 and	 peek	 through	 the	 small,	 decorative

window	 to	 admire	 his	 swagger,	 lugging	 his	 heavy

toolbox.	 Damn	 that	 swagger.





173





Twelve



Dylan	 rings	 the	 doorbel 	 at	 exactly	 six	 o’clock

right	 as	 I	 finish	 tying	 the	 vintage	 halter	 top	 around

my	 neck.	 I	 found	 it	 in	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 closet	 along

with	 an	 assortment	 of	 wel -‐maintained	 retro	 pieces.

The	 halter	 is	 black	 crepe	 with	 ruffles	 around	 the





edges;	 very	 elegant	 and	 rather	 sexy,	 especially

paired	 with	 my	 short	 black	 skirt.	 My	 legs	 are	 bare

and	 have	 a	 nice,	 sun-‐kissed	 hue	 to	 them.

I	 traipse	 down	 the	 stairs,	 carrying	 a	 pair	 of

black,	 sling-‐back	 sandals	 with	 a	 kitten	 heel.	 It’s	 the

best	 I	 could	 do	 considering	 I	 expected	 to	 be	 here

wearing	 mourning	 clothing	 and	 not	 dating	 attire.

My	 red	 hair	 is	 down,	 voluminous	 and	 curled.	 I	 wil

regret	 it	 later	 when	 it’s	 wet	 and	 sticking	 to	 the	 back

of	 my	 neck,	 yet	 right	 now,	 I’m	 going	 for	 maximum

effect.



174

I	 fling	 open	 the	 door	 and	 get	 the	 reaction	 I

expected	 from	 Dylan,	 who	 falls	 over	 himself	 to	 be

generous	 with	 compliments.

“Wow,	 I	 thought	 you	 were	 stunning	 in	 that	 red

bathing	 suit	 yesterday,	 but	 now,	 you	 look	 even

more	 gorgeous,	 if	 that’s	 possible,”	 he	 says	 with	 a

wide	 grin.

I’m	 glad	 I	 dressed	 up	 because	 Dylan	 is	 a	 vision

of	 male	 beauty.	 He’s	 having	 another	 Ralph	 Lauren

moment	 in	 his	 black	 dress	 pants	 paired	 with	 a

fitted,	 white	 dress	 shirt.	 His	 shoes	 are	 polished	 and

there’s	 no	 mud	 in	 sight.	 There’s	 not	 even	 a	 Jeep.

Behind	 him,	 parked	 in	 the	 driveway,	 sits	 a	 shiny,

black	 sports	 car.

“Thank	 you.	 You	 look	 nice	 yourself.”	 I	 slip	 on

my	 shoes	 and	 grab	 my	 clutch	 off	 the	 stairs.

“You’re	 sure	 I	 don’t	 look	 like	 a	 waiter	 in	 this

get-‐up?”

“Ha!	 Absolutely	 not.”

I	 lock	 the	 door	 and	 hold	 Dylan’s	 arm	 as	 we

walk	 down	 the	 stairs	 to	 the	 path.	 He	 immediately

shakes	 my	 hand	 off	 his	 arm	 and	 catches	 it	 in	 his



175

hand.	 He	 holds	 it	 firmly	 and	 it’s	 thril ing,	 of	 course,

to	 have	 his	 eager	 attention.

“Fifty-‐two	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper	 before	 I	 can

silence	 myself.

“What?”	 Dylan	 asks	 as	 he	 opens	 the	 passenger

door	 for	 me.

“Nothing.”	 I	 just	 want	 to	 forget	 about	 my

whispering	 number	 habit.

“I	 love	 when	 you	 do	 that.	 It’s	 cute.”

“I	 didn’t	 know	 you	 noticed.”

“You’ve	 always	 done	 that.”	 He	 winks.

I	 sink	 back	 into	 the	 comfortable	 black	 leather

seat	 as	 he	 buckles	 himself	 in.

“Is	 this	 your	 car?”

“No,	 it’s	 Carson’s.	 I	 wasn’t	 going	 to	 drive	 you	 in

my	 dirty	 Jeep	 with	 the	 wind	 blowing	 you	 around.”

“This	 BMW	 doesn’t	 seem	 like	 Carson.”

“He	 uses	 it	 when	 he	 goes	 to	 the	 city	 for

meetings	 or	 to	 see	 clients,	 but	 I	 call	 it	 his	 date	 car.”

The	 thought	 of	 Carson	 on	 a	 date	 leaves	 me	 a	 little

sad	 and	 jealous.



176

Dylan	 is	 a	 confident	 driver,	 relaxed	 and	 smooth.

He	 maneuvers	 us	 quickly	 out	 of	 the	 bumpy

driveway	 and	 hits	 the	 main	 road	 at	 a	 high	 speed.

“This	 isn’t	 the	 Indy	 500.	 You	 don’t	 have	 to

drive	 like	 a	 New	 York	 cabbie	 on	 my	 account,”	 I	 say

as	 he	 turns	 on	 some	 music.

“Am	 I	 making	 you	 nervous?”	 He	 smiles.

“This	 isn’t	 The	 Fast	 and	 The	 Furious	 Part	 25. I

wouldn’t	 mind	 a	 nice,	 leisurely	 drive	 through	 the

country	 at	 a	 safe	 speed,”	 I	 say	 loudly	 over	 the

heavy	 metal	 music	 blasting	 through	 the	 speaker

system.

Dylan	 laughs.	 “Okay,	 whatever	 you	 want.”	 He

turns	 down	 the	 music,	 taking	 quick	 glances	 at	 me.

I	 look	 away	 and	 study	 the	 scenic	 farms	 outside

my	 window.	 “Being	 here	 makes	 you	 want	 to	 slow

down	 and	 enjoy	 life	 instead	 of	 running	 at	 top	 speed,

chasing	 after	 things	 that	 only	 seem	 important,”	 I

say.

“Good.	 Another	 reason	 for	 you	 to	 stay.”

We	 pul 	 up	 to	 the	 restaurant	 and	 I	 chuckle.

“What’s	 so	 funny?”

“Lauren	 predicted	 you’d	 take	 me	 to	 Cucina.”



177

“It’s	 my	 favorite	 place	 and	 it’s	 not	 like	 we	 have

a	 lot	 of	 restaurants	 to	 choose	 from,	 but	 this	 one	 is

good.”	 He	 leans	 over	 and	 kisses	 me	 with	 one	 large

palm	 holding	 my	 face.	 I	 kiss	 him	 back	 as	 the	 image

of	 Carson	 pops	 in	 my	 head	 and	 doesn’t	 leave	 until

the	 kiss	 ends.	 Damn.

“I’m	 not	 a	 bad	 cook,	 but	 I’l 	 take	 you	 to	 any

restaurant	 anywhere,	 anytime	 as	 long	 as	 you	 kiss

me	 like	 that,”	 he	 says	 with	 his	 forehead	 against

mine.

“I’m	 hungry,”	 I	 divert	 him	 from	 our	 eager

libidos	 and	 my	 anxious	 nerves	 that	 don’t	 know

what	 to	 do	 with	 a	 guy	 like	 Dylan.



Dinner	 is	 excel ent	 and	 Dylan	 is	 charming.	 He

frequently	 picks	 up	 my	 unoccupied	 hand	 and	 holds

it	 like	 he’s	 about	 to	 propose.	 Then	 he	 kisses	 it	 and

says,	 “It	 was	 just	 sitting	 there	 doing	 nothing.”

I	 catch	 the	 wait	 staff	 watching	 us,	 I	 suspect

because	 Dylan	 is	 strikingly	 handsome	 and	 takes

over	 a	 room	 when	 he’s	 in	 it.	 The	 pul 	 of	 a	 beautiful

creature	 like	 Dylan	 is	 powerful;	 his	 magnetism	 has

an	 orbit	 all	 its	 own	 and	 it	 sucks	 you	 in.



178

Unfortunately,	 that	 lovely	 thought	 about	 Dylan

reminds	 me	 of	 his	 womanizing	 past,	 and	 makes	 me

wonder	 about	 other	 women	 he	 may	 have	 brought

here.

“People	 can’t	 stop	 looking	 at	 the	 beautiful

redhead	 with	 the	 most	 exotic	 eyes	 I	 have	 ever

seen,”	 he	 says	 and,	 with	 the	 way	 his	 eyes	 never

leave	 me,	 I	 don’t	 think	 he’s	 really	 noticed	 the	 other

people	 in	 the	 room.	 Either	 that,	 or	 he’s	 a	 very	 good

actor.



We	 end	 up	 back	 at	 my	 house	 and	 kick	 our

shoes	 off	 in	 the	 living	 room.	 I	 offer	 to	 make	 coffee

or	 open	 a	 bottle	 of	 wine,	 but	 Dylan	 has	 other	 things

on	 his	 mind.	 He	 pul s	 me	 onto	 the	 couch	 and

pushes	 his	 weight	 on	 top	 of	 me.	 His	 groin	 is	 hard

against	 my	 thigh	 and	 despite	 previously

considering	 his	 brother,	 Dylan	 turns	 me	 on.

My	 interests	 are	 ful y	 focused	 on	 his	 body.	 His

mouth	 is	 all	 over	 me—my	 lips	 and	 my	 neck—while

his	 hands	 grope	 my	 thighs	 and	 move	 up	 under	 my

halter.	 He	 fondles	 my	 breast.	 The	 halter	 loosens

and	 moves	 to	 the	 side.	 I	 moan	 as	 his	 warm	 mouth



179

reaches	 my	 nipple	 and	 then	 squirm	 under	 him,

excited	 and	 nervous.	 He	 responds	 by	 kissing	 me

more	 fervently	 and	 palming	 both	 of	 my	 breasts,	 his

hand	 rough	 against	 my	 hard	 nipples.	 I	 reach	 down

and	 stroke	 his	 hard	 bulge	 and	 he	 hisses	 loudly.

“God,	 I	 want	 to	 take	 you	 to	 bed,”	 he	 says	 into

my	 ear.	 “I	 can’t	 stop	 thinking	 of	 you	 in	 bed	 with

me.”

I	 know	 this	 is	 the	 perfect	 time	 to	 finally	 have

the	 sex	 I’ve	 been	 waiting	 for	 because	 Dylan	 is	 the

perfect	 guy	 to	 do	 the	 deed,	 however,	 there’s	 a

nagging	 voice	 in	 my	 head	 that	 tel s	 me	 I’m	 going

too	 fast.	 I’ve	 known	 Dylan	 three	 days	 and	 this	 goes

against	 all	 the	 practical	 advice	 I’ve	 given	 myself	 and

the	 rational	 choices	 I	 have	 made	 in	 life.	 For	 Dylan,

there’s	 no	 reason	 to	 analyze	 lust,	 you	 act	 on	 it	 and

feel	 good.	 I’m	 not	 wired	 that	 way.	 I	 always	 believe

there	 are	 consequences	 to	 every	 action.

As	 his	 fingers	 slide	 under	 my	 panties	 and	 begin

a	 rhythmic	 rubbing,	 my	 defenses	 weaken.	 It’s

either	 stop	 this	 now	 or	 go	 all	 the	 way.	 Every	 part	 of

my	 body,	 my	 senses,	 is	 reacting	 to	 him.	 They	 want



180

him.	 I’m	 having	 a	 heated	 internal	 debate	 with

myself.

“Stop.	 Dylan,	 we	 have	 to	 stop.”	 I	 move	 his

hand	 away.

“Really?”	 he	 asks,	 panting.

“We	 barely	 know	 each	 other,	 and	 I’m	 not	 a

one-‐night-‐stand	 girl.”

“I	 don’t	 want	 you	 for	 one	 night,”	 he	 says,

fighting	 for	 control	 of	 his	 body	 back.	 “I	 want	 you

for	 every	 night.”

“I	 like	 you,	 I’m	 enjoying	 this,	 but	 I	 can’t	 jump

into	 bed	 with	 you.”	 I	 sit	 up	 and	 smooth	 out	 my	 skirt

and	 tie	 my	 halter	 back	 behind	 my	 neck.

Dylan	 sighs	 and	 lies	 back	 on	 the	 couch	 with	 an

arm	 behind	 his	 head	 as	 the	 other	 reaches	 out,

takes	 a	 hunk	 of	 my	 curls	 and	 wraps	 them	 around

his	 finger.	 “We	 can	 slow	 down,”	 he	 says.	 His	 hand

drops	 my	 hair	 and	 then	 cups	 my	 breast	 before

resting	 on	 my	 leg.	 “I’m	 not	 going	 anywhere.	 Are

you?”

That’s	 a	 loaded	 question.	 He	 knows	 I’ve	 made

the	 decision	 to	 stay	 in	 town	 at	 least	 for	 a	 while,	 but

beyond	 the	 summer,	 I	 haven’t	 committed	 to



181

anything.	 He’s	 supposed	 to	 be	 older	 and	 wiser	 than

me,	 how	 can	 he	 be	 asking	 me	 to	 make	 final	 plans

after	 only	 three	 days	 into	 this	 new	 life?	 It	 could	 be

a	 temporary	 life,	 yet	 the	 hopefulness	 in	 his	 face

makes	 me	 want	 to	 tel 	 him	 whatever	 he	 wants	 to

hear,	 even	 if	 it’s	 a	 lie.

“What	 happened	 to	 Dylan	 the	 playboy?	 I	 heard

you	 really	 got	 around	 in	 col ege.”

“That	 was	 then,	 this	 is	 now.	 It’s	 not	 like	 I	 was	 a

criminal	 or	 a	 junkie.	 I	 went	 out	 with	 a	 lot	 of	 women.

Don’t	 judge	 me	 by	 what	 I	 did	 in	 the	 past,	 Jess.”

“Fair	 enough,	 but	 don’t	 expect	 me	 to	 change

my	 mind	 because	 you’ve	 got	 a	 party	 in	 your	 pants.”

He	 laughs.	 “Come	 here.”

I	 curl	 back	 down	 against	 him	 on	 the	 couch	 with

my	 head	 on	 his	 chest	 and	 his	 arms	 wrapped	 around

me.

My	 hand	 rests	 where	 his	 shirt	 is	 unbuttoned

and	 I	 feel	 his	 fast	 heartbeat.	 I	 have	 never	 been	 this

comfortable	 and	 felt	 this	 safe	 with	 any	 guy.	 After

being	 so	 close	 to	 getting	 naked	 with	 Dylan,	 I	 am

glad	 to	 be	 here	 now,	 in	 our	 own	 little	 web	 of

comfort.



182

“I	 could	 hold	 you	 like	 this	 all	 night,	 Jess,”	 I	 feel

him	 kiss	 the	 top	 of	 my	 head	 and	 I	 marvel	 at	 the

sensation	 of	 being	 adored	 and	 perhaps	 being	 loved

in	 this	 way	 by	 one	 man	 forever.

“This	 is	 nice,	 Dylan.”

“Let	 me	 know	 if	 you	 do	 change	 your	 mind.	 I

can	 adapt	 at	 a	 moment’s	 notice,”	 he	 says,	 sounding

sleepy.

Pressed	 against	 his	 very	 warm	 body,	 only

separated	 from	 his	 skin	 by	 the	 cotton	 shirt,	 I	 smile

at	 his	 resolve.

“I	 know	 you’re	 smiling,”	 he	 says,	 his	 voice

dropping	 an	 octave	 with	 fatigue	 setting	 in.

We	 lie	 entwined	 for	 a	 while	 before	 I	 hear	 the

soft,	 labored	 breaths	 of	 him	 sleeping.	 The	 rise	 and

fall	 of	 his	 chest	 relaxes	 me	 and	 I	 soon	 drift	 off	 to

sleep	 as	 wel .





183





Thirteen



As	 Dylan	 wakes	 up	 early	 and	 unfolds	 himself

from	 me,	 I	 reluctantly	 wake	 myself	 up,	 but	 stay

sprawled	 on	 the	 couch	 with	 my	 tangled	 hair	 fanned

out	 around	 my	 head.

“You	 can	 go	 back	 to	 sleep,”	 he	 says.	 “I	 have	 to

get	 to	 the	 shop.	 Carson	 likes	 us	 to	 start	 work

between	 six	 and	 seven	 so	 he	 can	 let	 the	 other	 guys

off	 at	 three	 to	 be	 with	 their	 families.”

He	 puts	 on	 his	 dress	 shoes	 and	 stands	 up	 to

tuck	 in	 his	 shirt.

“At	 this	 hour,	 you	 look	 like	 a	 gigolo	 leaving	 his

one	 night	 stand,”	 I	 say,	 admiring	 how	 men	 can	 pul

themselves	 together	 in	 the	 morning	 with	 very	 little

effort.	 He’s	 every	 bit	 as	 good-‐natured	 a	 soul	 at

dawn	 as	 he	 is	 at	 any	 other	 hour.

“You	 look	 like	 a	 goddess,”	 he	 says,	 smiling.



184

“You’re	 sweet,	 but	 I	 know	 I	 must	 look	 like	 the

whore	 of	 Babylon	 with	 the	 breath	 of	 Bert.”	 I	 cover

my	 mouth	 with	 three	 fingers.

Dylan	 sits	 back	 down	 and	 swoops	 in	 for	 a	 ful

on	 kiss.	 His	 tongue	 and	 hands	 are	 on	 me	 before	 I

can	 hold	 him	 off.	 I	 run	 my	 hands	 through	 his	 thick

curly	 hair	 and	 the	 desire	 in	 me	 rises,	 urging	 me	 to

finish	 what	 we	 started	 last	 night.	 Dylan’s	 hand	 is

under	 my	 panties	 and	 cupping	 one	 buttock.	 When

he	 squeezes,	 my	 groin	 reacts	 and	 the	 little	 nag

inside	 shouts	 at	 me	 to	 stop. If	 I	 do	 this	 with	 Dylan,

what	 door	 do	 I	 open?	 If	 you	 have	 to	 keep	 asking

yourself	 that,	 then	 you’re	 not	 ready.

He’s	 hard	 and	 on	 top	 of	 me	 again.	 “Say	 the

word	 and	 I	 can	 be	 naked	 in	 less	 than	 a	 second,”

Dylan	 says	 into	 my	 neck.

I	 savor	 him	 pressing	 on	 top	 of	 me,	 the	 sexual

heat,	 the	 fantasy	 of	 being	 naked	 with	 him,	 the

longing	 to	 feel	 what	 it’s	 like	 to	 have	 him	 completely,

but	 then	 I	 hear	 Carson. I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 break

Dylan’s	 heart. 	 Damn,	 damn,	 damn.

“You	 stopped,”	 Dylan	 says,	 unlocking	 his	 lips

from	 mine	 and	 lifting	 his	 head	 to	 look	 at	 me.



185

“What’s	 wrong?	 This	 feels	 so	 right.	 Why	 aren’t	 we

running	 up	 to	 your	 bed?”

“As	 much	 as	 I	 love	 this,	 and	 I	 do,	 I…”

“You’re	 not	 ready,”	 he	 finishes	 for	 me.	 “Is	 it

me	 or	 is	 it	 a	 general	 feeling	 that	 you	 need	 to	 wait?”

“It’s	 a	 general	 feeling.	 It’s	 too	 soon.”	 I	 know	 it’s

a	 lie	 as	 soon	 as	 I	 say	 it.

Dylan	 nods.	 “Okay,	 I	 can	 live	 with	 that.”	 He

gives	 me	 a	 quick	 peck	 on	 the	 mouth	 and	 then

stands	 up	 to	 resume	 his	 grooming.

I	 berate	 myself	 for	 not	 being	 honest .	 I	 want	 to

sleep	 with	 you,	 Dylan.	 I	 want	 your	 sexy	 body,	 but	 I

want	 to	 leave	 our	 hearts	 out	 of	 this	 equation.	 I

want	 the	 sex,	 but	 Carson’s	 words	 linger	 with	 me,

his	 once	 womanizing	 brother	 needs	 to	 be	 treated

with	 care?	 Why?	 Why	 can’t	 we	 just	 have	 sex	 with

no	 strings	 attached?

We	 let	 Bert	 out	 and	 he	 does	 a	 wobbly	 trot	 to

the	 yard	 to	 do	 his	 morning	 poop.	 I	 have	 no	 idea

where	 he	 goes	 and	 I	 don’t	 know	 if	 I’m	 supposed	 to

be	 cleaning	 up	 his	 piles	 or	 if	 it’s	 eco-‐friendly	 here	 in

the	 country	 to	 leave	 them.

Barefoot,	 I	 walk	 Dylan	 to	 the	 sports	 car.



186

“So	 are	 you	 going	 to	 be	 working	 all	 day?”	 he

asks,	 putting	 his	 arms	 around	 my	 waist.

“That’s	 the	 plan.	 I	 may	 walk	 in	 to	 town	 later	 to

pick	 up	 groceries.”

“Why	 not	 drive?”

“I	 don’t	 have	 a	 car.	 Remember,	 you	 drove	 me

here.”

“I	 meant	 Gin’s	 car.”	 He	 points	 to	 the	 detached

garage	 on	 the	 side	 of	 the	 house.

“I	 assumed	 those	 were	 old	 horse	 stables	 ful 	 of

junk	 or	 something.”

“They	 were	 horse	 stables,	 but	 now	 they	 hold

Gin’s	 Prius	 and	 all	 the	 garden	 equipment.	 She	 left

you	 a	 car.	 The	 keys	 are	 hanging	 on	 a	 hook	 inside

the	 pantry.	 There	 are	 extra	 house	 keys	 there,	 too.”

A	 smile	 spreads	 across	 my	 face.	 “I’ve	 never	 had

my	 own	 car.	 I’ve	 had	 a	 driver’s	 license	 for	 four

years	 and	 I’ve	 probably	 driven	 less	 than	 a	 dozen

times.	 It’s	 too	 hard	 to	 maintain	 one	 in	 the	 city,	 but

this	 is	 great.	 I	 have	 a	 car!	 Maybe	 Bert	 and	 I	 will	 go

for	 a	 drive.”



187

Dylan	 is	 beaming.	 “Then	 you	 have	 to	 come	 visit

us	 at	 the	 shop.	 Come	 see	 what	 we	 do	 and	 then	 I’l

take	 you	 to	 get	 groceries.”

“All	 right,	 I	 suppose	 I	 could	 come	 around	 my

noon	 time	 break.”	 Bert	 returns	 from	 his	 nature	 call

and	 walks	 between	 us,	 looking	 at	 me	 and	 licking	 his

jowls.

“Someone	 is	 ready	 to	 be	 fed,”	 Dylan

comments.

“Oh,	 is	 that	 what	 that	 means?	 He’s	 always

slobbering	 around	 me.”

Dylan	 kisses	 me	 again,	 a	 peck	 only.	 “I’l 	 see	 you

soon,	 around	 lunchtime.	 Do	 you	 know	 how	 to	 get

back	 to	 town?	 Our	 shop	 is	 going	 to	 be	 on	 the	 left

just	 as	 you	 enter.	 It	 says	 Blackard	 Designs.”

“Got	 it.	 Drive	 straight	 down	 the	 one	 road,	 look

to	 my	 left.”

“You’re	 a	 genius.”

I	 watch	 him	 drive	 away	 before	 Bert	 and	 I	 go

inside	 to	 make	 breakfast.



I	 sit	 in	 my	 bra	 and	 underwear	 and	 spend	 the

whole	 morning	 trying	 to	 find	 one	 persistent	 bug	 in



188

my	 program.	 The	 library	 is	 a	 beautiful,	 comfortable

room.	 I	 admire	 the	 view	 from	 its	 window	 and	 think

I	 could	 get	 used	 to	 this	 working	 environment.	 A

little	 before	 noon,	 I	 shower	 and	 change	 into	 a	 T-‐

shirt	 and	 shorts.	 I	 put	 my	 hair	 in	 a	 high	 ponytail	 and

grab	 my	 purse.

“Come	 on.	 Let’s	 go!”	 I	 call	 to	 Bert.	 He

scrambles	 down	 the	 stairs	 with	 me	 and	 fol ows	 me

out	 to	 the	 garage.	 I	 pul 	 open	 the	 barn-‐style	 door

and	 find	 the	 shiny,	 clean,	 silver	 Prius	 waiting	 for	 me.

It’s	 such	 a	 rare	 treat	 for	 me,	 a	 kick	 of	 independence.

I	 back	 the	 car	 out,	 excited	 to	 be	 driving.	 Then	 I

jump	 out	 and	 run	 around	 the	 passenger	 side	 and

open	 the	 door	 for	 Bert.

“Come	 on.	 Get	 inside.	 I’m	 letting	 you	 sit	 up

front.”

Bert	 plants	 his	 rump	 on	 the	 ground	 and	 all	 the

excitement	 is	 drained	 from	 his	 body.	 I	 grip	 his	 col ar

and	 try	 to	 lead	 him,	 but	 he	 won’t	 budge.	 It’s	 like

trying	 to	 drag	 a	 fifty-‐pound	 sack	 of	 flour.	 I	 manage

to	 get	 him	 on	 his	 feet	 and	 move	 forward	 about

three	 steps	 before	 he	 grunts	 and	 pul s	 me	 back	 six

steps.



189

“This	 is	 ridiculous.	 I	 thought	 you’d	 want	 to	 go

out	 on	 the	 town	 with	 me.”	 Bert	 lies	 down	 with	 his

head	 between	 his	 paws	 and	 looks	 up	 at	 me	 with

dread.

“Fine.	 You	 stay	 here.	 Back	 inside!”	 I	 point	 to

the	 house.	 He	 charges	 back	 to	 the	 house,	 gleeful	 he

won	 the	 battle.	 I	 let	 him	 back	 in	 the	 front	 door	 and

then	 jog	 back	 to	 my	 car.

It’s	 not	 too	 difficult	 to	 find	 my	 way	 back	 to	 the

town.	 The	 dirt	 road	 from	 my	 house	 leads	 to	 the

main	 road	 that	 goes	 right	 through	 Hera.	 I	 pul 	 over

when	 I	 see	 the	 black	 metal	 sign	 for	 Blackard

Designs.	 It	 looks	 like	 a	 renovated	 barn	 with	 a	 glass

front	 so	 people	 can	 see	 not	 only	 the	 furniture,	 but

also	 the	 craftsmen	 at	 work.	 I	 park	 along	 the	 side	 of

the	 building	 next	 to	 Dylan’s	 Jeep.

When	 I	 enter	 the	 modern,	 industrial-‐looking

shop	 there’s	 a	 receptionist	 desk	 up	 front	 made	 of

metal	 and	 wood.	 To	 the	 left	 of	 it	 is	 a	 large

showroom	 with	 finished	 furniture	 displayed	 in

various	 settings.	 On	 the	 right	 side	 is	 the	 work	 area.

Four	 guys	 around	 the	 same	 age	 as	 Carson	 and

Dylan	 are	 sawing,	 carving,	 sanding	 and	 putting



190

together	 actual	 furniture	 that	 doesn’t	 come	 from

an	 IKEA	 box.	 An	 attractive	 young	 woman	 sits

behind	 the	 counter	 talking	 on	 the	 phone	 and

signals	 to	 me	 with	 her	 index	 finger,	 but	 I	 see	 Dylan

come	 out	 of	 a	 back	 room	 and	 he	 reaches	 me	 as	 the

woman	 puts	 down	 the	 phone.

“You	 made	 it,”	 he	 says.	 “Daisy,	 this	 is	 Jessica.

Daisy	 runs	 this	 whole	 place.	 We’d	 be	 lost	 without

her.”

Daisy	 reaches	 across	 the	 counter	 and	 shakes

my	 hand.	 “I’ve	 heard	 so	 much	 about	 you.”	 She

gives	 me	 a	 friendly	 smile.	 “I’m	 so	 sorry	 about

Ginnie,	 but	 we’re	 so	 lucky	 to	 have	 you	 here.”

Maybe	 I’m	 a	 jaded	 city	 person	 because	 I	 don’t

think	 I	 could	 ever	 believe	 that	 a	 town	 is	 lucky	 to

have	 me,	 yet	 from	 her	 it	 sounds	 sincere.

“Thank	 you.	 I’m	 having	 a	 very	 interesting	 time

so	 far.”

“I’l 	 bet,”	 she	 says.	 “I	 hear	 ya	 got	 plenty	 of

action	 goin’	 on	 up	 at	 the	 house.”

Mortified,	 the	 image	 of	 Dylan	 and	 I	 grappling

half-‐naked	 on	 the	 couch	 comes	 to	 mind.	 I	 look	 at

Dylan	 and	 he	 bursts	 out	 laughing.	 “I	 told	 her	 that



191

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 have	 been	 hanging	 out	 with

you.	 And	 she	 already	 knows	 Carson	 and	 I	 have

been	 working	 there.”

“Yeah,	 it’s	 been	 busy	 at	 the	 house,”	 I	 admit.

“I	 want	 to	 introduce	 you	 to	 the	 guys.”	 Dylan

puts	 his	 arm	 around	 my	 shoulder.	 Daisy	 smiles	 at

me	 as	 if	 she’s	 got	 Dylan	 and	 me	 all	 figured	 out.

As	 we	 walk	 through	 the	 workshop	 area,	 the

men	 put	 down	 their	 tools	 and	 silence	 their

equipment	 so	 they	 can	 hear	 Dylan.

“Jess,	 this	 is	 Thomas	 and	 Daniel.”	 He	 points	 to

two	 men	 at	 the	 table	 saw,	 both	 bearded	 with

brown	 hair.	 I’d	 never	 be	 able	 to	 tel 	 them	 apart.

“Hel o!”	 they	 both	 bark	 loudly	 and	 I	 wonder	 if

they’re	 all	 going	 deaf	 from	 the	 noise	 of	 their

equipment.	 Then	 I	 see	 them	 pul 	 earplugs	 out.

I	 nod	 and	 say	 hi.

“This	 is	 Jeremy	 who	 just	 started	 a	 couple	 of

weeks	 ago.”	 Dylan	 points	 at	 a	 young	 man	 about

Dylan’s	 age.	 He	 takes	 off	 a	 work	 glove	 and	 leans

over	 a	 table	 to	 shake	 my	 hand.

“And	 this	 is	 Leo,”	 Dylan	 says	 after	 I	 shake

Jeremy’s	 sweaty	 hand	 and	 give	 him	 a	 little	 hi.	 “We



192

go	 way	 back.	 We’ve	 known	 each	 other	 since	 we

were	 in	 kindergarten	 and	 he	 has	 his	 own	 style	 here.”

This	 is	 Lauren’s	 Leo.	 He	 gives	 me	 a	 shy	 wave	 and	 an

inaudible	 “hi”.	 He’s	 painting	 the	 trim	 on	 a	 rustic

table	 that	 looks	 like	 it’s	 made	 from	 barn	 wood.	 His

style	 is	 whimsical	 and	 colorful,	 and	 I	 can	 see	 why

his	 pieces	 would	 be	 popular.

The	 door	 to	 the	 back	 office	 swings	 open	 and

Carson	 steps	 out.	 Our	 eyes	 meet	 and	 then	 he	 goes

back	 inside,	 closing	 the	 door	 behind	 him.	 Wel ,	 shit

me.	 Someone	 doesn’t	 want	 to	 see	 me.

“That’s	 the	 office,	 nothing	 to	 see	 there,”	 Dylan

says.	 “Okay,	 time	 for	 groceries.”	 He	 bids	 goodbye

to	 the	 staff	 and	 we	 head	 about	 fifty	 yards	 down	 the

main	 street	 to	 the	 small	 grocery	 store.	 It	 has	 a	 sign

that	 says, The	 General	 Store.	 I	 laugh.

“A	 lot	 of	 people	 shop	 at	 the	 super	 stores	 out

on	 the	 interstate.	 They	 only	 go	 here	 for

emergencies	 or	 gourmet	 items,”	 Dylan	 explains.	 “I

like	 to	 support	 Harvey’s	 business.”

He	 holds	 the	 door	 open	 and	 I	 walk	 inside	 to

the	 nineteenth	 century.	 The	 floors	 are	 unfinished

wood	 planks,	 there	 are	 wooden	 barrels	 of	 gourmet



193

items	 and	 a	 long,	 wooden	 front	 counter	 supports

the	 cash	 register	 and	 freshly	 made	 treats.	 Behind

the	 counter	 are	 floor-‐to-‐ceiling	 shelves	 with	 cans	 of

caviar	 and	 other	 delicacies	 I’ve	 never	 eaten.	 A

ladder	 on	 rails	 makes	 everything	 accessible	 to	 the

large	 man	 in	 the	 white	 apron.

“Dylan!”	 the	 husky	 man	 exclaims,	 stepping	 off

the	 ladder.	 “Sushi	 man	 is	 here	 today.	 And	 you	 must

be	 Ginnie’s	 niece.	 I’m	 Harvey.”

“Jessica.”	 I	 put	 my	 hand	 into	 his	 giant	 palm.

“Sushi.	 You	 like	 sushi?”	 Dylan	 asks	 me.

I	 nod	 as	 he	 takes	 my	 hand	 and	 grabs	 a	 wicker

shopping	 basket	 at	 the	 counter.	 We	 weave	 through

aisles	 of	 fresh	 produce	 and	 baked	 goods	 that	 are

displayed	 in	 baskets.

The	 ambiance	 reminds	 me	 of	 Eataly,	 one	 of	 my

favorite	 places	 to	 shop	 and	 eat	 in	 New	 York,

although	 this	 store	 is	 infinitely	 smaller	 and	 not

crowded	 with	 tourists.	 The	 back	 end	 of	 the	 store

actually	 has	 a	 sushi	 station	 with	 two	 chefs	 making

hand	 rol s.	 We	 select	 a	 few	 varieties	 and	 perch

ourselves	 at	 a	 dining	 bar	 where	 a	 few	 other	 locals

Dylan	 knows	 are	 eating	 sushi	 as	 wel .



194

“See,	 now	 you	 can	 move	 here.	 We	 have	 sushi,”

he	 says,	 wolfing	 down	 his	 pieces	 in	 whole	 bites.

“This	 is	 a	 surprise.	 Fresh	 sushi	 in	 the	 country.

Weird.”	 I	 have	 an	 inner	 debate	 over	 how	 much

wasabi	 I	 can	 use	 if	 I’m	 going	 to	 be	 kissing	 Dylan	 in

the	 very	 near	 future.	 I	 decide	 to	 omit	 it	 all	 together.

After	 we	 eat,	 Dylan	 stays	 to	 peruse	 the	 aisles

with	 me,	 carrying	 the	 basket	 that	 is	 growing

extremely	 heavy	 with	 all	 the	 items	 he	 thinks	 I	 must

have.

“You	 have	 me	 mistaken	 for	 someone	 who

cooks.”	 I	 look	 at	 the	 homemade	 sausages	 and

eggplants	 he	 has	 put	 in	 the	 basket.	 “I’m	 good	 with

apples	 and	 instant	 ramen	 noodles.”

“Don’t	 let	 Harvey	 hear	 you	 say	 that.	 He	 doesn’t

stock	 ramen	 or	 instant	 anything.”

“Wel ,	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 to	 cook	 eggplant.”

“I	 do.	 These	 are	 from	 local	 farms.	 It’s	 the	 best

produce.	 We	 also	 have	 a	 local	 couple	 that	 makes

artisanal	 sausages	 and	 cheeses.	 You’re	 from	 the

city;	 I	 thought	 you’d	 have	 refined	 tastes.”

“I	 was	 raised	 on	 Ding	 Dongs	 and	 baloney

sandwiches.	 Don’t	 get	 me	 wrong,	 my	 parents	 eat



195

out	 constantly	 at	 all	 the	 best	 places,	 but	 at	 home,

they	 wouldn’t	 know	 how	 to	 work	 an	 Easy	 Bake

Oven.	 I	 know	 that	 because	 I	 actually	 received	 an

Easy	 Bake	 Oven	 for	 one	 of	 my	 birthdays	 and	 my

mother	 had	 no	 clue	 how	 to	 operate	 it.”

“You’re	 cute.”	 Dylan	 laughs	 and	 shoves	 more

items	 into	 the	 basket.	 “I’m	 going	 to	 cook	 for	 you.”

“What	 makes	 you	 such	 a	 good	 cook?”

“No	 parents,	 but	 I	 had	 nice	 women	 who

offered	 to	 feed	 us.	 I	 watched	 them	 cook	 and	 picked

up	 a	 few	 skil s.”	 His	 face	 doesn’t	 register	 any	 grief

or	 the	 wish	 to	 expand	 on	 his	 comment.	 I	 regret

asking	 something	 that	 would	 bring	 up	 his	 sad

childhood;	 however,	 it	 doesn’t	 seem	 to	 bother

Dylan.

He	 takes	 my	 hand	 and	 leads	 me	 back	 to	 the

front	 register.	 When	 I	 reach	 for	 my	 credit	 card,	 he

stops	 my	 hand.	 “I’ve	 got	 this.”

“Why?	 It’s	 my	 food.”

“I’ve	 overloaded	 your	 basket.	 I’m	 cooking	 for

you.”

Dylan	 col ects	 the	 three	 burlap	 shopping	 bags

that	 Harvey	 packs	 my	 groceries	 in.	 Yes,	 The	 General



196

Store	 is	 eco-‐friendly	 and	 makes	 you	 purchase	 and

carry	 re-‐useable	 bags,	 unless	 you	 bring	 your	 own.

I’m	 racking	 up	 my	 commitments	 to	 Hera	 after	 less

than	 a	 week.

He	 puts	 everything	 on	 the	 floor	 on	 my

passenger	 side	 and	 then	 comes	 back	 to	 my	 side	 of

the	 car	 and	 leans	 in	 the	 driver’s	 side	 window.	 Dylan

is	 so	 tall	 that	 he	 has	 to	 bend	 really	 far	 over	 to	 face

me	 in	 the	 window	 of	 the	 small	 car.

“Tonight,”	 he	 says.	 “What’s	 a	 good	 time	 for

you?	 Five?	 Six?”

“Six	 is	 fine,”	 I	 say	 a	 little	 excited.	 I	 may	 have

some	 doubts	 about	 the	 Blackard	 brothers,	 but	 this

insistent	 one	 knows	 how	 to	 turn	 the	 dial	 up	 to	 thril .

He	 kisses	 me	 slowly	 and	 I	 reciprocate.	 It’s	 too

easy	 to	 respond	 the	 way	 he	 wants.	 After	 a	 minute,

we	 end	 it,	 though	 Dylan	 brushes	 his	 lips	 against	 the

side	 of	 my	 face.

“Does	 everyone	 know	 about	 us?”	 I	 ask.

“I	 hope	 so.”	 He	 looks	 as	 delighted	 as	 ever	 with

our	 public	 kiss.	 “I’ve	 been	 making	 it	 a	 point	 to	 tel

everyone	 about	 you.”



197

I	 have	 no	 doubt	 that	 he	 has	 been	 referring	 to

me	 in	 a	 possessive	 way	 with	 every	 resident	 in	 Hera

he	 knows.	 Plus,	 knowing	 Dylan,	 he’s	 probably	 on	 a

first	 name	 basis	 with	 all	 nine	 hundred	 eighty-‐four

residents.





198





Fourteen



When	 I	 return	 to	 the	 house,	 the	 big,	 black

monster	 truck	 is	 in	 my	 driveway.	 Carson.	 I	 had	 no

idea	 he’d	 be	 back	 today	 to	 work	 on	 one	 of	 his

projects	 for	 Aunt	 Virginia,	 or,	 now	 me.	 He	 didn’t

bother	 to	 say	 hel o	 to	 me	 at	 the	 shop,	 so	 I	 figured

he’d	 had	 enough	 of	 me.	 I	 drive	 on	 the	 other	 side	 of

his	 vehicle	 and	 park	 in	 front	 of	 the	 garage	 so	 I	 can

unload	 my	 groceries.	 As	 I	 walk	 around	 to	 the

passenger	 side	 and	 open	 the	 door,	 Carson	 is

already	 taking	 long	 strides	 to	 my	 car	 with	 Bert

jogging	 alongside	 him.

“Let	 me	 help.”	 He	 grabs	 all	 three	 burlap	 bags	 in

one	 hand	 and	 closes	 the	 door	 with	 his	 free	 hand.

“I	 didn’t	 know	 you’d	 be	 here	 today,”	 I	 say,

fol owing	 him	 back	 to	 the	 house.

“I’m	 fixing	 the	 kitchen	 pipe.	 I	 noticed	 it	 leaking

the	 other	 day.	 I	 brought	 a	 replacement.	 It	 wil 	 only



199

take	 a	 few	 minutes	 to	 fix	 and	 then	 I’l 	 be	 out	 of

your	 way.”

“I	 don’t	 mind.	 I’m	 going	 to	 be	 in	 the	 library

working	 for	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 day.”

In	 the	 kitchen	 I	 put	 away	 the	 groceries	 while

Carson	 gets	 back	 to	 work.	 He	 wedges	 his	 big	 frame

under	 the	 kitchen	 sink	 and	 takes	 a	 wrench	 to	 the

leaky	 pipe.

“Shit!”	 Carson	 slides	 out	 from	 under	 the	 sink

with	 the	 decayed	 pipe	 in	 one	 hand	 and	 wet,	 black

gunk	 splattered	 across	 his	 chest.	 He	 puts	 the

broken	 pipe	 on	 a	 paper	 towel	 spread	 on	 the	 floor

then	 he	 takes	 off	 his	 T-‐shirt	 to	 remove	 the

offending	 grime.

I	 am	 completely	 captivated	 by	 his	 splendidly

buff	 physique.	 His	 muscles	 and	 rippling	 abs	 up

close	 cause	 me	 to	 lose	 my	 voice	 and	 any	 rational

thought.	 I	 fold	 and	 re-‐fold	 the	 burlap	 bags,	 trying	 to

play	 it	 cool	 as	 if	 I’m	 used	 to	 handymen	 stripping

down	 in	 front	 of	 me.	 This	 always	 happens	 to	 single

chicks	 in	 New	 York.

Carson	 balls	 up	 the	 dirty	 T-‐shirt	 and	 puts	 it	 on

the	 floor.	 “Wil 	 you	 hand	 me	 the	 new	 piece	 there?”



200

He	 points	 to	 the	 shiny,	 curved	 pipe	 on	 the	 counter

near	 me.

Speechless,	 I	 grab	 the	 pipe	 and	 hand	 it	 to	 him.

Our	 eyes	 lock	 as	 we	 both	 grip	 the	 pipe	 at	 the	 same

time.	 The	 seconds	 pass	 quicker	 than	 I	 want,	 but

long	 enough	 for	 me	 to	 realize	 there’s	 an	 attraction

between	 us.	 Either	 that	 or	 I’m	 an	 idiot.	 I	 decide	 I

am	 indeed	 a	 delusional	 idiot.

Carson	 ducks	 back	 under	 the	 sink	 and	 installs

the	 new	 hardware	 while	 I	 watch	 the	 rise	 and	 fall	 of

his	 chest	 and	 fol ow	 the	 path	 of	 his	 bare	 skin	 down

to	 the	 top	 edge	 of	 his	 jeans	 which	 have	 inched

below	 the	 rim	 of	 his	 underwear.	 I	 sigh	 a	 little	 too

loudly	 as	 Carson	 climbs	 back	 out	 of	 the	 cupboard

and	 he	 looks	 at	 me	 with	 amusement.

“Kitchen	 plumbing	 exciting	 to	 watch?”

“Huh,	 not	 at	 all.	 I’ve	 got	 a	 lot	 of	 work	 to	 do,”	 I

mumble	 and	 head	 back	 upstairs	 to	 the	 library.

After	 a	 couple	 hours	 of	 programming	 that

includes	 finally	 finding	 and	 fixing	 the	 bug	 that	 was

driving	 me	 and	 my	 team	 crazy,	 I	 take	 a	 breather

and	 peruse	 the	 Internet.	 I	 do	 a	 search	 on	 Blackard

Designs	 and	 find	 more	 than	 a	 dozen	 articles	 on



201

Carson,	 the	 furniture,	 their	 retailers	 along	 with

interviews	 in	 Dwel ,	 El e	 Décor	 and	 Architectural

Digest.	 There	 are	 a	 few	 photos	 of	 Carson	 posing

with	 some	 of	 the	 furniture	 and	 at	 work	 in	 the	 shop.

He’s	 wearing	 jeans	 and	 T-‐shirts	 in	 all	 of	 them	 and	 in

some	 he’s	 covered	 in	 sawdust	 or	 hasn’t	 removed

his	 dirty	 work	 gloves.

I	 like	 that	 he	 doesn’t	 primp	 and	 get	 cleaned	 up

for	 the	 photo	 shoots.	 I	 can	 imagine	 him	 tel ing	 the

photographer	 to	 get	 on	 with	 it	 and	 take	 his	 photo

as	 is.	 Perhaps	 it’s	 his	 indifference	 to	 others’

opinions	 that	 I	 admire.	 I	 spent	 too	 many	 years

worrying	 about	 fitting	 in,	 while	 Carson	 spent	 those

years	 worrying	 about	 his	 brother	 and	 their	 general

survival.	 I	 hear	 clomping	 on	 the	 stairs	 and	 quickly

close	 the	 screen	 window	 on	 the	 image	 of	 Carson

Blackard.

I	 swivel	 around	 in	 my	 chair	 as	 Carson	 enters

the	 room	 and	 drops	 onto	 the	 couch	 in	 a	 casual

slouch. Damn,	 he	 has	 a	 new	 T-‐shirt	 on.	 He	 must

keep	 extra	 clothing	 in	 his	 truck	 for	 these	 types	 of

mishaps.



202

Carson	 rests	 his	 arms	 across	 the	 back	 of	 the

couch	 and	 stretches	 out	 his	 long	 legs,	 crossing	 his

clunky	 work	 boots	 at	 the	 ankle.	 Bert	 comes	 in	 and

jumps	 up	 on	 the	 couch,	 snuggling	 into	 Carson	 who

picks	 up	 a	 magazine	 from	 the	 coffee	 table	 and	 flips

through	 with	 disinterest.

“May	 I	 help	 you?”	 I	 ask,	 observing	 his

confidence	 at	 making	 himself	 comfortable	 in	 my

new	 work	 place.	 “I	 thought	 you	 left	 a	 while	 ago.”

“Nope.	 I	 figured	 that	 since	 you	 were	 up	 here,	 I

could	 finish	 the	 kitchen	 measurements	 and	 then	 I

ordered	 the	 new	 appliances.	 Nice,	 huh?	 I’m	 just

waiting	 for	 dinner.”

“Oh.	 Um.	 I’m	 not	 cooking.	 I	 mean,	 Dylan	 is

coming	 over	 to	 make	 dinner	 for	 me.”

“Yeah,	 I	 figured	 as	 much.	 I	 saw	 the	 eggplant

and	 sausage.”	 Carson	 laughs.	 “That	 guy	 can	 cook

and	 eat.	 You	 don’t	 mind	 if	 I	 join	 you,	 do	 you?”	 This

is	 a	 side	 of	 Carson	 I	 haven’t	 seen;	 cocky	 and	 taking

great	 liberties.	 I	 assume	 this	 is	 to	 piss	 off	 Dylan.

Whatever	 is	 going	 on	 between	 them,	 I’m	 being	 left

in	 the	 dark,	 or	 rather,	 bounced	 around	 between

them.



203

“I	 don’t	 mind.”	 I	 really	 don’t	 mind,	 either.

Carson’s	 sporadic	 coldness	 is	 somewhat	 attractive.

Isn’t	 that	 the	 mistake	 women	 always	 make	 with

men;	 they	 seek	 out	 the	 sexy,	 inattentive	 ones	 that

are	 bound	 to	 be	 troubling	 disappointments?	 I	 could

tel 	 him	 that	 I	 plan	 to	 dine	 alone	 with	 Dylan,	 but	 I

don’t	 and	 Carson	 seems	 to	 be	 completely	 aware	 of

this.



Dylan’s	 reaction	 is	 evident.	 I’m	 at	 the	 end	 of

the	 hall	 in	 the	 kitchen	 doorway	 when	 Carson

answers	 the	 door	 and	 Dylan’s	 face	 drops.	 “What

the	 fuck	 are	 you	 doing	 here?”

“Hi,	 brother,”	 Carson	 greets	 him	 with	 a

smugness	 in	 his	 voice.	 “I	 was	 working	 on	 the

kitchen	 and	 thought	 I’d	 stay	 for	 dinner.	 I	 see	 you’re

making	 your	 eggplant	 parm.	 Wouldn’t	 want	 to	 miss

that.”	 He	 holds	 the	 door	 open	 for	 Dylan	 who

storms	 through	 with	 two	 bottles	 of	 wine	 in	 each

hand.

“Oh,	 fuck	 you,”	 Dylan	 snaps	 and	 head	 towards

me.	 He	 kisses	 me	 on	 the	 cheek.	 “Hi.	 So	 we’ve	 got

company.”	 He	 shakes	 his	 head	 at	 me.



204

“Here,	 let	 me	 open	 the	 wine.”	 Carson	 squeezes

between	 Dylan	 and	 me,	 grabbing	 the	 bottles.	 “You

cook.	 Jess	 and	 I	 wil 	 drink	 this	 fine	 vino	 you’ve

brought	 us.”

“I	 didn’t	 bring	 it	 for	 you,”	 Dylan	 counters.

Carson	 studies	 the	 wine	 label	 and	 raises	 his

eyebrows.	 “You’ve	 dropped	 an	 impressive	 little

bundle	 on	 these	 two	 gems.	 Can’t	 wait	 to	 drink	 it.”

Dylan	 ignores	 him	 and	 makes	 his	 way	 into	 the

kitchen	 where	 he	 begins	 to	 pul 	 items	 out	 of	 the

fridge	 along	 with	 pots	 and	 pans	 from	 the

cupboards.	 I’m	 caught	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 some

brotherly	 dynamic	 that	 is	 foreign	 to	 me,	 so	 I	 stay

out	 of	 it	 and	 keep	 quiet.

Carson	 uncorks	 a	 bottle	 of	 wine	 with	 a

switchblade	 he	 pul s	 out	 of	 his	 pocket.	 I	 don’t	 know

whether	 to	 be	 unnerved	 or	 impressed	 that	 he

carries	 a	 knife	 and	 knows	 how	 to	 open	 a	 bottle	 of

wine	 with	 it.	 He	 makes	 one	 slice	 around	 the	 seal,

thuds	 the	 base	 of	 the	 bottle	 against	 one	 of	 the

vertical	 beams	 along	 the	 wall	 and	 then	 pul s	 the

cork	 out	 with	 his	 teeth.	 I’ve	 never	 seen	 anything

like	 it.	 He	 looks	 even	 sexier	 merely	 by	 doing	 that



205

little	 move.	 His	 hands	 are	 ful 	 with	 the	 bottle	 in	 one

hand	 and	 the	 knife	 and	 cork	 in	 the	 other,	 so	 he

pul s	 a	 kitchen	 chair	 out	 with	 his	 foot.

“Have	 a	 seat,	 milady,	 and	 join	 me	 in	 a	 glass	 of

the	 grape,”	 he	 mimics	 a	 thick	 Scottish	 brogue.

“Oh,	 please,”	 Dylan	 says	 over	 his	 shoulder	 as

he	 slams	 pans	 on	 the	 range.

I	 laugh	 and	 sit	 down.	 Carson	 smiles	 at	 me	 and

pours	 a	 tiny	 amount	 of	 the	 wine	 into	 a	 juice	 glass

for	 me.	 I	 take	 a	 little	 sip	 and	 nod	 approvingly.	 I

know	 nothing	 about	 wine.

“Mm,”	 Carson	 hums	 after	 a	 sip.	 “This	 is	 too

good	 not	 to	 decant.”

As	 he	 leaves	 the	 kitchen,	 Dylan	 turns	 to	 me.

“You	 can	 ask	 him	 to	 leave.”

“That	 would	 be	 rude,	 Dylan.	 Carson	 has	 been

working	 all	 afternoon	 on	 my	 house.”

Dylan	 shakes	 his	 head	 as	 he	 resumes	 his

chopping	 and	 cooking.	 Carson	 returns	 with	 a	 wine

decanter	 and	 crystal	 wine	 glasses.	 “Just	 so	 you

know,	 Gin	 keeps	 these	 in	 the	 buffet	 in	 the	 dining

room.”



206

“I	 don’t	 even	 know	 how	 to	 use	 a	 decanter,”	 I

answer.

“It	 allows	 the	 wine	 to	 breathe.”	 He	 pours	 the

wine	 into	 the	 decanter	 and	 then	 takes	 the	 chair

right	 next	 to	 mine,	 which	 means	 Dylan	 wil 	 have	 to

sit	 across	 the	 table	 from	 us.	 “This	 is	 fun,”	 Carson

deadpans.

“It’s	 interesting,”	 I	 comment.

He	 fil s	 a	 small	 amount	 into	 our	 wine	 glasses.

“Cheers.”

I	 gently	 tap	 my	 glass	 to	 his	 and	 we	 drink.

“You	 need	 to	 pour	 a	 glass	 for	 Dylan,”	 I	 tel 	 him.

“Right,	 keep	 the	 cook	 happy.”	 Carson	 fil s

another	 wine	 glass	 and	 puts	 it	 on	 the	 counter	 for

Dylan.



The	 food	 is	 delicious,	 however,	 the	 company	 is

tense.	 Carson	 is	 the	 most	 talkative	 I’ve	 ever	 seen

him,	 tel ing	 me	 stories	 about	 his	 company	 and

enjoying	 an	 audience.	 Dylan	 responds	 with	 terse

comments	 when	 Carson	 engages	 him.

“Dylan,	 your	 cooking	 is	 superb,”	 I	 compliment,

noticing	 that	 Carson	 doesn’t	 thank	 him.	 “Thank	 you



207

for	 taking	 me	 shopping	 and	 making	 this	 wonderful

meal.”

“You’re	 welcome,”	 Dylan	 says,	 “Milady.”	 He

smiles	 at	 me	 from	 across	 the	 table.

“Good	 grub,	 brother,”	 Carson	 interjects.

Dylan	 grunts	 an	 acknowledgement	 from	 him.

I	 am	 ful 	 from	 the	 rich	 food	 and	 cannot	 finish

half	 the	 plate.	 Carson	 keeps	 refil ing	 my	 wine	 glass

so	 I’m	 woozy.	 I	 put	 my	 napkin	 on	 my	 plate	 and

push	 it	 away.	 “I’m	 done,”	 I	 announce.	 “So	 are	 we

going	 to	 talk	 about	 the	 elephant	 that’s	 sitting	 at

this	 table	 with	 us?”

Carson	 and	 Dylan	 both	 look	 at	 me.	 I	 turn	 to

Carson	 who	 stares	 at	 me	 and	 settles	 back	 in	 his

chair	 with	 his	 arm	 across	 the	 back	 of	 mine;	 a

blatantly	 territorial	 move	 I	 would	 expect	 from

Dylan,	 not	 Carson.

“Oh,	 come	 on,”	 I	 say	 to	 Carson.	 “You’re	 going

to	 play	 dumb	 now?	 What’s	 going	 on	 here?	 It’s

obvious	 you’ve	 been	 taunting	 Dylan	 and	 you’re

using	 me	 as	 the	 bait.”



208

Carson	 doesn’t	 say	 anything,	 so	 I	 look	 at	 Dylan

for	 a	 response.	 He	 says	 nothing	 also,	 simply	 keeps

shoveling	 food—his	 third	 helping—into	 his	 mouth.

“Okay,	 how	 about	 this?	 It’s	 my	 house,	 my	 rules.

Tel 	 me	 what	 the	 hel 	 is	 going	 on	 between	 you	 two

because	 it’s	 like	 watching	 a	 tennis	 match	 without	 a

ball.	 You	 guys	 are	 lobbing	 jabs	 at	 each	 other	 and	 I

want	 to	 know	 why.”

“It’s	 nothing	 for	 you	 to	 concern	 yourself	 with,

Jess,”	 Dylan	 says.	 “Brothers	 fight.	 It’s	 no	 big	 deal.”

“No,	 she’s	 right,”	 Carson	 says.	 “I’ve	 decided

that	 it’s	 time	 for	 me	 to	 stop	 hovering	 over	 Dylan.

I’m	 not	 his	 parent.”

“Then	 why	 are	 you	 here,”	 Dylan	 hisses.

“I	 like	 hanging	 out	 with	 Jess.”

“Hah!”	 I	 scoff.	 “Two	 can	 play	 at	 this	 game	 of

sarcasm.	 You’re	 as	 believable	 as	 a…”	 I	 go	 blank.	 I’m

usually	 good	 at	 rattling	 off	 comebacks,	 must	 be	 the

wine.

“I’m	 not	 being	 sarcastic	 and	 this	 isn’t	 a	 game.”

Carson	 finishes	 his	 glass	 of	 wine.	 We’ve	 polished

off	 two	 bottles	 between	 the	 three	 of	 us.	 I’m	 drunk

and	 they’re	 sober	 as	 wel 	 as	 angry.	 “I	 forgot	 to



209

mention,	 Lois	 is	 having	 a	 party	 in	 a	 couple	 of	 weeks

and	 wanted	 me	 to	 invite	 you,”	 Carson	 continues,

changing	 the	 subject.	 “She	 said	 she	 left	 a	 message

on	 that	 antique	 answering	 machine	 over	 there,	 but

you	 must	 have	 forgotten	 to	 check	 it.”

“I	 did	 forget,”	 I	 admit.

“I	 saw	 her	 before	 I	 came	 out	 here,”	 Carson

says.

Dylan	 watches	 Carson	 with	 hard,	 cold	 eyes.

“That’s	 sounds	 like	 fun,”	 I	 say.

“Good.	 You	 want	 to	 go	 with	 me?”	 Carson	 asks.





210





Fifteen



In	 a	 fury	 of	 flying	 limbs	 and	 dishes,	 Dylan

overturns	 the	 table	 and	 slams	 against	 Carson.

However,	 Carson	 is	 faster,	 stronger	 and	 more

adept	 at	 combat	 maneuvers.	 He	 blocks	 Dylan’s

swings	 and	 manages	 to	 flip	 him	 over,	 throwing	 him

to	 the	 ground.	 Carson	 has	 Dylan	 pinned	 with	 his

arms	 secured	 behind	 his	 back	 underneath	 Carson’s

weight.

I	 have	 never	 witnessed	 an	 actual	 fight,	 so	 I	 just

stand	 there	 with	 the	 table	 and	 food	 upturned	 at

my	 feet.

“Do	 you	 want	 to	 rethink	 this	 one,	 Dylan?”

Carson	 growls	 into	 his	 ear.

“Get	 the	 fuck	 off	 me!”	 Dylan	 yel s.	 Dylan’s

pupils	 dilate.	 He	 looks	 angry	 and	 fearful	 at	 the

same	 time.

A	 panic	 rises	 in	 me	 and	 all	 I	 can	 think	 of	 doing

is	 getting	 as	 far	 away	 from	 them	 as	 possible.	 How



211

could	 these	 two	 nice	 people,	 brothers,	 be	 so

violent	 with	 each	 other? 	 I	 turn	 and	 run.	 I	 run	 down

the	 hall	 and	 out	 the	 front	 door.	 I	 fly	 down	 the

porch	 steps	 and	 turn	 towards	 the	 garage.

Imogene	 told	 me	 the	 other	 day	 about	 Barron’s

Creek—a	 nature	 walk	 people	 take—and	 the	 trail

runs	 by	 my	 house.	 She	 said	 that	 if	 I	 went	 beyond

the	 garage	 I	 would	 see	 the	 opening	 for	 the	 dirt	 trail.

The	 sun	 hasn’t	 set	 completely,	 so	 there’s	 stil

enough	 light	 for	 me	 to	 see.	 Bert	 is	 at	 my	 heels,

panting	 and	 trying	 to	 keep	 up.	 He	 stops	 abruptly

when	 I	 find	 the	 opening	 to	 the	 trail	 where	 the	 grass

ends	 and	 the	 forest	 begins.

I	 turn	 to	 him.	 “If	 you’re	 coming	 with	 me,	 let’s

go!”	 He	 sits	 and	 stays	 in	 place.	 “Fine.	 Stay	 with	 the

lunatics.”

I	 take	 the	 trail	 and	 keep	 running.	 The	 rubber

flip-‐flops	 don’t	 provide	 any	 traction	 on	 the	 rocky

path,	 so	 I	 slow	 to	 a	 jog	 and	 keep	 going,	 watching

the	 trees	 break	 the	 light	 of	 the	 setting	 sun.	 After

about	 ten	 minutes,	 I	 slow	 to	 a	 walk	 and	 breathe

heavily.	 The	 panic	 hasn’t	 left	 me;	 I’m	 shaking	 as	 the

mosquitoes	 now	 begin	 descending	 on	 my



212

uncovered	 legs	 and	 arms.	 I	 swat	 them	 away	 and

realize	 I’m	 ful y	 alert,	 there’s	 no	 trace	 of	 the

haziness	 left	 by	 the	 wine.

The	 sound	 of	 a	 babbling	 brook	 becomes	 more

distinct	 and	 then	 I	 see	 the	 wooden	 footbridge

Imogene	 told	 me	 to	 look	 for.	 It’s	 long.	 First	 it	 runs

alongside	 the	 creek	 and	 then	 angles	 across	 the

water	 to	 the	 other	 side.	 I	 step	 on	 the	 bridge	 when	 I

hear	 my	 name	 being	 called.

“Jessica!”	 It’s	 either	 Dylan	 or	 Carson,	 but	 from

this	 distance	 I	 cannot	 decipher	 which	 man	 it

belongs	 to.

I	 walk	 to	 the	 center	 of	 the	 bridge	 and	 debate

with	 continuing	 on	 the	 trail,	 yet	 I	 don’t	 know	 where

it	 leads	 and	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 get	 lost	 in	 these

unknown	 woods	 at	 night.	 I	 lean	 over	 the	 railing	 and

take	 long,	 slow,	 deep	 breaths.	 “Sixty	 Mil ion,	 Forty

Mil ion,	 Seventy	 Million. ”	 I	 repeat	 numbers	 over

and	 over	 to	 myself.	 The	 water	 is	 about	 five	 feet

below	 the	 bridge	 and	 runs	 shallow	 over	 rocks	 and

tree	 limbs.

“Jessica!”	 the	 voice	 shouts.	 He	 is	 at	 the

entrance	 to	 the	 footbridge.	 I	 look	 up,	 trying	 to



213

discern	 if	 it’s	 Carson	 or	 Dylan.	 I	 cannot	 tel ,	 but	 the

voice	 is	 deep,	 so	 I’m	 guessing	 it’s	 Carson.	 If	 I	 keep

running	 in	 the	 other	 direction,	 I	 won’t	 know	 where

to	 go	 and	 he’d	 only	 fol ow	 me,	 so	 I	 stay	 where	 I	 am

as	 the	 figure	 jogs	 towards	 me.	 In	 the	 fog	 of	 twilight

I	 see	 that	 it	 is,	 indeed,	 Carson.	 I	 feel	 the	 vibration

from	 his	 boots	 pounding	 on	 the	 bridge	 and	 in	 a	 few

long	 strides	 he	 is	 by	 my	 side.

“Are	 you	 okay?”	 His	 concern	 and	 thoughtful

expression	 seem	 sincere	 and	 far	 removed	 from	 the

beast	 I	 saw	 in	 the	 kitchen.

“Please	 leave	 me	 alone.”	 I	 keep	 my	 voice	 even.

“I’d	 never	 hurt	 you.”

“I	 don’t	 want	 to	 be	 a	 part	 of	 this.	 Whatever	 is

going	 on	 between	 you	 and	 Dylan,	 it’s	 not	 for	 me.”

He	 comes	 close	 enough	 to	 put	 one	 hand	 on	 the

railing	 in	 front	 of	 me	 and	 his	 other	 hand	 on	 the

back	 of	 my	 neck.	 I	 flinch	 away	 and	 he	 looks	 startled.

“I	 didn’t	 hurt	 Dylan.	 Is	 that	 what	 you	 think?”

“I	 don’t	 understand	 what	 that	 was	 all	 about,”	 I

say	 angrily.	 “You	 knew	 Dylan	 and	 I	 were	 having

dinner	 together	 and	 you	 showed	 up	 to	 goad	 him.

You	 were	 cruel.”



214

“You	 need	 to	 see	 Dylan	 for	 what	 he	 really	 is.”

“What?	 A	 nice	 guy	 who	 is	 helpful	 and	 asks	 me

out?”	 I	 try	 to	 laugh,	 but	 tears	 pool	 at	 the	 corners	 of

my	 eyes.	 I’m	 thankful	 it’s	 getting	 dark	 because,	 I

assume,	 Carson	 can’t	 see	 them.	 He	 is	 relentless,

however,	 and	 steps	 closer	 to	 me	 again,	 closing	 in

on	 my	 safe	 distance.	 Carson	 rakes	 his	 hand	 through

his	 hair,	 trying	 to	 think	 of	 a	 good	 explanation	 to

give	 me.

“Dylan	 is	 a	 nice	 guy.	 You	 know	 I	 love	 my

brother,”	 he	 stammers.

“That	 wasn’t	 love.	 He	 was	 angry	 at	 you	 about

something	 and	 you	 kept	 pushing	 him.	 It	 was	 almost

sadistic.”	 He	 takes	 my	 hand	 and	 I	 jerk	 it	 away.

“Don’t	 touch	 me.”

“Dylan	 has	 some	 serious	 problems	 and	 you

needed	 to	 see	 that,”	 he	 says.

“See	 what?	 Where	 is	 he?	 Did	 you—”

“I	 didn’t	 hurt	 him,	 Jess.	 We	 always	 yel 	 a	 bit,

but	 I	 let	 him	 go	 and	 he	 left.”

“Left	 where?	 He	 went	 home?”



215

“I	 don’t	 know,	 Jess.	 This	 is	 what	 he	 does.	 He

gets	 angry,	 falls	 apart	 and	 leaves.	 Sometimes	 he’s

gone	 for	 a	 while.”

“What	 do	 you	 mean	 ‘we	 always	 yel 	 a	 bit’?	 Do

you	 two	 fight	 like	 this	 a	 lot?	 Is	 this	 a	 regular	 thing;

you	 being	 so	 violent?”

“I’m	 not	 a	 violent	 person,”	 he	 says.

“You	 threw	 your	 two	 hundred	 pound	 brother

to	 the	 floor	 like	 it	 was	 nothing.	 Then	 you	 pinned

him	 like	 a	 wild	 hog.”

“Dylan	 has	 always	 had	 these	 episodes	 and	 I’m

the	 only	 one	 who	 can	 subdue	 him.	 I	 can	 only	 hope

that	 it	 doesn’t	 get	 him	 into	 an	 impossible	 situation

someday.	 I	 worry	 about	 a	 fight	 with	 a	 stranger,

police,	 jail	 time	 or	 worse,	 someone	 uses	 a	 gun

against	 him.”

Carson	 is	 talking	 about	 someone	 else.	 It	 can’t

be	 the	 same	 guy	 I	 have	 a	 mild	 crush	 on;	 the	 guy

who	 is	 playful	 and	 sweet,	 the	 one	 I	 fooled	 around

with	 and	 snuggled	 with	 all	 night	 on	 my	 couch.

Carson	 started	 the	 fight.	 He’s	 the	 bad	 guy	 in	 this.

“You	 can’t	 tel 	 me	 that	 Dylan	 is	 the	 violent	 one,”

I	 say,	 but	 then	 I	 think	 of	 Dylan’s	 red,	 tense	 face



216

with	 a	 protruding	 vein	 at	 his	 temple	 as	 he	 charged

Carson.	 Dylan	 threw	 his	 body	 into	 Carson	 with	 the

intent	 of	 hurting	 him.	 The	 revelation	 must	 have

been	 written	 on	 my	 face.	 I	 look	 up	 into	 Carson’s

worried	 expression,	 my	 mouth	 gaping.

“Dylan	 suffers	 from	 severe	 depression,”

Carson	 says	 slowly.

“Mil ions	 of	 people	 do.	 That	 doesn’t	 make

them	 violent.”

“Dylan	 is	 different.	 This	 started	 after	 our	 mom

died.	 It	 started	 happening	 about	 a	 year	 after	 you

were	 here.	 He	 sunk	 into	 a	 very	 deep	 despair	 over

our	 mother’s	 death.	 His	 depressive	 mood	 swings

increased	 with	 our	 dad’s	 drinking	 and	 absences.”

“Okay,	 so	 Dylan	 suffers	 from	 depression.	 Half

the	 world	 does	 and	 they	 can	 get	 help.”

“He’s	 gotten	 help.	 That’s	 what	 I’m	 trying	 to	 tel

you.	 He	 had	 some	 bad	 episodes	 in	 col ege	 and	 I’d

go	 help	 him.	 He’s	 been	 seeing	 doctors	 since	 he	 was

in	 high	 school.	 He	 was	 doing	 pretty	 wel 	 on

medication,	 but	 the	 spark	 kind	 of	 went	 out	 of	 him.	 I

had	 to	 make	 sure	 he	 took	 his	 medicine.	 Whenever

he	 felt	 good,	 he’d	 take	 himself	 off	 his	 meds	 and



217

then	 he’d	 have	 an	 episode	 like	 what	 you	 saw

tonight;	 where	 he	 can’t	 control	 his	 anger	 and	 he

goes	 into	 a	 rage.	 He’s	 been	 in	 a	 few	 fights	 with	 guys,

but	 mostly	 he	 storms	 out	 and	 disappears.”

“Where	 does	 he	 go?	 Where	 is	 he	 now?”

Carson	 shakes	 his	 head.	 “Now	 that	 he’s	 an

adult,	 it’s	 not	 like	 I	 can	 barricade	 him	 in	 the	 house.

He	 takes	 off	 in	 his	 car,	 sometimes	 for	 days.”

I	 turn	 away	 because	 the	 thought	 of	 crying	 in

front	 of	 Carson	 is	 intolerable.	 My	 back	 is	 to	 him	 as

he	 puts	 his	 hands	 gently	 on	 my	 shoulders.

“I	 was	 afraid	 he	 wouldn’t	 tel 	 you	 and	 that

worried	 me	 because	 I	 could	 see	 you	 two	 becoming

more	 involved.	 He’s	 a	 very	 fragile	 person,	 Jess.”

“That’s	 why	 you	 said	 you	 didn’t	 want	 him	 to

get	 hurt.	 You	 meant	 with	 me.	 He	 could	 fall	 into	 a

depression	 again.”

“I’m	 sorry	 if	 I	 was	 a	 jerk	 about	 it,	 but	 Dylan	 was

never	 serious	 about	 any	 woman	 until	 you	 came

along.	 I	 can’t	 let	 people	 keep	 leaving	 him,	 he	 can’t

handle	 it.”	 Carson’s	 voice	 is	 kind.

“And	 you	 think	 I’d	 leave	 him	 because	 you	 think

the	 odds	 are	 against	 me	 staying	 here.”



218

Carson	 turns	 me	 around.	 “I	 know	 he	 thinks

he’s	 in	 love	 with	 you,	 but	 so	 am–I	 can’t	 let	 him	 get

hurt,”	 he	 says	 more	 forceful y.

“Okay,	 I	 get	 it.	 I	 think.”	 I	 push	 him	 aside	 and

walk	 back	 the	 way	 I	 came.

“Jess,	 wait,”	 Carson	 shouts	 to	 my	 back,	 but	 I

keep	 going.





219





Sixteen



Dylan	 returns	 three	 days	 later.	 I	 have	 no	 idea

where	 he	 went	 and	 I	 don’t	 ask.	 I	 refuse	 his	 calls.	 I

even	 leave	 Carson	 a	 message	 on	 his	 cel 	 phone	 to

hold	 up	 on	 the	 kitchen	 repairs	 and	 appliances	 so	 I

can	 work	 in	 peace.

It’s	 now	 been	 two	 weeks	 and	 I’ve	 done	 nothing

other	 than	 work	 in	 the	 library	 every	 morning,

taking	 calls	 from	 my	 team	 at	 5	 Alpha	 and	 focusing

on	 current	 as	 wel 	 as	 new	 software	 programs.	 Every

afternoon	 I	 take	 a	 walk	 to	 Barron’s	 Creek	 and

beyond.	 Bert	 won’t	 go	 with	 me,	 so	 I	 hike	 for	 a

couple	 of	 hours	 every	 day	 by	 myself,	 going	 further

into	 the	 woods	 and	 climbing	 the	 nearby	 hil s.	 Then,

every	 evening,	 I	 eat	 an	 apple	 and	 some	 ramen	 soup

I	 picked	 up	 in	 bulk	 at	 Target,	 and	 I	 paint	 in	 the

studio	 until	 it’s	 time	 to	 sleep.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 come	 over	 every	 other

day	 when	 their	 diner	 shifts	 permit	 and	 we	 watch



220

movies	 on	 my	 computer	 and	 gab	 about	 everything

except	 Carson	 and	 Dylan.	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 come	 by

several	 times	 to	 help	 me	 clean	 out	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s

closets.	 I	 keep	 the	 good	 jewelry	 and	 some	 vintage

clothing,	 but	 I	 donate	 a	 lot	 of	 other	 items.

After	 we	 finish	 up,	 they	 like	 to	 have	 cold

beverages	 and	 sit	 on	 the	 porch	 while	 our	 pores

steam	 open	 in	 the	 humidity,	 but	 I	 don’t	 mind.	 They

are	 good	 company,	 tel ing	 me	 everything	 about

Hera;	 the	 local	 gossip,	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 life	 and	 their

funny	 stories	 from	 their	 yoga	 classes.	 Apparently,

I’m	 a	 big	 part	 of	 the	 local	 gossip,	 however,	 Lois	 and

Eleanor	 gloss	 over	 that	 part,	 especially	 since	 I	 have

a	 sign	 posted	 on	 the	 front	 door,	 “No	 Blackards

Allowed.”	 Yes,	 it’s	 juvenile,	 but	 effective.	 If	 the	 sign

wasn’t	 there,	 Carson	 and	 Dylan	 would	 let

themselves	 in	 my	 home	 whenever	 they	 please,

using	 a	 repair	 job	 or	 something	 else	 as	 an	 excuse	 to

work	 in	 the	 house.

Carson	 has	 only	 called	 once	 and	 left	 an

apology	 on	 my	 cell	 phone.	 I	 saved	 the	 message	 so	 I

can	 listen	 to	 his	 nice	 voice	 whenever	 I	 want.	 Dylan

calls	 and	 periodically	 leaves	 notes	 or	 flowers	 by	 the



221

front	 door.	 He’s	 sweet	 and	 I	 want	 to	 see	 him.	 I

want	 to	 see	 them	 both,	 but	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 I

should	 be	 doing.

One	 day,	 Carson	 shows	 up	 with	 the	 two

bearded	 fel ows	 from	 the	 shop	 and	 they	 clean	 the

dead	 tree	 and	 branches	 from	 the	 yard.	 I	 watch

them	 from	 the	 library	 window,	 sawing	 the	 tree	 into

smaller	 pieces	 and	 then	 loading	 the	 debris	 onto

two	 separate	 trucks.	 Carson	 glances	 up	 at	 both	 of

the	 windows	 where	 he	 knows	 I	 spend	 most	 of	 my

time,	 the	 library	 and	 the	 studio.	 I	 keep	 my	 head

buried	 between	 the	 monitors	 so	 he	 can’t	 see	 me,

but	 it	 soothes	 me,	 nonetheless,	 to	 have	 him	 near

me.

“Sweet	 mustard	 seeds,”	 Lois	 says	 one

afternoon	 as	 we	 lounge	 on	 the	 porch.	 “How	 long

can	 this	 go	 on?	 You	 can’t	 avoid	 those	 two	 boys

forever.”

“I	 bet	 I	 could	 make	 it	 last	 forever,”	 I	 say.	 “I

have	 incredible	 endurance.	 You	 should	 see	 me

reading	 through	 hours	 and	 hours	 of	 code.	 I’m	 like	 a

stone	 statue.	 I	 could	 do	 it	 forever.”



222

“Why	 would	 you	 want	 to?”	 Eleanor	 asks.

“Honey,	 life	 is	 too	 short	 to	 carry	 the	 hatchet

around	 all	 day.”	 I	 look	 at	 her	 funny.	 “I	 meant	 to	 say

‘life	 is	 too	 short	 not	 to	 bury	 the	 hatchet,’”	 she

explains.

“They	 really	 are	 fine	 young	 men.	 You	 need	 to

work	 this	 out,”	 Lois	 says.

“It’s	 easier	 to	 avoid	 them.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 be

tangled	 up	 in	 their	 messes.”

“Jessica,	 life	 is	 messy.	 People	 are	 messy.	 They

make	 messy	 mistakes	 and	 guess	 what,	 you	 cannot

live	 happily	 without	 people,”	 Eleanor	 says.

“I	 have	 people.	 I	 have	 you	 two,	 I	 have	 Lauren

and	 Imogene,	 and	 Archie	 has	 been	 a	 big	 help	 with

the	 accounting	 and	 taxes,	 and	 I	 have	 my	 friends	 at

5	 Alpha.	 I	 have	 people	 in	 my	 life.”

“Oh,	 sweet	 butter	 biscuits;	 I	 know	 you	 have

friends,	 but	 you	 need	 love,”	 Lois	 says.

“Please,	 I	 dated	 Dylan	 for	 five	 minutes.	 It

wasn’t	 love.	 It	 was	 just	 a	 little	 crush	 and	 now	 it’s

gone.”	 Both	 women	 look	 at	 me	 in	 an	 odd	 way,

bunching	 up	 their	 wrinkled	 faces.	 “It’s	 true.	 Dylan

has	 issues	 and	 he	 kept	 a	 big	 secret	 from	 me.	 I’m



223

doing	 him	 a	 favor	 and	 it	 really	 was	 at	 the	 request	 of

Carson.	 I’m	 doing	 what	 Carson	 wanted	 all	 along.	 He

didn’t	 think	 Dylan	 could	 handle	 dating	 me.	 Me,	 of

all	 people.	 Apparently,	 I’m	 dangerous.”

Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 share	 a	 moment,	 a	 knowing

look	 with	 one	 another.	 I	 pretend	 not	 to	 care	 and

sip	 my	 iced	 tea.

“So,	 everyone	 knows	 I’m	 going	 to	 have	 my

party,”	 Lois	 says.	 “Tomorrow	 night.	 And	 all	 my

friends	 are	 invited.	 That	 includes	 you,	 Jess.	 I	 never

got	 your	 RSVP.

“Sorry	 about	 that.	 Are	 Carson	 and	 Dylan	 going

to	 be	 there?”

“Of	 course.	 You	 can’t	 have	 a	 party	 without	 the

handsome	 Blackard	 crew,”	 Lois	 says.

“You’l 	 have	 to	 figure	 out	 how	 to	 get	 along

with	 them,	 live	 in	 peace	 and	 all	 that	 jazz,”	 Eleanor

says.

“And	 if	 you	 don’t	 come	 to	 my	 party,	 I	 wil 	 be

offended,”	 Lois	 adds.

“Nice,”	 I	 reply.

“Ginnie	 wants	 you	 to	 come	 to	 my	 party.”	 Lois

gives	 me	 a	 scolding	 look.



224

“Oh	 really,	 now	 you	 talk	 to	 the	 dead?”	 I	 raise

my	 eyebrows	 at	 Lois.

“She	 also	 thinks	 it	 would	 be	 very	 nice	 if	 you

brought	 a	 homemade	 key	 lime	 pie,”	 Lois	 tel s	 me.

“I	 don’t	 bake.”

“Gin’s	 secret	 recipe	 is	 in	 the	 recipe	 box	 on	 the

counter.	 It’s	 not	 so	 secret,”	 Lois	 says.

Eleanor	 chuckles.

“I	 can’t	 fol ow	 recipes,	 really,	 I’m	 awful	 at	 it.”

“Then	 I	 suppose	 you’l 	 have	 to	 call	 Dylan.	 He’s

an	 excel ent	 cook	 and	 baker,”	 Lois	 says.	 “Or	 Carson.

He’d	 be	 wil ing	 to	 help	 you.”

“Yeah,	 that’s	 not	 going	 to	 happen.”

Lois	 looks	 deadly	 serious	 at	 me.	 “It	 was	 Gin’s

last	 wish!”

Eleanor	 bursts	 out	 laughing.





225





Seventeen



After	 ignoring	 him	 for	 two	 weeks,	 I	 miss	 Dylan,

or	 maybe	 I	 miss	 the	 opportunity	 I	 could	 have	 with

Dylan.	 Now	 that	 I	 know	 his	 big	 not-‐so-‐secret	 secret,

I’m	 less	 scared.	 I’ve	 spent	 enough	 time

daydreaming	 over	 my	 computer	 monitors,	 thinking

about	 Dylan,	 his	 brother	 bul ying	 him	 and	 his	 sweet

disposition.	 I	 can	 envision	 myself	 being	 with	 Dylan

despite	 his	 issues.	 We	 all	 have	 issues	 and	 maybe	 I

could	 be	 the	 one	 to	 help	 him.	 Perhaps	 my	 presence

wil 	 be	 a	 good	 thing	 for	 Dylan	 and	 I	 could	 fall	 in	 love

with	 him.

He	 has	 left	 flowers	 at	 my	 door	 step	 almost

every	 other	 day	 and	 countless	 messages	 on	 my

phone,	 however,	 now	 I	 can’t	 locate	 him.	 I	 give	 in

and	 call	 Carson	 to	 explain	 about	 Lois’s	 invite	 and

the	 pie	 request	 as	 wel 	 as	 the	 fact	 that	 I	 need	 to

patch	 things	 up	 with	 Dylan,	 at	 least	 to	 the	 extent

that	 we’re	 on	 speaking	 terms.



226

Carson	 arrives	 at	 my	 front	 door	 within	 the

hour.	 He	 has	 bags	 of	 baking	 supplies,	 fresh	 limes

and	 whatever	 else	 I	 rattled	 off	 from	 the	 recipe	 card.

“You	 ready	 to	 do	 this?”	 Carson	 holds	 up	 the

“No	 Blackards	 Al owed”	 paper	 he	 yanked	 down

from	 my	 front	 door	 and	 then	 crumples	 it	 in	 his	 fist.

I	 can	 tel 	 he	 showered	 before	 coming	 over.	 His	 hair

is	 damp	 and	 pushed	 back	 as	 if	 he	 keeps	 running	 his

hands	 through	 the	 wet	 locks.	 He’s	 wearing	 a	 clean

white	 T-‐shirt	 that	 hugs	 his	 muscles	 and	 broad

shoulders	 as	 it	 shows	 off	 his	 tan	 forearms	 and	 face.

He	 smel s	 like	 soap.	 I	 want	 to	 step	 into	 his	 embrace

and	 fold	 myself	 into	 his	 strong	 body,	 but	 it	 isn’t

offered.

“Let’s	 give	 it	 a	 go,”	 I	 answer.

We	 work	 side	 by	 side	 in	 the	 kitchen	 for	 a	 few

hours,	 speaking	 only	 about	 the	 recipe	 along	 with

the	 fixtures	 and	 items	 in	 the	 house	 that	 stil 	 need

to	 be	 repaired.	 We	 don’t	 mention	 Dylan,	 yet	 he’s

there,	 hanging	 between	 us.	 By	 the	 end	 of	 the

evening,	 we’ve	 made	 two	 pies	 that	 look	 like	 they

are	 the	 first	 attempts	 of	 a	 fourth	 grade	 home

economics	 class.



227

“Not	 bad,”	 Carson	 says.

“Not	 great,	 either.	 Think	 they’re	 edible?”

“Who	 cares?	 I’m	 here	 because	 you	 called.	 It’s

nice	 to	 see	 you.”

“It’s	 nice	 to	 see	 you,	 too.	 I	 handled	 that

evening…	 I	 handled	 Dylan	 poorly.	 I	 shouldn’t	 have

run	 off.”

“No.	 I	 handled	 it	 poorly.	 It	 was	 out	 of	 line	 for

me	 to	 put	 that	 kind	 of	 responsibility	 on	 you.”

“Is	 that	 what	 you	 were	 trying	 to	 do?	 Hand	 off

Dylan	 to	 me	 so	 you	 wouldn’t	 have	 to	 watch	 over

him	 anymore?”	 I	 ask.	 “I	 think	 I	 wanted	 you	 to

believe	 that	 I’m	 someone	 who	 is	 capable	 of	 being…

worthy	 of	 being	 with	 Dylan.”

Carson	 tosses	 the	 oven	 mitts	 on	 the	 counter

and	 comes	 closer	 to	 me	 with	 concern	 in	 his	 sharp

blue	 eyes.	 “Jesus,	 no.	 I	 never	 thought	 you	 weren’t

worthy	 of	 being	 with	 Dylan.	 You’re	 too	 good	 for

him.	 I	 was	 worried	 that	 he	 was	 too	 needy	 and	 it

would	 be	 too	 much	 of	 a	 burden	 for	 you.	 And	 I—”

“What?”	 I	 ask,	 studying	 his	 expression.

He	 thinks	 for	 a	 minute	 before	 responding	 with

a	 wel -‐crafted,	 safe	 answer.



228

“You’re	 very	 young,	 Jess.	 Dylan	 does	 not	 have

his	 depression	 under	 control.	 It’s	 not	 something

you	 should	 feel	 obligated	 to	 endure	 or	 try	 to	 fix.

Dylan	 isn’t	 trying	 hard	 enough	 to	 help	 himself,	 so

it’s	 not	 fair	 that	 he	 subjects	 other	 people—you—to

this.”

“That’s	 not	 very	 nice.	 Dylan	 deserves	 help	 with

his	 il ness,	 and	 it	 was	 horrible	 for	 me	 to	 not	 take	 his

calls	 over	 the	 last	 two	 weeks.”

“You	 misunderstand	 me.	 Dylan	 has	 received	 a

great	 deal	 of	 medical	 help	 and	 help	 from	 our

friends.	 He’s	 the	 one	 who	 keeps	 rejecting	 it	 or

taking	 himself	 off	 medication.	 When	 things	 are

good,	 Dylan	 sabotages	 the	 treatment.	 I	 don’t	 want

to	 see	 you	 get	 sucked	 into	 Dylan’s	 emotional

rol ercoaster.”

“You	 can’t	 make	 those	 decisions	 for	 me.	 What

if	 I	 want	 to	 be	 involved?	 What	 if	 I	 like	 him	 so	 much,

I	 want	 to	 help?”

“You	 like	 him	 that	 much?”	 Carson	 mumbles

and	 runs	 his	 hand	 slowly	 through	 his	 hair.	 It	 falls	 in

lanky	 spikes	 around	 his	 face.	 I	 can	 tel 	 he	 is	 worried

as	 he	 casts	 his	 eyes	 down	 before	 taking	 both	 of	 my



229

hands	 in	 his.	 “Dylan’s	 feelings	 for	 you	 are	 real,	 even

if	 he	 might	 blow	 them	 out	 of	 proportion.	 It’s	 part	 of

his	 nature	 to	 be	 overly	 dramatic,	 high	 on	 life,

before	 he	 crashes.	 It’s	 a	 horrible	 thing	 to	 watch,	 it’s

even	 worse	 to	 be	 a…	 don’t	 take	 this	 the	 wrong

way…	 a	 pawn	 in	 his	 game	 of	 life.”

That	 hurts.	 I	 try	 to	 pul 	 my	 hands	 from	 his,	 but

he	 grips	 them	 tighter.	 “I’m	 sorry,”	 he	 says.	 “That

came	 out	 wrong.	 Dylan	 doesn’t	 intentionally	 use

people,	 but	 he	 becomes	 attached	 in	 an	 unhealthy

way	 and	 they	 become	 like	 accessories	 for	 him.	 I

know	 that	 I	 sound	 mean,	 but	 I’m	 trying	 to	 explain

that	 Dylan	 doesn’t	 realize	 what	 he’s	 doing.	 He

doesn’t	 see	 what	 we	 see.	 He’s	 an	 emotional

tornado	 that	 grabs	 everything	 that	 isn’t	 tied	 down

and	 pul s	 them	 into	 the	 eye	 of	 the	 Dylan	 storm	 and

tosses	 them	 around	 like	 a	 rag	 dol .	 I’d	 hate	 myself	 if

he	 did	 that	 to	 you.”

“I	 thought	 you	 were	 worried	 about	 me	 hurting

Dylan.	 You	 thought	 I	 was	 a	 lousy	 influence,”	 I	 say,

letting	 him	 hold	 my	 hands	 longer.

“I	 was	 hoping	 to	 discourage	 a	 relationship

between	 you	 two,	 to	 avoid	 this	 very	 scenario.”



230

“Sixty-‐five	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 myself.

“Are	 you	 scared?”	 Carson	 asks.	 “You	 whisper

larger	 figures	 when	 you’re	 anxious	 about

something.”

“How	 do	 you	 know	 that?	 I	 don’t	 think	 I’ve	 even

made	 the	 connection	 between	 my	 emotional	 state

and	 my	 whispering,”	 I	 say,	 perplexed.

“Like	 I	 told	 you	 before,	 you	 did	 that	 when	 you

were	 a	 kid,	 usually	 when	 you	 were	 worried	 about

something.	 Then	 I	 noticed	 it	 again	 when	 you	 first

arrived	 here	 a	 month	 ago,	 you	 did	 it	 all	 the	 time.

It’s	 not	 hard	 to	 connect	 the	 dots.”

“Sometimes	 you	 amaze	 me,	 Carson	 Blackard.”

I	 begin	 to	 smile.

He	 seems	 pleased	 when	 I	 say	 that.

“This	 is	 not	 the	 Carson	 I	 met	 in	 Archie’s	 office

on	 my	 first	 day.	 You	 barged	 by	 me	 like	 I	 was

nobody.”

“Oh,	 I	 knew	 who	 you	 were.	 Believe	 me,	 the

minute	 I	 saw	 you	 outside	 Archie’s	 office,	 everything

I	 knew	 about	 Jessica	 Channing	 was	 bombarding	 my

brain.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 how	 it	 would	 affect	 me	 to	 see

you	 in	 person	 again	 after	 so	 many	 years.	 I	 was—”



231

“Were	 we	 like	 a	 family	 that	 one	 summer?”	 I

query	 excitedly.	 My	 mind	 is	 racing	 with

explanations.	 I	 don’t	 let	 Carson	 respond.	 “Is	 that

why	 Dylan	 latched	 on	 to	 me?	 When	 you	 saw	 me,

did	 it	 feel	 like	 a	 long	 lost	 sister	 was	 returning

home?”	 I	 sound	 very	 hopeful,	 like	 someone	 who

always	 wanted	 siblings.

Carson	 grips	 my	 hands	 tighter	 and	 pul s	 me

into	 his	 chest	 then	 looks	 down	 at	 me	 with

exasperation.	 “Not	 once	 have	 I	 thought	 of	 you	 as

my	 sister.	 Do	 not	 confuse	 me	 with	 someone	 you

think	 is	 like	 a	 brother.”	 Ouch.	 He’s	 tough.

We’re	 so	 close	 our	 eyes	 are	 inches	 apart.	 I	 can

see	 a	 thin	 white	 scar	 by	 his	 ear	 which	 is	 hidden	 by	 a

lock	 of	 hair.	 My	 gaze	 drops	 from	 his	 magnificent

eyes	 to	 his	 seductive	 lips.	 Carson	 doesn’t	 have	 the

adorable	 cuteness	 of	 Dylan;	 he’s	 a	 bundle	 of	 steely

masculinity	 with	 little	 interest	 or	 talent	 in	 being	 a

playful	 flirt	 like	 Dylan.	 Yet	 I	 am	 naïve	 and

presumptuous,	 entertaining	 such	 ideas	 that	 Carson

could	 ever	 take	 an	 interest	 in	 me.	 He	 is	 merely

putting	 me	 in	 my	 place,	 prompting	 me	 to	 stay	 on

track	 with	 his	 goal	 of	 helping	 and	 protecting	 his



232

brother.	 He	 must	 have	 taken	 my	 reaction	 as

discomfort	 because	 he	 loosens	 his	 grip	 and	 then

lets	 go	 of	 me	 altogether.

“Your	 aunt	 talked	 about	 you	 plenty.	 I	 knew

what	 you	 looked	 like	 in	 junior	 high,	 high	 school,

and	 I	 saw	 enough	 photos	 of	 you	 from	 col ege	 to

know	 exactly	 who	 you	 were	 when	 I	 walked	 into

Archie’s	 office.	 Whatever	 your	 aunt	 had	 in	 private

photos,	 she	 had	 more	 in	 public	 documents.	 Things

that	 Archie	 would	 find	 on	 the	 Internet;	 school

achievements,	 awards,	 anything	 and	 everything.”

“How	 did	 she	 get	 all	 these	 photos	 of	 me?	 Did

my	 mother	 send	 them?”

“Hel ,	 no.	 Gin’s	 relationship	 with	 your	 parents

was	 so	 fucked	 up.	 Sorry.	 Gin	 hired	 a	 private

detective	 to	 keep	 tabs	 on	 you.”

“Seriously?”

“You	 lived	 in	 New	 York	 City,	 isn’t	 that	 the

perfect	 place	 to	 have	 someone	 fol owed	 without

them	 ever	 knowing?”

“True,	 tourists	 with	 cameras	 are	 everywhere.	 A

man	 or	 woman	 carrying	 a	 ful -‐size	 SLR	 camera

wouldn’t	 turn	 a	 head.	 They	 could	 be	 a	 tourist,	 a



233

journalist,	 a	 TV	 crew,	 a	 crime	 scene	 photographer.

Hmm.	 Weird.”

“We	 should	 get	 going	 soon.”	 Carson	 begins

clearing	 the	 counters	 and	 putting	 dirty	 dishes	 in	 the

sink.

His	 fluctuating	 moods	 keep	 my	 mind

preoccupied	 while	 we	 clean	 the	 kitchen.	 One

minute	 he’s	 very	 attentive,	 sometimes	 thoughtful

like	 his	 brother	 and	 then	 the	 next	 minute	 he’s

scolding	 me	 like	 I’m	 a	 misbehaving	 child.	 It	 occurs

to	 me	 that	 he	 is	 torn	 between	 accepting	 me	 as	 an

adult	 now	 and	 maintaining	 some	 kind	 of

guardianship	 over	 Dylan	 and	 his	 il ness	 without

driving	 his	 brother	 away.	 That	 seems	 to	 be	 the	 crux

of	 it	 all.

I	 have	 to	 accept	 Carson’s	 words	 as	 truth.	 I

know	 so	 little	 about	 him,	 but	 if	 he’s	 tel ing	 me	 that

Dylan	 suffers	 from	 serious	 bouts	 of	 depression	 and

erratic	 behavior,	 then	 I	 have	 to	 honor	 Carson’s

wishes.	 His	 brother	 has	 an	 il ness	 and	 I	 can	 either

be	 a	 hindrance	 or	 a	 help	 with	 his	 wel being.	 If

Carson	 is	 attempting	 to	 scare	 me	 away	 with	 the



234

reality	 of	 Dylan’s	 prognosis,	 then	 Carson	 knows	 less

about	 me	 than	 he	 thinks.

I	 may	 be	 a	 late	 bloomer	 when	 it	 comes	 to

relationships	 and	 people	 in	 general,	 however,	 in

my	 short	 time	 here,	 I	 have	 developed	 some

feelings	 for	 Dylan.	 At	 first,	 I	 thought	 it	 was	 a	 crush,

falling	 for	 a	 handsome	 guy	 that	 I	 thought	 was	 out

of	 my	 league,	 although	 to	 be	 fair	 to	 myself,	 I	 am	 a

cautious	 person	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 men.

Being	 much	 younger	 than	 my	 classmates	 and

work	 col eagues	 has	 taught	 me	 to	 be	 careful	 when

it	 comes	 to	 deciphering	 the	 overtures	 of	 men.

Youth	 has	 worked	 against	 me	 in	 the	 arena	 of	 love

and	 I	 have	 had	 to	 deal	 with	 a	 greater	 learning	 curve

than	 most	 women.

When	 I	 replay	 the	 scenes	 with	 Dylan	 over	 in

my	 mind,	 as	 wel 	 as	 Carson’s	 revelation	 about

Dylan,	 they	 have	 made	 me	 see	 this	 serendipitous

moment	 for	 what	 it	 is.	 Dylan	 does	 care	 about	 me

and	 Carson	 is	 making	 it	 clear	 that	 he	 sees	 me	 as	 an

adult,	 not	 a	 child;	 a	 woman	 mature	 enough	 to	 be

with	 Dylan	 and	 to	 help	 him.	 I’m	 sure	 I	 can	 love

Dylan	 or	 rather,	 I	 can	 let	 myself	 fall	 in	 love.



235

I	 watch	 Carson’s	 back	 as	 he	 does	 the	 dishes

while,	 at	 the	 same	 time,	 I	 formulate	 a	 new	 resolve

to	 be	 a	 different	 woman,	 a	 stronger	 person.

“You	 okay	 there?”	 Carson	 asks,	 watching	 me

daydream	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 drying	 a	 mixing	 bowl.

I	 step	 towards	 him	 to	 hand	 off	 the	 bowl,

catching	 one	 rubber	 flip-‐flop	 on	 top	 of	 the	 other

and	 stumbling	 right	 into	 him.	 Carson	 catches	 me	 in

a	 tight	 grip	 as	 the	 metal	 bowl	 clangs	 across	 the

floor.

“Barnacles!”	 I	 exclaim.

He	 laughs.	 “Yeah,	 you’re	 real	 fine.”	 He	 holds

me	 tightly	 and	 pul s	 me	 back	 up.	 “You	 need	 to	 wear

real	 shoes	 or	 you’re	 going	 to	 get	 injured	 in	 your

own	 home.”

Home.

“Yeah,	 yeah.”	 I	 laugh	 and	 push	 away	 from	 his

grasp.

I	 could	 berate	 myself	 over	 and	 over	 for	 getting

gushy	 over	 a	 man	 saving	 me,	 but	 I	 have	 to	 look	 at

Carson	 in	 a	 new	 light.	 I	 need	 him	 as	 a	 friend

because	 he’s	 right.	 I	 have	 a	 new	 home,	 new	 friends

and	 a	 potential	 new	 man	 that	 is	 good	 despite



236

coming	 with	 some	 baggage.	 After	 all,	 who	 doesn’t

have	 some	 type	 of	 baggage?	 I	 have	 two	 critical,

demanding	 parents	 that	 repel	 my	 friends,	 I	 have	 a

job	 that	 bores	 the	 bejeezus	 out	 of	 anyone	 who	 asks

me	 about	 it,	 and	 socially	 I’m	 not	 known	 for	 my

exciting	 affairs.	 I	 was	 the	 nerdy	 wallflower	 who

happened	 to	 inherit	 a	 couple	 of	 good	 genes;	 pretty

and	 smart.	 It’s	 time	 to	 make	 good	 on	 them.

Before	 we	 leave	 for	 Lois’s	 party,	 I	 take	 a	 quick

shower	 and	 change	 into	 a	 summer	 dress.	 Carson

waits	 impatiently	 downstairs	 so	 there’s	 no	 time	 for

make-‐up	 or	 taming	 my	 hair.

My	 dress	 twirls	 up	 over	 my	 thighs	 as	 I	 run

barefoot	 down	 the	 stairs.	 Carson	 lets	 out	 a	 low

whistle,	 so	 I	 quickly	 brush	 the	 linen	 fabric	 down

with	 my	 hands	 to	 cover	 myself	 up,	 although	 it’s	 not

anything	 he	 hasn’t	 seen	 before.

“Nice	 legs,”	 he	 says	 in	 a	 sexy	 voice	 that	 I	 don’t

think	 was	 intentional.

I	 wil 	 just	 have	 to	 accept	 that	 I	 view	 Carson	 as	 a

lusty	 man.	 Every	 time	 he	 speaks	 to	 me	 or	 flips	 his

hammer	 in	 his	 hands,	 I	 think	 everything	 about	 his

body	 and	 gruff	 personality	 exudes	 a	 dynamic



237

masculinity.	 I	 look	 away	 from	 him	 and	 search	 for

my	 dressy	 sandals	 in	 the	 hall	 closet.

“I	 can	 drive	 myself	 to	 Lois’s	 house.	 That	 way

you	 can	 go	 home	 and	 change,”	 I	 offer.

“Change?	 Why	 do	 I	 want	 to	 change?”	 Carson’s

holding	 both	 pies	 and	 his	 keys.

“Because	 it’s	 a	 party.	 Don’t	 you	 want	 to	 look

nice?”

“We’re	 not	 going	 to	 a	 ball.	 This	 is	 how	 I	 always

look.	 I	 think	 everyone	 is	 used	 to	 me	 as	 I	 am,”	 he

says.	 “Why?	 Do	 you	 think	 I	 look	 bad?”

Of	 course	 not.	 He	 is	 splendid.	 However,	 I	 can’t

arrive	 at	 the	 party	 with	 Carson	 if	 I	 want	 to	 see

Dylan.

It’s	 as	 if	 Carson	 can	 read	 my	 thoughts	 as	 I	 bite

my	 lip	 and	 ponder	 the	 situation.	 “It’s	 fine,”	 he	 says

rather	 forceful y.	 “This	 isn’t	 a	 date	 and	 no	 one	 wil

think	 it	 is,	 so	 don’t	 worry;	 we	 can	 go	 together.”

“I’m	 not	 worried	 what	 other	 people	 think,”	 I

say	 in	 a	 huff.	 I	 lock	 the	 front	 door	 and	 take	 one	 of

the	 pies	 from	 him.	 I	 walk	 rapidly	 to	 his	 truck	 with

him	 right	 on	 my	 heels.	 Seriously,	 I	 feel	 like	 one	 of

his	 big	 boots	 is	 going	 to	 crush	 me.



238

The	 pies	 are	 stil 	 warm	 as	 they	 rest	 in	 my	 lap,

making	 me	 perspire	 even	 more.	 We	 ride	 in	 silence

as	 I	 resist	 the	 urge	 to	 glance	 over	 at	 Carson.	 I

suspect	 he’s	 aware	 of	 my	 plan	 to	 renew	 my

interest	 in	 Dylan.	 If	 Carson	 thought	 he’d	 sway	 me

otherwise,	 his	 strategy	 has	 done	 the	 opposite.	 I’m

eager	 to	 see	 Dylan	 and	 I’m	 pretty	 sure	 that	 Carson

is	 on	 to	 me.	 His	 deep	 sighs	 periodically	 break	 the

quiet	 tension.

I	 laugh	 to	 myself.	 I	 have	 the	 world’s	 laziest	 dog,

Hangover,	 I	 have	 a	 quasi-‐boyfriend	 who	 is	 too	 cute

and	 unstable	 for	 his	 own	 good— Hotty—and	 my

new	 protector	 or	 guardian,	 who	 I	 can	 only	 think	 of

as	 Lusty.	 What	 a	 cast	 of	 characters.





239





Eighteen



“Why	 are	 you	 so	 jumpy?”	 Carson	 asks	 when

we	 pul 	 in	 on	 the	 grassy	 area	 where	 everyone	 else

has	 parked	 in	 front	 of	 Lois’s	 quaint	 farmhouse.

There	 are	 guests	 mil ing	 around	 the	 front

porch	 and	 admiring	 the	 gardens	 around	 the	 side	 of

the	 house.	 I	 search	 the	 unrecognizable	 faces.

“He’l 	 be	 here,”	 Carson	 says	 harshly.

“I	 didn’t	 say	 anything.”

“I	 know,	 but	 you’re	 jittery	 as	 all	 hel .	 Dylan	 wil

be	 here.”	 Carson	 slams	 his	 door	 before	 walking

around	 the	 truck	 to	 meet	 me	 by	 my	 door.	 I’m	 not

moving	 towards	 the	 house;	 I’m	 frozen	 there,

holding	 two	 pies.

“How	 do	 you	 know?	 I	 wasn’t	 very	 nice	 to	 him

the	 last	 few	 weeks.	 I	 wouldn’t	 even	 speak	 to	 him.”

“He’s	 not	 angry	 at	 you,”	 Carson	 reassures	 me.

“He	 blames	 me	 for	 coming	 between	 you	 two,	 but



240

even	 then,	 Dylan	 is	 a	 very	 forgiving	 guy.	 Even	 on	 his

worst	 day,	 he	 doesn’t	 hold	 grudges.”

“Good.	 I’m	 going	 to	 give	 Lois	 the	 pies	 and	 look

for	 Dylan.”	 I	 head	 for	 the	 party	 without	 waiting	 for

him,	 though	 I	 do	 hear	 him	 utter	 a	 terse	 “fine”

behind	 me.

I	 make	 my	 way	 through	 the	 crowded	 porch

and	 living	 room,	 nodding	 to	 people	 who	 say	 hel o.	 I

am	 searching	 for	 Lois	 so	 I	 can	 hand	 off	 these	 damn

pies,	 but	 I’m	 really	 looking	 for	 any	 sign	 of	 a	 head

with	 golden	 curls,	 any	 sign	 of	 Dylan.	 Lois	 comes	 out

of	 the	 kitchen	 and	 puts	 out	 her	 two	 hands,

reaching	 for	 my	 pies.

“Look	 at	 you!	 How	 pretty	 you	 are!	 I’l 	 take

these	 to	 the	 buffet	 table,”	 she	 greets.	 “Where’s

Carson?”

“He’s	 not	 far	 behind.	 Probably	 on	 the	 porch	 or

out	 in	 that	 living	 room	 crowd,”	 I	 answer,	 my	 head

bobbing	 around,	 looking	 for	 Dylan.

“Oh,”	 Lois	 starts.	 “Well…”

“Wel ,	 what?”

“Didn’t	 you	 come	 with	 Carson?”



241

“Yes.	 We	 made	 the	 pies	 together	 and	 he	 drove

me	 over	 here.”

She	 looks	 pleased	 at	 that	 and	 then	 I	 realize	 she

assumes	 I’m	 with	 Carson.

“We’re	 not	 on	 a	 date,	 Lois.	 Carson	 was	 my

ride.”

“Okay,	 dear.”	 Lois	 sighs.

“Have	 you	 seen	 Dylan?”

“I	 think	 he	 may	 be	 out	 mil ing	 around	 the

garden,”	 she	 answers,	 sounding	 disappointed.

Lois’s	 garden	 on	 the	 side	 of	 the	 house	 isn’t

your	 average	 sprinkling	 of	 flower	 plots.	 The	 area	 of

the	 garden	 is	 vast,	 covering	 much	 more	 land	 than

her	 home.	 The	 entrance	 of	 the	 garden	 is	 adorned

with	 abstract	 stone	 sculptures	 and	 white	 fairy	 lights

wired	 through	 the	 trees	 and	 hedges.

I	 enter	 the	 sanctuary	 and	 am	 immediately

dazzled	 by	 what	 I	 see.	 A	 magnificent,	 old	 fountain

lights	 up	 in	 muted	 shades	 of	 pink	 arches	 of	 water

over	 its	 three	 tiers.	 The	 fountain	 is	 the	 focal	 point

and	 large	 enough	 that	 twenty	 people	 could	 climb	 in

it	 if	 they	 got	 drunk	 enough	 and	 daringly	 stupid.	 I

imagine	 my	 old	 roommates	 Kate	 and	 Marissa	 doing



242

this.	 I	 realize	 then	 that	 in	 my	 mind	 I	 have	 referred

to	 them	 as	 my	 old	 roommates.	 Have	 I	 decided	 to

stay	 in	 Hera?

Various	 garden	 paths	 lead	 away	 from	 the

fountain	 where	 different	 beds	 of	 roses	 and	 lilies

are	 in	 abundance.	 There	 are	 also	 a	 number	 of

herbal	 plots	 that	 send	 an	 aromatic	 blend	 of

lavender	 and	 thyme	 across	 the	 pleasant	 evening	 air.

I	 can’t	 see	 the	 entire	 garden	 from	 the	 entrance,	 it’s

too	 large.	 The	 paths	 go	 off	 into	 hidden	 areas	 where

other	 party	 guests	 have	 settled	 themselves	 on

stone	 benches	 or	 delightful	 antique	 swings.	 I	 can’t

see	 everyone,	 but	 I	 can	 hear	 laughter	 and

conversation	 rise	 up	 from	 the	 tall	 hedges	 that

create	 a	 wonderful	 mystery	 maze.

I	 begin	 to	 roam	 the	 gravel	 path,	 looking	 for	 the

familiar	 face	 I	 am	 so	 desperate	 to	 see.	 Dylan.	 The

thought	 of	 his	 beautiful	 smile	 looking	 down	 on	 me

and	 his	 strong	 arms	 wrapped	 around	 me	 sounds

like	 the	 best	 antidote	 to	 my	 sexless	 life.	 Maybe	 he’s

not	 just	 another	 playboy	 and	 he	 actually	 has

feelings	 for	 me.	 Maybe	 it	 doesn’t	 even	 matter.	 I

want	 to	 be	 with	 him,	 I	 need	 to	 be	 with	 someone.



243

It’s	 safe	 to	 assume	 it’s	 lust,	 but	 my	 gut	 tel s	 me	 that

I	 can	 get	 closer	 to	 Dylan	 if	 I	 try	 and	 perhaps	 a

relationship	 with	 him	 is	 worth	 pursuing	 after	 all.

I	 eagerly	 turn	 a	 corner	 into	 a	 secluded	 alcove

of	 arched	 tree	 branches	 over	 a	 marble	 sculpture

that	 looks	 like	 some	 Greek	 god.	 As	 I	 consider	 how

much	 planning	 and	 work	 went	 into	 this	 spectacular

garden,	 I	 hear	 a	 twig	 snap	 and	 the	 sound	 of

crunching	 gravel	 nearby,	 so	 I	 look	 behind	 me.

“Hey,”	 Dylan	 says.	 His	 voice	 is	 low	 and

tentative.

I	 stare	 at	 him	 for	 a	 moment;	 first	 because	 I’m

surprised	 to	 see	 him	 after	 realizing	 that	 I	 did	 miss

him	 over	 the	 last	 two	 weeks,	 and	 second,	 because

he	 is	 shockingly	 handsome.	 His	 curly	 hair	 looks

blonder	 and	 he’s	 definitely	 tanner,	 so	 he	 must	 have

spent	 a	 lot	 of	 time	 in	 the	 outdoors	 while	 we	 were

apart.

He	 steps	 into	 the	 alcove	 with	 me	 where	 we	 are

alone;	 far	 removed	 from	 the	 other	 guests	 and	 the

musicians	 that	 have	 begun	 performing	 some	 joyful

Mozart	 sonatas.



244

“Lois	 has	 really	 outdone	 herself	 with	 this

garden,”	 I	 say,	 my	 hands	 fumbling	 at	 my	 sides.

Dylan	 smiles	 and	 looks	 relieved.	 “It	 took	 her	 a

few	 years	 and	 a	 lot	 of	 arguments	 with	 architects

and	 landscapers	 to	 get	 to	 this.”

I	 wonder	 how	 I	 can	 continue	 to	 be

overwhelmed	 by	 his	 sweet	 beauty	 when	 I	 seem	 to

have	 the	 same	 thoughts	 about	 Carson’s	 lustiness.	 I

have	 never	 been	 like	 this	 with	 any	 other	 guys.	 I

could	 have	 a	 mild	 crush	 or	 interest	 in	 someone	 in

the	 morning	 and	 by	 lunch,	 I’d	 write	 them	 off	 as	 a

dope.	 Am	 I	 simply	 so	 inexperienced	 in	 love	 and

relationships	 that	 I	 crumble	 when	 I’m	 around	 these

two	 brothers?	 I’m	 all	 nerves	 and	 adrenaline	 with

Dylan	 standing	 before	 me	 and	 it’s	 only	 Dylan	 and

Carson	 that	 do	 this	 to	 me.	 There’s	 no	 future	 with

Carson,	 he’s	 made	 it	 clear	 that	 he’s	 around	 to	 make

sure	 Dylan	 and	 I	 don’t	 screw	 up	 our	 lives.	 Dylan	 is

around	 because	 he	 and	 I	 have	 an	 unmistakable

attraction	 to	 one	 another.

“I	 owe	 you	 an	 apology.”	 I	 find	 it	 difficult	 to	 look

into	 his	 soft	 eyes	 without	 feeling	 a	 stab	 of	 guilt.

“No,	 you	 don’t.”	 He	 smiles.



245

“It	 was	 horrible	 of	 me	 not	 to	 take	 your	 phone

calls.	 I	 could	 have	 answered	 the	 door,	 too.	 I	 was

rude.	 Thank	 you	 for	 all	 the	 flowers	 you	 sent.	 They

were	 beautiful.”

“Lois	 cut	 them	 from	 her	 garden.	 I	 kept	 running

to	 Target	 to	 buy	 more	 vases	 so	 I	 could	 leave	 them

at	 your	 door.”	 He	 laughs	 and	 the	 sparkle	 is	 back	 in

his	 eyes.

I	 step	 forward,	 wrap	 my	 hands	 around	 his	 neck

to	 pul 	 him	 down	 into	 a	 kiss	 and	 he	 responds

without	 pause.	 His	 soft	 lips	 on	 mine	 and	 his	 tongue

circling	 in	 my	 mouth	 make	 my	 desire	 more	 intense,

so	 I	 press	 firmly	 into	 him,	 aggressively	 searching	 for

what	 I	 was	 missing.	 Dylan	 reacts	 with	 the	 same

vigorous	 force	 as	 though	 we	 can’t	 get	 close	 enough

to	 one	 another.	 One	 of	 his	 hands	 travels	 up	 my

back	 and	 positions	 securely	 on	 my	 shoulder	 blade

as	 he	 works	 his	 kisses	 down	 to	 my	 neck	 and	 bare

col arbone.

I	 wish	 I	 were	 the	 kind	 of	 person	 who	 could

drop	 all	 inhibitions	 for	 once	 and	 tumble	 to	 the

ground	 with	 Dylan,	 pul ing	 each	 other’s	 clothes	 off.

I	 have	 a	 dreadful,	 nagging	 inner	 voice	 that	 warns



246

me	 of	 being	 reckless,	 though.	 I	 push	 the	 nag	 aside.

For	 once	 I	 want	 to	 be	 recklessly	 in	 love,	 I	 want	 to

be	 naked	 against	 him.	 The	 hardness	 from	 his	 groin

strains	 against	 his	 pants	 and	 presses	 against	 me

while	 my	 nipples	 spring	 into	 rigid	 nubs	 as	 his	 hand

fondles	 my	 breasts.

“I	 didn’t	 see	 your	 Jeep.	 Did	 you	 drive	 here?’	 I

ask	 between	 heavy	 breaths.

“Yes,”	 Dylan	 says	 wickedly	 into	 my	 ear	 before

sucking	 on	 the	 lobe.

“Let’s	 go	 to	 my	 house.	 Now.”

“Yes,”	 he	 says	 again,	 pul ing	 away.	 “Now.”

He	 takes	 me	 by	 the	 hand	 and	 leads	 me	 out	 of

the	 garden	 maze.	 We	 don’t	 stop	 to	 chat	 or	 even

say	 hel o	 to	 people	 who	 smile	 as	 we	 stalk	 by	 as	 fast

as	 we	 can.	 When	 we	 pass	 the	 front	 porch,	 I	 see

someone	 turn	 from	 a	 group	 of	 men	 who	 are

laughing	 loudly.	 It’s	 Carson	 who	 watches	 Dylan

settle	 me	 into	 the	 passenger	 side	 of	 the	 Jeep.	 I	 look

down	 and	 pretend	 I	 haven’t	 noticed	 him,	 but	 as	 we

drive	 away,	 I	 look	 back	 up	 directly	 into	 Carson’s

unreadable	 gaze.





247





Nineteen



My	 bedroom	 is	 stifling.	 Dylan	 races	 around	 and

opens	 the	 windows.	 He	 shuts	 off	 the	 overhead	 light

and	 turns	 on	 a	 small	 antique	 lamp	 on	 the	 dresser

that	 gives	 off	 a	 yel ow	 glow.	 He	 also	 shoos	 Bert	 out

of	 the	 bedroom	 and	 closes	 the	 door.	 I	 hear	 a	 click

as	 he	 locks	 it.	 I	 stand	 by	 the	 side	 of	 the	 bed,	 excited

and	 feeling	 sil y	 at	 the	 same	 time.	 Dylan	 strides

toward	 me,	 pulling	 off	 his	 T-‐shirt	 in	 one	 fast	 move.

He’s	 walking	 and	 removing	 his	 jeans	 at	 the	 same

time.	 I’m	 impressed	 with	 his	 cheetah-‐like	 reflexes

and	 watch	 him	 as	 if	 it’s	 a	 private	 show	 for	 me.

In	 seconds	 he	 stands	 before	 me	 in	 his	 briefs

and	 begins	 removing	 my	 dress,	 which	 happens	 in

the	 blink	 of	 an	 eye.	 Then	 we	 are	 there,	 together	 in

the	 darkened	 room,	 with	 romantic	 lighting,	 sheer

curtains	 bil owing	 in	 the	 light	 warm	 breeze	 and	 the

two	 of	 us	 stripped	 down	 to	 our	 underwear.



248

Dylan	 towers	 over	 me,	 solid,	 thick	 muscles,

making	 him	 look	 like	 he	 has	 been	 created	 to

resemble	 the	 perfect	 Romanesque	 sculpture.	 He

puts	 his	 hands	 on	 either	 side	 of	 my	 arms	 and	 waits

for	 me.	 I	 unfasten	 the	 front	 clasp	 of	 my	 lace	 bra

and	 wriggle	 out	 of	 it.	 Dylan’s	 hands	 slide	 down	 my

arms	 and	 cup	 my	 breasts.	 The	 excitement	 of	 his

touch	 sends	 a	 tremor	 down	 to	 my	 center	 where	 a

tingling	 sensation	 torments	 me.

I	 really	 have	 no	 interest	 in	 long,	 slow	 foreplay.

I’ve	 waited	 too	 long	 for	 this	 and	 Dylan	 is	 the

perfect	 candidate	 to	 take	 my	 virginity.

“I	 can’t	 keep	 waiting.”	 I	 yank	 Dylan	 by	 the

hands	 so	 he	 falls	 with	 me	 onto	 the	 bed.	 He	 is	 on

top	 of	 me	 and	 laughs	 as	 he	 leans	 on	 one	 arm	 and

pul s	 off	 his	 briefs.	 I	 wriggle	 beneath	 him	 and	 pul

off	 my	 lace	 panties.

Even	 in	 the	 dim	 light,	 we	 can	 see	 each	 other’s

bodies	 perfectly.	 My	 fair	 skin	 against	 his	 enormous

erection	 instinctively	 makes	 me	 open	 my	 legs	 and

pul 	 my	 hips	 up	 so	 my	 thighs	 can	 wrap	 around	 him.

“Oh	 God,”	 he	 says,	 looking	 down	 at	 me.	 He

reaches	 for	 the	 nightstand	 where	 he	 has	 tossed	 a



249

couple	 of	 condoms	 when	 he	 came	 in.	 He	 moves

quickly	 to	 open	 one	 and	 put	 it	 on.	 I	 don’t	 know

whether	 to	 be	 impressed	 by	 his	 speed	 or

concerned	 with	 his	 skil 	 and	 dexterity	 at	 doing	 it

with	 one	 hand.	 How	 many	 times	 has	 this	 guy	 been

in	 a	 condom	 emergency?	 How	 many	 women	 has	 he

slept	 with	 or	 should	 I	 call	 it	 what	 it	 is,	 fucking?

We	 kiss	 and	 I	 run	 my	 tongue	 over	 and	 under

his	 teeth.	 I	 want	 to	 bite	 him,	 but	 I	 manage	 to

contain	 myself.	 I	 feel	 his	 arms	 hitching	 underneath

my	 knees	 pushing	 them	 up	 higher.	 I’m	 a	 little

worried.	 I	 have	 no	 experience	 to	 really	 base	 this	 on,

however,	 Dylan	 is	 a	 tall	 man,	 his	 penis	 seems

unusually	 large	 and	 I	 don’t	 see	 how	 he	 can	 fit	 inside

of	 me.	 I	 glance	 down	 as	 he	 rubs	 against	 me,	 making

me	 wetter.	 He	 looks	 into	 my	 eyes	 as	 if	 sensing	 my

nervousness.

“Don’t	 worry.	 I’l 	 be	 gentle,	 the	 first	 time,”	 he

says	 and	 then	 smiles.	 He’s	 joking,	 making	 light	 that

we’l 	 have	 several	 rounds	 of	 sex.	 I	 wonder	 if	 that’s	 a

line	 men	 always	 use	 with	 women,	 pretending	 they

have	 to	 tone	 down	 their	 superhero	 sex	 powers	 so

they	 don’t	 hurt	 the	 little	 lady.	 He	 has	 no	 idea	 that



250

his	 first	 time	 with	 me	 is	 my	 first	 time	 ever,	 and	 I’m

a	 little	 too	 nervous	 to	 appreciate	 his	 Thor	 humor.

We	 kiss	 again.	 This	 time	 it	 becomes	 more

frantic	 as	 Dylan	 rubs	 himself	 against	 my	 soft,	 wet

folds.	 I	 groan,	 never	 having	 been	 this	 close.	 Then	 I

reach	 down	 and	 replace	 his	 hand	 with	 mine.	 His

hand	 comes	 up	 to	 my	 breasts,	 which	 he	 palms

before	 placing	 his	 mouth	 on	 my	 nipples,	 sucking

them	 roughly.	 This	 alone	 could	 be	 my	 undoing.

“Now,”	 I	 say,	 trying	 to	 push	 him	 inside	 of	 me.

“Wait,”	 he	 whispers.	 He	 removes	 my	 hand

from	 his	 body	 and	 pins	 both	 of	 my	 hands	 above	 my

head	 with	 his	 one	 strong	 hand.	 His	 other	 hand

probes	 inside	 my	 wet,	 tender	 center.	 I	 wriggle

beneath	 him,	 raise	 my	 legs	 higher	 and	 wrap	 them

around	 his	 back.	 He	 keeps	 my	 hands	 and	 arms

locked	 firmly	 in	 place	 as	 he	 continues	 to	 suck	 and

nibble	 on	 my	 breasts	 while	 pushing	 his	 fingers

further	 inside	 of	 me.

“I’m	 so	 ready,	 Dylan,”	 I	 say,	 feeling	 liquid	 seep

out	 of	 me.	 “I	 can’t	 get	 any	 wetter	 or	 any	 hornier

than	 this.”	 The	 desire	 is	 completely	 overwhelming	 I



251

can’t	 spare	 any	 time	 to	 be	 embarrassed	 over	 what

I’m	 saying.

“I	 know,”	 he	 says	 and	 pul s	 his	 fingers	 out	 of

me.	 He	 looks	 down	 between	 us	 and	 positions

himself	 about	 a	 half-‐inch	 into	 me	 before	 he	 begins

thrusting	 gently	 forward.

“Oh,”	 I	 moan	 with	 surprise	 rather	 than

pleasure.

“Does	 that	 hurt?”	 he	 asks,	 slowing	 down.

“No,	 keep	 going.”	 I	 lie.	 Yes,	 it	 hurts	 a	 little,	 but

I’m	 not	 going	 to	 tel 	 him	 that.

“I’m	 not	 about	 to	 stop,”	 he	 rasps.	 He	 thrusts

harder	 and	 faster	 and	 it	 feels	 good	 and	 painful	 at

the	 same	 time.	 He	 keeps	 it	 slow	 with	 short	 thrusts

and	 the	 tingling	 starts	 in	 my	 clit	 and	 then	 sends

little	 signals	 out	 to	 my	 limbs	 before	 it	 reaches	 a

small	 crescendo	 of	 pleasure.	 As	 I	 begin	 to	 want	 him

to	 go	 deeper	 and	 faster,	 Dylan	 does.	 He	 lets	 go	 of

my	 imprisoned	 hands	 and	 props	 himself	 up	 higher

on	 his	 hands,	 driving	 his	 pelvis	 deeper	 into	 mine,

grinding	 into	 me.	 He	 grunts	 as	 his	 thrusts	 become

longer	 and	 he	 plunges	 further	 into	 me.	 My	 brain

goes	 mindless	 with	 a	 brief	 spasm	 of	 ecstasy	 until



252

the	 thrusting	 actually	 begins	 to	 ache	 too	 much.	 The

minor	 enjoyment	 I	 was	 experiencing	 is	 gone	 and

there’s	 only	 sharp	 discomfort	 followed	 by	 Dylan

groaning.

I	 close	 my	 eyes	 and	 hold	 him	 tighter,	 letting

him	 settle	 on	 top	 of	 me	 with	 all	 his	 weight,	 stil

inside	 of	 me.	 This	 togetherness	 is	 an	 extraordinary

sensation	 and	 so	 new	 to	 me.	 No	 pushing	 a	 guy	 off

me	 or	 rol ing	 away	 to	 excuse	 myself	 from	 their

reach	 forever.	 This	 is	 what	 it	 feels	 like	 to	 have

someone	 enthralled	 by	 your	 body,	 mindless	 and

lost	 in	 a	 titil ating	 oblivion.	 It	 certainly	 doesn’t	 last

long	 and	 it	 didn’t	 have	 the	 gratifying	 end	 result	 for

me,	 but	 I	 have	 a	 sense	 of	 satisfaction	 as	 Dylan

buries	 his	 face	 into	 my	 neck	 and	 his	 exhausted

body	 goes	 limp.

Fluids	 leak	 out	 of	 me,	 those	 once	 precious

liquids	 and	 membranes	 we	 are	 supposed	 to	 protect

like	 jewels.	 I	 stifle	 a	 giggle	 as	 I	 think	 of	 my	 parents

dropping	 sex	 education	 books	 on	 my	 bed	 at	 the	 age

of	 six.	 Cute	 books	 with	 a	 bashful,	 naked,	 chubby

couple	 who	 make	 a	 comedy	 team	 out	 of



253

procreation.	 The	 book	 ends	 with	 the	 chubby	 couple

happily	 holding	 a	 chubby	 baby.

I	 don’t	 want	 to	 procreate	 with	 Dylan.	 He’d

certainly	 make	 gorgeous	 babies,	 but	 it	 suddenly

strikes	 me	 that	 all	 this	 time	 I’ve	 been	 with	 Dylan,

I’ve	 only	 wanted	 sex.	 Sex,	 not	 love,	 not	 the	 hope	 of

a	 future	 relationship.

He	 rol s	 off	 me	 as	 I	 stay	 immobile	 on	 the	 damp

sheet.

“I’l 	 be	 right	 back,”	 Dylan	 says.	 The	 bed	 creaks

and	 springs	 up	 as	 he	 leaves	 for	 the	 bathroom	 to

take	 care	 of	 the	 condom.	 I	 am	 content	 not	 to	 move,

to	 enjoy	 the	 moment	 of	 keeping	 my	 body	 as

motionless	 as	 possible,	 stil 	 reeling	 with	 delight.

The	 bed	 sinks	 again	 as	 Dylan	 lies	 next	 to	 me.

“Hey,”	 he	 says	 softly.	 “Jess,	 are	 you	 okay?”

I	 open	 my	 eyes	 and	 turn	 to	 look	 at	 him.	 “I’m

great.”

“I	 should	 have	 made	 it	 last	 longer,	 but	 it’s	 our

first	 time	 with	 each	 other.	 Kind	 of	 difficult	 to	 hold

out.	 I	 almost	 exploded	 before	 we	 got	 to	 the	 bed.”

I	 laugh	 which	 makes	 him	 smile.	 If	 he	 only	 knew

that	 I	 feel	 like	 a	 fraud.	 I’m	 not	 the	 sweet	 girl	 he



254

thinks	 he’s	 falling	 in	 love	 with.	 I’m	 not	 the	 innocent

girl	 any	 of	 them	 assume	 I	 am.	 I’m	 enraptured	 with

Dylan’s	 body	 and	 what	 it	 can	 do	 for	 me.	 Perhaps

it’s	 due	 to	 years	 of	 only	 allowing	 boys,	 and	 then

men,	 grope,	 fondle	 and	 kiss	 me;	 endless	 sexless

encounters	 that	 drove	 me	 to	 this	 point	 of	 wanting

actual	 sex	 with	 a	 man	 who	 exudes	 a	 tremendous

amount	 of	 sensuality	 in	 every	 move.	 The	 thought

makes	 it	 sound	 dirty	 and	 selfish,	 however,	 I	 know

there’s	 a	 part	 of	 me	 that	 cares	 about	 Dylan.

He	 stretches	 out	 next	 to	 me	 and	 holds	 my

cheek	 for	 a	 quick	 kiss.	 “I’m	 crazy	 about	 you.”	 He

looks	 at	 me	 lovingly,	 his	 eyes	 wide	 and	 sincere.	 No

words	 come	 to	 me,	 so	 I	 smile	 in	 return.

“I’l 	 be	 right	 back,”	 I	 say,	 prying	 myself	 from	 his

embrace	 and	 getting	 up	 from	 the	 bed.

“Okay.”	 Dylan	 lounges	 on	 his	 side,	 propped	 on

his	 elbow.	 He	 grins	 as	 he	 watches	 me	 walk	 to	 the

bathroom.	 I	 turn	 my	 back	 on	 him	 and	 shake	 my

naked	 ass	 to	 get	 a	 laugh	 out	 of	 him.

In	 the	 bathroom,	 I	 use	 a	 washcloth	 and	 shower

gel	 to	 clean	 off	 the	 sticky	 blood	 that	 is	 drying

against	 my	 inner	 thighs	 and	 my	 nether	 regions.



255

“Wel ,	 that’s	 done,”	 I	 say	 out	 loud	 to	 myself.	 “No

more	 wondering.”	 Of	 course	 Dylan	 must	 know.

There	 must	 have	 been	 blood	 on	 the	 condom.

I	 freshen	 up	 as	 much	 as	 possible	 and	 brush	 my

teeth	 and	 hair	 before	 returning	 to	 the	 bed	 and	 the

seductive	 man	 waiting	 for	 me.

Dylan	 looks	 relaxed	 and	 content,	 stretched	 out

on	 the	 bed.

I	 lie	 on	 my	 side	 next	 to	 him	 and	 he	 pul s	 a

sheet	 over	 us.	 I	 snuggle	 into	 his	 warm,	 hard	 chest

with	 his	 strong	 arms	 wrapped	 securely	 around	 me.

Ironically,	 a	 sense	 of	 liberation	 and	 safety	 sweep

over	 me,	 despite	 being	 completely	 engulfed	 by	 him.

He	 kisses	 the	 top	 of	 my	 head	 and	 I	 bury	 my	 face	 in

his	 neck,	 taking	 in	 his	 natural	 scent	 that	 sends

erotic	 thoughts	 through	 my	 sex-‐addled	 brain.

“Are	 you	 happy?”	 I	 ask,	 whispering	 into	 his

neck.

“With	 you	 and	 this?	 Of	 course.	 I	 just	 got	 laid,

what	 do	 you	 think?”

I	 laugh.	 “That’s	 not	 what	 I	 meant.”	 I	 look	 up	 at

him.



256

“I	 know	 what	 you	 meant.	 I’m	 very	 happy.	 I

knew	 you	 were	 going	 to	 Lois’s	 tonight	 and	 my	 gut

told	 me	 that	 we’d	 be	 back	 together.	 I	 didn’t	 know

we’d	 do	 this…”

“Ha!”	 I	 pinch	 his	 arm.

“Hey,	 you	 pushed	 for	 this.	 Literally.	 You

pushed	 me	 onto	 the	 bed.”

“Yes,	 I	 did.”

“Are	 you	 happy?”	 he	 asks	 and	 I	 can	 see	 in	 his

eyes	 the	 seriousness	 that	 lies	 behind	 the	 cheerful

demeanor.	 The	 anxious	 boy	 that	 sometimes	 takes

over	 the	 confident	 man.

“I	 am	 extremely	 content,”	 I	 answer.

“That’s	 not	 good	 enough.	 You	 need	 to	 be

deliriously	 happy.”

He	 kisses	 me	 lightly	 on	 the	 lips	 and	 then

doesn’t	 stop.	 It	 goes	 deeper	 and	 I	 feel	 my	 tingling

hormones	 surge	 again	 with	 desire.	 His	 mouth

leaves	 mine	 and	 works	 its	 way	 down	 my	 neck	 to	 my

breasts.	 I	 arch	 into	 him	 as	 he	 sucks	 hard	 on	 my

nipples,	 but	 then	 he	 continues	 on	 to	 my	 stomach,

his	 tongue	 circling	 my	 bel y	 button.	 I’m	 sore	 and

not	 sure	 I’m	 ready	 to	 do	 it	 again,	 but	 this	 time	 he



257

really	 is	 gentle	 and	 only	 uses	 his	 tongue.	 Yeah,	 he

definitely	 knows	 I	 was	 a	 virgin.

He	 positions	 his	 hands	 underneath	 each	 of	 my

butt	 cheeks	 and	 then	 his	 head	 is	 between	 my	 legs.

His	 tongue	 is	 inside	 of	 me	 and	 I	 groan,	 letting	 every

muscle	 in	 my	 body	 go	 limp	 as	 my	 legs	 open	 wide	 to





receive	 him.	 As	 he	 works	 my	 desire	 over	 with	 his

relentlessly	 probing	 mouth,	 my	 thoughts	 spin	 with

the	 image	 of	 Dylan.	 Quickly	 Dylan’s	 face	 changes

into	 Carson	 and	 it’s	 Carson’s	 splendid,	 naked	 form

that	 brings	 me	 to	 a	 climax.	 That	 fantasy	 coupled

with	 the	 building	 delirious	 happiness	 throws	 me

over	 the	 edge	 into	 the	 most	 intense	 orgasm	 I’ve

ever	 had.	 I	 cry	 out,	 relieved	 that	 I	 didn’t	 shout

Carson’s	 name.

This	 is	 too	 good	 to	 be	 true,	 I	 tel 	 myself.	 Finally,

I’m	 compatible	 with	 someone	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 kick

out	 of	 bed.

“I’m	 in	 love	 with	 you,	 Jess,”	 Dylan	 whispers

into	 my	 ear.

For	 a	 moment	 I	 am	 paralyzed	 with	 fear,	 not

knowing	 how	 to	 respond.	 I	 like	 Dylan,	 I’m

infatuated	 with	 him,	 but	 I	 can’t	 say	 that	 I’m	 in	 love



258

with	 him.	 I	 hope	 I	 wil 	 fall	 in	 love	 with	 him,	 but	 I

can’t	 utter	 false	 words	 now,	 not	 in	 this	 moment

when	 he’s	 being	 honest	 and	 I	 have	 a	 bad	 habit	 of

thinking	 of	 his	 brother.	 Instead,	 I	 look	 at	 him	 and

smile	 as	 I	 bury	 my	 face	 and	 body	 back	 into	 his

inviting	 embrace.	 I’m	 good	 at	 deflecting	 and	 I	 am

too	 tired	 and	 sated	 to	 say	 or	 do	 anything.

The	 last	 thing	 I	 remember	 is	 drifting	 off,	 stil

cuddled	 next	 to	 his	 naked	 body.





259





Twenty



Over	 the	 month	 of	 July,	 I	 find	 myself	 in	 a	 rather

nice	 routine.	 I	 rise	 early	 and	 walk	 Bert	 as	 far	 as	 he’l

go,	 which	 is	 usually	 to	 the	 end	 of	 the	 driveway	 and

back.	 After	 breakfast,	 I	 spend	 four	 to	 six	 hours	 in

the	 library	 handling	 5	 Alpha	 work.	 I	 don’t	 take	 on

any	 new	 accounts,	 so	 I	 can	 keep	 my	 workload

manageable	 and	 part-‐time.

Nathan	 is	 obliging	 because	 I	 am	 reliable	 and

produce	 good	 work.	 I’m	 thankful	 because	 even

with	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 money	 from	 the	 trust,	 I	 stil

need	 an	 additional	 income	 so	 I	 can	 pay	 the	 rent	 on

my	 New	 York	 apartment	 and	 put	 a	 substantial

amount	 in	 savings	 every	 month.

I	 have	 a	 fear	 of	 poverty.	 I	 shouldn’t.	 I	 grew	 up

in	 a	 home	 with	 everything	 that	 I	 pretty	 much

desired	 and,	 as	 an	 only	 child,	 I’l 	 inherit	 everything

from	 my	 parents’	 savings	 and	 assets.	 Of	 course,	 I

now	 own	 a	 home	 free	 and	 clear	 as	 wel ,	 but	 I	 stil



260

worry	 about	 being	 alone	 and	 being	 penniless.	 I

suppose	 a	 shrink	 would	 tel 	 me	 it’s	 because	 I	 never

allowed	 myself	 to	 become	 attached	 to	 anyone	 in	 a

real	 commitment.

Yet,	 now	 there’s	 Dylan.

Every	 afternoon	 I	 work	 in	 the	 studio	 and	 paint

and,	 when	 I	 finish,	 Dylan	 arrives	 with	 groceries	 in

hand	 to	 make	 dinner	 for	 both	 of	 us.	 We	 hang	 out

on	 the	 porch	 or	 watch	 movies	 on	 one	 of	 the

computers	 in	 the	 library	 before	 heading	 off	 to	 bed.

I	 can’t	 say	 that	 I’m	 falling	 in	 love	 with	 him,	 however,

I’m	 fond	 of	 him	 and	 completely	 in	 lust,	 looking

forward	 to	 our	 nightly	 bouts	 of	 adventurous	 sex

that	 leave	 me	 so	 exhausted	 that	 I	 sleep	 like	 the

dead	 and	 wake	 up	 every	 morning	 feeling	 refreshed.

Sometimes	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 stop	 by	 for

lunch	 or	 dinner	 depending	 on	 their	 schedules	 at

the	 diner	 and	 I	 look	 forward	 to	 their	 company;	 our

growing	 friendship	 is	 one	 of	 the	 reasons	 why	 I

don’t	 think	 I	 could	 leave	 Hera.

I	 have	 also	 started	 taking	 yoga	 three	 times	 a

week	 at	 Beyond	 The	 Pants,	 which	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor

opened	 during	 a	 scorching	 hot	 day	 in	 July.	 It	 was



261

one	 of	 the	 few	 places	 with	 working	 air	 conditioning,

so	 they	 got	 a	 lot	 of	 customers	 during	 their	 grand

opening.

When	 I	 pass	 through	 town	 to	 go	 to	 yoga	 class,

or	 stop	 in	 to	 see	 Archie	 about	 my	 trust	 and	 house

accounts,	 I’l 	 sometimes	 see	 Carson.	 It’s	 usually

from	 a	 distance	 and	 we	 never	 say	 anything	 to	 one

another.	 I	 never	 see	 him	 at	 Bonnie’s	 diner	 or	 any	 of

the	 dinner	 parties	 among	 our	 mutual	 friends,	 either.

I	 wonder	 if	 he	 is	 avoiding	 most	 people	 or	 just	 me.

Dylan	 doesn’t	 mention	 him	 even	 though	 they	 work

together	 every	 day	 at	 the	 shop.	 He	 talks	 about

clients	 or	 projects,	 but	 manages	 to	 leave	 Carson’s

name	 out	 of	 it	 as	 if	 he	 senses	 that	 I	 think	 about

Carson.

I	 do.	 I	 think	 about	 the	 night	 I	 was	 on	 the

footbridge	 with	 Carson	 at	 Barron’s	 Creek	 and	 the

afternoon	 we	 baked	 those	 ridiculous	 pies	 together.

Of	 course,	 that	 look	 he	 gave	 me	 as	 I	 drove	 off	 with

Dylan	 to	 begin	 a	 relationship	 that	 has	 become

increasingly	 more	 serious	 on	 Dylan’s	 part	 is	 ever

present	 in	 my	 thoughts	 as	 wel .



262

I	 enjoy	 the	 physical	 aspects	 and	 the	 sweet

company	 of	 Dylan,	 yet	 I’m	 aware	 now	 more	 than

ever	 that	 he	 floats	 around	 on	 a	 cloud	 of	 love	 while

I’m	 more	 pragmatic	 about	 it.	 Sadly,	 a	 month	 of

spending	 every	 free	 moment	 with	 Dylan	 hasn’t

changed	 my	 initial	 feelings	 for	 him.	 I	 work,	 I	 paint,	 I

have	 friends,	 I	 have	 a	 stubborn	 dog	 and	 I	 have	 a

cute	 boyfriend	 who	 can	 dish	 it	 up	 in	 the	 kitchen

and	 the	 bedroom.

Dylan	 appears	 to	 be	 happy	 and	 I	 don’t	 want	 to

change	 that,	 but	 I’m	 concerned	 that	 his	 growing

love	 and	 affection	 for	 me	 is	 way	 beyond	 what	 I	 may

ever	 feel	 for	 him.	 I	 should	 be	 content	 with	 this,

right?	 This	 is	 a	 pretty	 good	 life	 I	 have	 carved	 out	 for

myself.	 A	 lot	 of	 people	 would	 be	 overjoyed	 to	 have

this	 type	 of	 contentment.	 Maybe	 safety	 and

faithfulness	 are	 more	 important	 than	 falling	 head

over	 heels	 in	 love.



I	 finish	 a	 phone	 call	 with	 the	 5	 Alpha	 IT	 guys

and	 sit	 back	 in	 my	 chair,	 daydreaming	 about	 a

painting	 I’d	 like	 to	 do	 when	 Dylan	 surprises	 me	 by



263

coming	 home	 early.	 I	 hear	 the	 front	 door	 slam	 and

him	 bounding	 up	 the	 stairs	 to	 find	 me.

“Hey!”	 he	 says,	 slightly	 out	 of	 breath.	 “We

knocked	 off	 early	 for	 the	 day	 so	 I	 thought	 you	 and	 I

could	 do	 something	 special.”

Dylan’s	 face	 is	 flushed	 against	 his	 tan	 skin.	 He

is	 radiant.	 He	 comes	 over	 to	 give	 me	 his	 usual

greeting	 kiss	 and	 then	 spins	 me	 in	 my	 office	 chair,

which	 makes	 me	 laugh.

“Wel ,	 I	 was	 planning	 on	 painting	 this

afternoon.	 What	 did	 you	 have	 in	 mind?”	 I	 let	 my

fingers	 brush	 against	 his	 groin,	 which	 immediately

goes	 hard.

He	 removes	 my	 hand.	 “Not	 so	 fast.	 We’l 	 get	 to

that,	 too.	 I	 thought	 we	 could	 go	 up	 to	 the	 Ridge

and	 have	 a	 picnic.	 Take	 a	 bottle	 of	 wine,	 a	 blanket

and	 then	 that	 other	 stuff	 you	 love	 so	 much.”	 He

smirks.

“A	 picnic.”	 My	 voice	 is	 flat	 and	 Dylan’s	 smile

fades.	 I’m	 afraid	 I	 may	 have	 dampened	 his

expectations.	 “Oh!”	 I	 try	 to	 recover	 the	 mood,	 but	 I

sound	 artificial.	 Before	 I	 can	 say	 anything	 else,	 the



264

sound	 of	 a	 car	 driving	 up	 to	 the	 house	 interrupts

the	 awkward	 moment.

“Who	 could	 that	 be?”	 Dylan	 asks	 with	 concern

and	 I	 wonder	 if	 he’s	 hoping	 it’s	 not	 Carson.	 Secretly,

I’m	 hoping	 it	 is	 Carson	 and	 he’s	 deciding	 to	 come

back	 to	 work	 on	 the	 house	 projects.	 I	 miss	 having

him	 nearby,	 but	 of	 course,	 I	 don’t	 say	 this.

We	 both	 look	 out	 the	 second	 floor	 window	 of

the	 library	 and	 watch	 a	 black	 Range	 Rover	 park

before	 a	 wel -‐dressed	 man	 in	 a	 suit	 gets	 out.	 He

slings	 his	 suit	 coat	 over	 his	 shoulder	 and	 holds	 it

with	 one	 finger	 while	 he	 walks	 with	 a	 confident	 gait

up	 to	 the	 house.

“That’s	 Tom!”

“Who?”

“My	 art	 dealer.	 Wel ,	 the	 guy	 who	 took	 a	 few

of	 my	 paintings	 last	 year.	 He	 sold	 a	 couple	 pieces.”

“You	 didn’t	 tel 	 me	 he	 was	 coming	 out	 here

today.”	 The	 hurt	 in	 his	 voice	 is	 almost	 annoying	 and

I	 feel	 mean	 for	 thinking	 that.

“Because	 I	 didn’t	 know,”	 I	 tel 	 him,	 running	 out

of	 the	 room	 to	 answer	 the	 door.



265

Tom	 is	 in	 his	 late-‐thirties	 and	 looks	 very

youthful	 and	 fit.	 His	 clothes	 are	 expensive	 and	 his

grooming	 is	 impeccable	 without	 appearing	 finicky.

His	 blond	 hair	 is	 buzzed	 against	 his	 scalp	 and	 his

face	 is	 plain,	 though	 it	 has	 strong	 Scandinavian

lines	 giving	 him	 a	 very	 masculine	 edge	 as	 though	 he

is	 someone	 who	 could	 have	 been	 a	 sailor	 or	 oil

rigger	 before	 becoming	 accustomed	 to	 finely

tailored	 suits.	 I	 don’t	 know	 Tom’s	 history,	 but	 I	 like

to	 make	 these	 things	 up	 in	 my	 head	 as	 I	 go	 along.

I	 introduce	 Tom	 to	 Dylan	 and	 then	 we	 all

decide	 it	 would	 be	 nice	 to	 sit	 on	 the	 porch	 with	 our

cold	 glasses	 of	 water.

“I	 haven’t	 seen	 one	 of	 my	 favorite	 artists	 in	 a

while,	 so	 I	 thought	 I’d	 come	 out	 here	 and	 see	 what

all	 the	 fuss	 is	 about.”	 Tom	 reclines	 back	 on	 the

wicker	 loveseat	 and	 puts	 one	 ankle	 across	 a	 knee.

He	 looks	 very	 comfortable	 and	 Dylan	 seems

completely	 uneasy	 about	 that.	 “Nathan	 told	 me

how	 to	 find	 you.”

“This	 is	 a	 nice	 surprise.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 you	 made

house	 calls.”	 I’m	 sitting	 on	 the	 loveseat	 next	 to

Tom	 and	 Dylan	 sits	 across	 the	 coffee	 table	 from	 us.



266

I	 can	 tel 	 the	 distance	 from	 me	 makes	 Dylan	 even

more	 uncomfortable.

“I	 make	 house	 calls	 when	 artists	 make	 me

money.”	 Tom	 reaches	 into	 his	 suit	 coat	 and	 pul s	 a

white	 envelope	 out	 of	 the	 interior	 pocket.	 “This	 is

for	 you.”

I	 take	 the	 envelope	 and	 open	 it.	 I	 pul 	 out	 a

check	 and	 my	 eyes	 must	 have	 popped	 because

Dylan	 comes	 to	 my	 side	 to	 see	 the	 figure.

“Twenty-‐four	 thousand	 dol ars?”	 Dylan	 asks.

He’s	 not	 smiling,	 but	 I	 am.

I	 am	 giddy.	 I	 can’t	 believe	 my	 paintings	 are

selling.

“This	 is	 incredible,”	 I	 say.

Tom	 smiles	 and	 shrugs.	 “Your	 work	 is	 unique

and	 it	 moved	 wel .	 I	 actually	 raised	 the	 prices	 on

the	 last	 three	 pieces.	 Do	 you	 have	 more	 for	 me?

I’m	 ready	 to	 give	 you	 a	 show.”

“Seriously?”	 I	 am	 so	 excited	 I	 jump	 out	 of	 my

chair	 and	 give	 Tom	 a	 kiss	 on	 the	 cheek.	 “Let	 me	 go

upstairs	 and	 get	 the	 other	 paintings.”	 I	 leave

without	 looking	 back	 at	 Dylan’s	 confused	 face.	 I	 run

up	 the	 stairs	 to	 the	 studio	 and	 begin	 taking	 down



267

the	 completed	 paintings	 from	 the	 wall.	 I	 col ect

twelve	 of	 them	 and	 put	 them	 in	 a	 large	 portfolio

case.

When	 I	 return	 to	 the	 porch,	 Tom	 is	 talking	 to

Dylan	 about	 his	 gallery,	 but	 Dylan	 appears	 to	 be

waiting	 nervously	 for	 me	 with	 a	 troubled

expression.

“I	 have	 twelve	 more	 here.”	 I	 hand	 over	 the

hefty	 portfolio	 to	 Tom.

“It’s	 a	 good	 thing	 for	 me	 that	 you	 work	 on

paper	 and	 not	 canvas,”	 Tom	 says,	 trying	 to	 lighten

the	 tense	 mood	 that	 Dylan	 has	 created.	 “So	 I	 was

thinking	 of	 perhaps	 doing	 a	 show	 in	 mid-‐December

before	 everyone	 shuts	 down	 for	 the	 holiday	 season.

You	 wouldn’t	 be	 the	 headline,	 but	 you’d	 be	 shown

with	 two	 of	 my	 strongest	 artists.	 I’d	 like	 to	 have	 at

least	 twenty-‐five	 pieces	 total	 from	 you.	 Is	 that

doable?”

“Absolutely.	 That	 gives	 me	 four	 months	 to

paint.	 I	 can	 do	 another	 thirteen	 or	 so;	 I	 have	 so

many	 ideas	 in	 my	 head.	 I	 can	 even	 cut	 back	 on	 my

hours	 at	 5	 Alpha—”



268

“Wait,	 slow	 down,	 babe,”	 Dylan	 interrupts.

“Don’t	 knock	 yourself	 out	 over	 this.	 You	 already

have	 a	 stressful	 job;	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 put	 more

pressure	 on	 yourself	 by	 trying	 to	 paint	 day	 and

night.”

My	 first	 inclination	 is	 to	 yel 	 at	 him	 to	 stay	 out

of	 my	 business;	 my	 art	 is	 the	 only	 thing	 that	 I	 have

that	 is	 all	 mine. Slow	 down,	 I	 think. He’s	 right.

Dylan	 is	 only	 trying	 to	 be	 a	 good	 boyfriend,	 to	 be

supportive,	 I	 tel 	 myself.	 So	 why	 does	 it	 seem	 like

petty	 jealousy?	 Is	 it	 because	 my	 paintings	 are

sel ing	 or	 that	 Tom	 is	 here	 delivering	 the	 news	 in

person?	 Is	 Dylan	 jealous	 of	 Tom?	 The	 guy	 has	 no

interest	 in	 me,	 other	 than	 the	 money	 I	 can	 bring	 in

to	 his	 gallery.	 Tom	 is	 a	 single,	 wealthy	 man	 in

Manhattan,	 who	 has	 plenty	 of	 women.	 Is	 Dylan	 so

insecure	 or	 paranoid	 in	 thinking	 that	 Tom	 has

nefarious	 intentions	 towards	 me?

I	 can’t	 read	 the	 expression	 on	 Tom’s	 face,	 but

he	 is	 definitely	 questioning	 Dylan’s	 role	 in	 my	 life.

Tom	 looks	 quizzically	 at	 Dylan	 before	 turning	 back

to	 me.

“If	 this	 is	 too	 much—”	 Tom	 begins	 to	 say.



269

“No,	 of	 course	 not,”	 I	 cut	 him	 off.	 “I	 have

plenty	 of	 time	 to	 do	 this.	 I	 paint	 all	 the	 time.	 It’s	 my

favorite	 thing	 in	 the	 world	 and	 I’m	 very	 pleased

that	 you’re	 selling	 my	 work.”

Dylan	 stiffens	 and	 reclines	 back	 in	 his	 chair.	 He

knows	 he	 went	 too	 far.	 His	 emotional	 outburst	 wil

have	 to	 be	 discussed	 later.	 This	 is	 business	 and,	 like

his	 furniture	 business,	 you	 don’t	 let	 your	 personal

relationships	 slip	 into	 discussions.	 He	 humiliated

me	 in	 front	 of	 someone	 I	 respect.	 I	 know	 Dylan’s

aware	 that	 he	 really	 screwed	 this	 up	 and	 made	 me

look	 unprofessional.	 He	 remains	 fairly	 quiet	 for	 the

rest	 of	 Tom’s	 visit,	 which	 is	 short.

After	 Tom	 goes	 through	 my	 new	 paintings	 and

takes	 some	 notes,	 jotting	 down	 titles	 he’d	 like	 to

use,	 and	 then	 doing	 a	 short	 tour	 of	 the	 house	 with

me	 alone,	 he	 leaves.	 As	 I	 watch	 his	 very	 clean

Range	 Rover	 drive	 away,	 Dylan	 comes	 up	 behind

me	 and	 places	 his	 hands	 on	 my	 waist.

“You	 can	 never	 do	 that	 again,	 Dylan,”	 I	 say,

looking	 out	 at	 the	 amazing	 landscape	 from	 the

porch	 to	 avoid	 facing	 him.



270

Dylan	 kisses	 my	 neck.	 “I	 know.	 This	 guy	 likes

you	 and	 it	 made	 me	 feel	 envious	 that	 he	 can	 talk

about	 your	 art	 with	 you.	 It	 was	 immature	 of	 me,

but	 I	 wanted—”

I	 wrench	 away	 from	 his	 caresses	 and	 face	 him.

“You	 wanted	 to	 show	 him	 that	 you	 live	 here	 and

sleep	 with	 me.	 It	 was	 stupid,	 Dylan.	 Also,	 for	 the

record,	 Tom	 isn’t	 attracted	 to	 me.	 He	 likes	 my

paintings.	 Actually,	 I	 don’t	 even	 know	 if	 he	 likes	 my

paintings	 so	 much	 as	 he	 likes	 the	 money	 my

paintings	 make	 for	 him.	 I	 am	 lucky	 to	 have	 his

representation	 and	 you	 had	 no	 right	 to	 interfere

like	 that.”

Dylan	 rubs	 his	 jaw	 with	 his	 hand—a	 move	 that

reminds	 me	 of	 Carson—and	 he	 looks	 genuinely

remorseful.	 “I’m	 sorry.	 I	 started	 imagining	 this	 guy

taking	 you	 out	 to	 celebrate	 your	 success	 and	 I	 felt

scared.	 It	 was	 like	 I	 was	 losing	 you	 already.”

“That’s	 ridiculous.	 You’re	 letting	 your

imagination	 get	 away	 from	 you	 and	 it	 isn’t	 fair	 to

take	 it	 out	 on	 me.	 Are	 you	 afraid	 of	 my	 potential

success?	 Do	 you	 want	 me	 to	 fail?”



271

“Of	 course	 not.	 I	 know	 I	 didn’t	 react	 the	 way	 I

should	 have,	 but	 in	 the	 moment	 I	 wasn’t	 thinking

clearly.	 I	 see	 this	 successful	 guy	 pul 	 up	 in	 his

expensive	 SUV,	 he	 hands	 you	 a	 huge	 check	 and

says	 he’s	 giving	 you	 a	 show.	 In	 my	 mind,	 he’s	 taking

you	 back	 to	 New	 York	 and	 you’re	 going	 to	 be

successful	 there.	 In	 my	 mind,	 I	 saw	 you	 leaving

Hera,	 leaving	 this,”	 he	 says,	 holding	 his	 arms	 wide.

“Leaving	 me.”

Leaving	 me,	 his	 words	 echo	 through	 me.	 How

often	 have	 I	 felt	 that	 I	 was	 alone,	 having	 to	 do

everything	 on	 my	 own,	 to	 figure	 the	 world	 out,	 to

figure	 myself	 out	 because	 my	 parents	 didn’t	 talk

about	 personal	 needs	 or	 desires,	 or	 how	 a	 young

girl	 is	 supposed	 to	 navigate	 an	 adult	 world	 before

she’s	 on	 equal	 footing	 with	 everyone	 else?	 Am	 I

stil 	 so	 naïve	 and	 foolish	 that	 I	 cannot	 truly	 see	 the

wonderful	 man	 in	 front	 of	 me	 who	 cares	 about

me?

I	 place	 my	 hands	 on	 Dylan’s	 chest	 and	 feel	 his

strong	 heartbeat	 underneath	 the	 thin	 T-‐shirt.	 He	 is

so	 attractive	 that	 I	 begin	 to	 consider	 lewd	 thoughts

to	 dismiss	 my	 earlier	 anger.	 Without	 deliberating



272

further,	 I	 start	 taking	 off	 his	 T-‐shirt.	 He	 looks	 a	 little

bewildered,	 but	 assists	 in	 removing	 his	 shirt.	 I	 rub

my	 hands	 up	 and	 down	 his	 muscular	 torso	 and

push	 him	 back	 towards	 the	 porch	 wall.	 Then	 Dylan

watches	 as	 I	 unbutton	 my	 blouse.	 A	 wanton

expression	 overcomes	 his	 face	 as	 I	 stand	 before

him	 in	 my	 see-‐thru	 lace	 demi	 bra.	 I	 step	 out	 of	 my

skirt	 and	 underwear	 and	 begin	 kissing	 him	 as	 I	 put

my	 hand	 down	 his	 jeans,	 aggressively	 groping	 his

hardness.

“Okay,”	 Dylan	 rasps	 and	 then	 he	 turns	 me

around	 so	 my	 back	 is	 against	 the	 wall.

He	 unbuttons	 his	 jeans	 and	 pul s	 a	 condom

from	 his	 wallet	 then	 hoists	 me	 up	 using	 his	 weight

and	 the	 wall	 to	 brace	 me	 in	 place	 before	 he’s	 in	 me.

I	 wrap	 my	 legs	 around	 his	 waist	 and	 move

frantically	 with	 his	 thrusts.

I	 want	 more;	 I	 want	 it	 faster	 and	 harder.	 I	 want

my	 body	 and	 mind	 to	 explode	 so	 I	 can	 feel	 good

and	 not	 think	 about	 us	 arguing	 over	 the	 time	 I

spend	 on	 painting	 and	 work	 versus	 the	 time	 I	 give

to	 Dylan.	 At	 least	 that’s	 what	 goes	 through	 my



273

mind	 as	 the	 term	 “fucking	 my	 brains	 out” races

through	 my	 head.

It	 also	 occurs	 to	 me	 that	 anyone	 could	 drive	 up

to	 the	 house	 and	 see	 Dylan’s	 naked	 ass	 nailing	 me

against	 the	 house	 in	 broad	 daylight.	 Then	 I	 imagine

Carson	 driving	 up	 and	 seeing	 us	 just	 before	 that

image	 of	 him	 turns	 into	 the	 image	 of	 Carson

screwing	 me	 here	 against	 the	 wall.	 I	 keep	 my	 eyes

closed	 as	 Dylan	 pul s	 my	 bra	 down	 to	 fondle	 my

breasts,	 imagining	 that	 it’s	 Carson’s	 tongue	 on	 my

nipple	 and	 Carson	 ramming	 himself	 into	 me,

bringing	 me	 to	 the	 edge.

“Oh	 God,	 I	 love	 this.	 I	 love	 you,”	 Dylan	 groans

and	 rubs	 two	 fingers	 on	 my	 clit.	 “I	 want	 us	 to	 come

at	 the	 same	 time.

I	 can	 tel 	 he’s	 ready	 to	 climax,	 but	 he	 strains	 to

hold	 off	 until	 I’m	 a	 moaning	 mess.	 I	 shudder	 and

fall	 into	 Dylan;	 spent,	 both	 physically	 and

emotionally.



“So,	 you	 stil 	 want	 to	 go	 on	 that	 picnic?”	 I	 ask

as	 we	 retrieve	 our	 clothing	 from	 the	 porch	 and

quickly	 dress.



274

“It’s	 not	 that	 big	 a	 deal.	 I	 was	 planning	 on	 just

screwing	 around	 with	 you	 since	 we’d	 have	 a

blanket	 and	 a	 nice	 view.”	 He	 smiles.	 “You	 beat	 me

to	 it.”

“Oh,	 so	 the	 picnic	 part	 was	 really	 an	 excuse	 to

have	 sex	 in	 another	 location.”

“Yep.”

“I’m	 hungry,”	 I	 whine,	 ruffling	 his	 blond	 curls.

“Then	 I’l 	 cook	 for	 you.”	 He	 kisses	 me	 softly	 on

the	 lips,	 quickly	 enough	 to	 be	 tender,	 yet	 innocent

as	 though	 he	 wants	 to	 prove	 that	 not	 all	 of	 our

physical	 encounters	 are	 about	 sex.

Dylan	 outdoes	 himself	 on	 our	 dinner.	 He	 gril s

rib	 eye	 steaks	 on	 the	 old	 charcoal	 Weber	 out	 back

and	 sears	 scallops	 and	 leeks	 in	 the	 kitchen.	 He	 also

makes	 some	 kind	 of	 buttery	 asparagus	 and

mushroom	 dish	 that	 is	 divine.	 He	 tops	 off	 all	 the

butter	 and	 fatty	 foods	 with	 homemade	 pie	 and	 ice

cream	 from	 Bonnie’s.

I	 watch	 Dylan	 finish	 his	 second	 serving	 of	 pie.

“I’m	 going	 to	 get	 fat	 if	 I	 keep	 eating	 like	 this,”	 I	 tel

him.	 “I	 think	 I’ve	 already	 gained	 a	 few	 pounds.”



275

“You	 haven’t	 gained	 an	 ounce.	 I	 know.	 My

hands	 have	 covered	 every	 inch	 of	 your	 body.”

“Funny.	 But	 I’m	 serious.	 This	 food	 is	 delicious,

but	 you’re	 going	 to	 turn	 me	 into	 a	 cow	 with	 these

meals.”

Dylan	 pul s	 me	 into	 his	 lap	 and	 begins	 kissing

my	 neck.	 “I	 worship	 your	 body.	 Even	 if	 you	 gained	 a

hundred	 pounds,	 I	 would	 stil 	 love	 you.”

“I	 call	 bul shit,”	 I	 say	 and	 stand	 up.	 “Guys

always	 say	 crap	 like	 that.	 It’s	 such	 a	 lie,	 though.”

“I	 don’t	 say	 crap	 like	 that,”	 Dylan	 says.	 “I’m

serious.	 Do	 you	 think	 fat	 women	 are	 unloved?”

“Oh,	 don’t	 turn	 it	 around.	 I	 didn’t	 say	 that.	 Of

course	 there	 are	 fat	 couples	 who	 love	 each	 other.

This	 is	 a	 stupid	 conversation!”

“You	 started	 it.”

“No,	 what	 I	 started	 was	 a	 conversation	 about

how	 men	 say	 things	 they	 don’t	 really	 mean.”

“Fine.	 Here’s	 what	 I	 know.	 I	 love	 you	 now.	 I

love	 you	 thin	 and	 I’l 	 love	 you	 fat,	 should	 it	 come	 to

that.”	 He	 laughs.

“Sure,	 plenty	 of	 guys	 stil 	 love	 their	 girlfriends

when	 they	 get	 fat,	 but	 then	 they	 stop	 having	 sex,”	 I



276

say,	 putting	 dirty	 dishes	 in	 the	 sink.	 “Then	 the

relationship	 goes	 to	 crap	 and	 that’s	 when	 the	 guy

resents	 the	 woman	 for	 gaining	 weight.”

“And	 this	 is	 based	 on?”

“Oh	 please,	 it’s	 part	 of	 our	 culture.	 Don’t	 play

dumb.”

I	 have	 constructed	 a	 towering	 mound	 of	 dirty

pans	 and	 dishes	 in	 the	 sink	 and	 I	 contemplate	 how

they	 wil 	 get	 clean	 when	 Dylan	 wraps	 his	 arms

around	 me.

“I	 love	 you,	 Jess.	 You	 worry	 about	 so	 many

things	 that	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 worry	 about.”	 He	 is

so	 tender	 and	 kind,	 I	 want	 to	 believe	 him.	 I	 want	 to

feel	 as	 sure	 about	 him	 as	 he	 feels	 about	 me,

however,	 I	 don’t.	 I’m	 as	 anxious	 and	 cynical	 as	 I

ever	 was.

I	 sigh	 and	 continue	 to	 study	 the	 mess	 in	 the

sink	 as	 though	 it’s	 a	 great	 conundrum.

“You	 know	 those	 dishes	 can’t	 be	 washed	 when

they’re	 jammed	 in	 there	 like	 that,”	 he	 says.

“I	 know.	 I’m	 waiting	 for	 that	 damn	 dishwasher

Carson	 said	 he’d	 install.”



277

Dylan	 takes	 me	 by	 the	 shoulders	 and	 leads	 me

back	 to	 a	 kitchen	 chair	 where	 he	 sits	 me	 down.

Then	 he	 pours	 a	 glass	 of	 red	 wine	 from	 an	 open

bottle	 and	 places	 it	 on	 the	 table	 in	 front	 of	 me.

“You,	 relax.	 I’m	 going	 to	 do	 the	 dishes.”

I	 sip	 the	 wine	 and	 watch	 Dylan’s	 back	 as	 he

works	 over	 the	 sink.	 I	 wish	 I	 was	 in	 a	 more	 forgiving

mood,	 but	 I’m	 stil 	 angry	 about	 his	 behavior	 in	 front

of	 Tom.

“Dylan,	 what	 you	 did	 while	 Tom	 was	 here;	 you

can’t	 ever	 do	 that	 again,”	 I	 bring	 up	 the

conversation	 again.

He	 turns	 around	 and	 dries	 his	 wet	 hands	 on	 his

thighs	 and	 leans	 back	 against	 the	 sink.	 Dylan’s

expression	 is	 kind	 and	 confident,	 nothing	 like	 what

I	 saw	 earlier	 on	 the	 porch.

“I	 thought	 I	 was	 helping	 you.	 I	 was	 trying	 to	 be

supportive,	 hoping	 you	 wouldn’t	 take	 on	 too	 much

work.”

“You	 made	 me	 look	 like	 I	 don’t	 have	 control	 of

my	 own	 life.	 You	 looked	 like	 a	 jealous	 boyfriend	 in

front	 of	 someone	 I	 respect,	 someone	 who	 is	 the

only	 person	 who	 supports	 my	 artistic	 endeavors.”



278

“I	 support	 your	 art.”

“When	 was	 the	 last	 time	 you	 walked	 through

my	 studio?	 The	 day	 I	 set	 it	 up?	 You	 never	 ask	 about

my	 paintings	 or	 ask	 to	 see	 them,”	 I	 say,	 trying	 not

to	 sound	 angry.

“When	 was	 the	 last	 time	 you	 came	 to	 the

workshop	 to	 see	 what	 I	 was	 working	 on?”	 he	 asks,

although	 his	 tone	 isn’t	 accusatory	 like	 mine.

“Exactly.	 You’ve	 made	 my	 point,	 Dylan,”	 I	 reply.

“We’ve	 been	 spending	 a	 lot	 of	 time	 together,	 but

let’s	 not	 pretend	 that	 we	 are	 so	 close	 that	 we	 can

make	 career	 choices	 for	 one	 another.”	 I	 hear	 what

I’m	 saying	 and	 yet	 I	 don’t	 stop.	 I	 feel	 sick	 by	 my

own	 words,	 but	 I	 continue.	 “We	 do	 not	 share	 in	 life

changing	 decisions.”

“I’m	 not	 pretending,	 Jess.”	 Dylan’s	 hands

clench	 the	 sink	 edge	 as	 his	 arms	 flex.	 “You	 are	 my

life	 changing	 decision	 and,	 whatever	 you	 are

passionate	 about,	 I	 want	 to	 support	 you.”

“What	 do	 you	 mean?”	 I	 ask.	 My	 voice	 goes

from	 angry	 to	 timid.	 “How	 am	 I	 a	 life	 changing

decision	 for	 you?”



279

“I’m	 here	 every	 day,	 Jess.	 We	 both	 work	 and

then	 we’re	 together	 every	 night;	 every	 dinner,

every	 movie,	 every	 walk	 out	 by	 the	 creek,	 every

night	 in	 the	 same	 bed.”	 He	 walks	 over	 to	 where	 I’m

sitting	 and	 leans	 on	 the	 table,	 hovering	 over	 me.

“Do	 you	 think	 I	 take	 this	 lightly?”

“We’re	 dating,	 that	 doesn’t	 make	 you	 a

decision-‐maker	 in	 my	 life.	 It	 makes	 you	 my

boyfriend.”

“Are	 you	 sure?	 Because	 I	 don’t	 think	 you’ve

ever	 had	 a	 boyfriend	 like	 me,	 right?	 Did	 you	 ever

date	 anyone	 that	 you	 let	 stick	 around?”

“No,	 I	 wasn’t	 serious	 with	 anyone	 and	 you

know	 that	 because	 I	 already	 told	 you.”

“I	 guess	 the	 question	 is,	 are	 you	 serious	 about

me?”	 Dylan’s	 voice	 becomes	 angry	 and	 it	 causes

Bert	 to	 perk	 up	 from	 his	 slumber	 and	 leave	 the

room.

“Now	 you’ve	 scared	 Bert.	 I	 hope	 you	 know

what	 you	 sound	 like.”	 I’m	 saying	 any	 stupid	 old

thing	 I	 can	 think	 of	 and	 it	 sounds	 lame	 even	 to	 me.

“Answer	 the	 question,”	 Dylan	 demands.	 “Are

you	 serious	 about	 me?	 Because	 your	 reaction	 to



280

Tom	 and	 this	 idea	 that	 working	 around	 the	 clock

doesn’t	 have	 anything	 to	 do	 with	 me,	 makes	 me

wonder	 if	 I’m	 even	 a	 priority	 in	 your	 life.”

“Of	 course,	 you	 are,”	 I	 say	 quietly,	 looking	 up

at	 him.	 “But	 my	 reaction	 to	 Tom	 was	 about	 the

work	 he	 was	 offering,	 not	 Tom	 himself.	 You

seemed	 jealous—”

“I	 am	 jealous.	 I’m	 jealous	 of	 any	 guy	 who	 can

make	 you	 smile	 the	 way	 you	 did	 today.	 You	 were

jumping	 out	 of	 your	 chair	 like	 a	 kid.	 I’m	 jealous	 that

he	 can	 give	 you	 something	 I	 can’t.	 I	 know	 you	 love

painting	 more	 than	 designing	 computer	 software.	 I

get	 that.	 I	 get	 that	 you	 need	 to	 spend	 hours	 every

day	 in	 your	 studio	 and	 it	 makes	 you	 very	 happy.	 I’m

jealous	 that	 there’s	 a	 guy	 in	 New	 York	 City,	 hell,

there	 are	 a	 lot	 of	 guys	 in	 the	 city	 who	 can	 sel 	 your

paintings	 so	 that	 you’l 	 feel	 like	 a	 real	 artist.”

“I’m	 not	 interested	 in	 Tom,”	 I	 add.

“I	 know	 that!”	 Dylan	 yel s.	 “I	 already	 think	 of

you	 as	 an	 artist,	 but	 you	 don’t	 unless	 you’re	 being

paid	 for	 your	 work.	 You	 need	 validation	 from

others,	 experts	 like	 Tom.	 He	 makes	 you	 feel	 like	 a



281

real	 artist	 and	 I	 don’t.	 That’s	 what	 pisses	 me	 off.	 I

want	 to	 be	 the	 one…”

Dylan	 backs	 away	 from	 me	 and	 then	 goes	 back

to	 the	 sink.	 “Go	 paint.	 It	 wil 	 make	 you	 feel	 better,”

he	 says	 in	 a	 soft	 tone.	 He’s	 not	 being	 glib.	 “I’l 	 finish

up	 the	 kitchen;	 you	 go	 work	 in	 the	 studio.	 Okay?”

“Yeah.	 Dylan?”

“Jess,	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 argue,”	 he	 says	 with	 his

back	 to	 me	 as	 he	 resumes	 washing	 dishes.	 “And

you	 need	 to	 paint.	 Go.	 I’l 	 meet	 you	 in	 a	 bit.”

I	 walk	 over	 and	 wrap	 my	 arms	 around	 his	 waist

and	 hug	 his	 back.	 He	 stil s	 to	 let	 me	 have	 my

moment.	 Then	 I	 plant	 a	 kiss	 on	 his	 back	 between

his	 shoulder	 blades.

“The	 kiss	 doesn’t	 count	 unless	 it’s	 on	 bare	 skin,”

he	 says.	 “Go	 paint.”



I	 paint	 until	 midnight,	 hours	 of	 uninterrupted

painting,	 and	 I	 only	 decide	 to	 go	 to	 bed	 when	 Bert’s

noxious	 gas	 makes	 my	 studio	 unbearable.	 I	 change

into	 a	 slip	 of	 a	 nightie	 and	 look	 for	 Dylan.	 I	 find	 him

in	 the	 library,	 sitting	 on	 the	 couch	 with	 his	 long	 legs

stretched	 out	 resting	 on	 the	 coffee	 table.	 He’s



282

working	 on	 his	 laptop	 and	 has	 a	 pen	 and	 pad	 of

paper	 next	 to	 him.

“What	 are	 you	 doing?”	 I	 ask.

“Surfing	 porn	 sites.”

“Really?”

“No,	 I’m	 kidding.	 I’m	 reading	 the	 Fed

announcement	 that	 came	 out	 today.	 It	 moved	 the

market	 one	 percent.”

“Really,	 you’re	 reading	 that	 at	 this	 hour?”

“No,	 I’m	 kidding.	 I’m	 just	 catching	 up	 on	 some

work.”

“Oh,	 you’re	 a	 funny	 man	 when	 there’s	 a	 full

moon.”	 I	 sit	 down	 next	 to	 him.

He’s	 perusing	 the	 website	 of	 a	 high-‐end	 store

in	 Manhattan	 I	 recognize.	 It	 lists	 locations	 in

Brooklyn	 and	 D.C.

“They’re	 a	 client,”	 Dylan	 informs	 me.	 “I	 want

to	 see	 what	 they	 currently	 have	 on	 hand	 and	 if	 I

need	 to	 push	 our	 New	 York	 sales	 rep	 into	 adding

more	 pieces.	 I	 have	 about	 fifty	 sites	 I	 like	 to	 go

through	 every	 month.	 Sometimes	 I	 find	 new	 stores

I	 think	 would	 be	 a	 perfect	 match	 for	 our	 product,

so	 I	 send	 notes	 out	 to	 the	 sales	 reps.”



283

“I	 didn’t	 know	 you	 handled	 the	 business	 end,

too.	 I	 thought	 you	 made	 furniture	 all	 day.”

“That’s	 my	 primary	 job,	 working	 in	 the	 shop,

however,	 Carson	 has	 me	 going	 out	 into	 the	 field

more,	 meeting	 store	 buyers	 and	 talking	 to	 sales

reps.	 I	 help	 train	 them	 with	 our	 furniture.	 I	 like

talking	 about	 the	 wood,	 the	 work,	 the	 process.

Then	 I	 think	 the	 reps	 are	 better	 at	 sel ing	 it.”

A	 slew	 of	 spreadsheets	 pop	 up	 on	 the	 screen

and	 I	 watch	 as	 Dylan	 flips	 through	 them.	 Revenue,

Inventory,	 Sales	 Expectations,	 Current	 Orders,	 Sales

History.	 His	 eyes	 flit	 around	 the	 screen	 quickly	 as

he	 reads	 the	 numbers	 before	 going	 to	 the	 next

screen.

“So	 you’re	 a	 businessman,	 too.	 You	 help

Carson	 with	 the	 financial	 part?”

Dylan	 looks	 at	 me	 amused.	 “Wel ,	 gol y	 gee,	 I

think	 I	 can	 add	 and	 subtract	 a	 few	 numbers,	 Ms.

Channing,”	 he	 says	 in	 a	 Gomer	 Pyle	 imitation.

I	 laugh	 and	 am	 relieved	 we’re	 back	 to	 our

regular	 banter,	 that	 the	 tension	 from	 earlier	 is	 gone.



284

“I	 don’t	 know,	 Dylan.	 These	 fancy	 numbers	 and

charts	 and	 that	 sexy	 accent	 are	 kind	 of	 turning	 me

on.”

Dylan	 puts	 the	 laptop	 on	 the	 table	 and	 then

lifts	 me	 like	 a	 bride	 as	 he	 stands.	 “We’re	 going	 to

have	 to	 do	 something	 about	 that	 right	 now,”	 he

says	 as	 he	 carries	 me	 off	 to	 bed.



I	 wake	 when	 it’s	 stil 	 dark,	 my	 mind	 murky	 with

a	 dream	 that	 is	 now	 fading.	 The	 nightstand	 clock

says	 it’s	 three	 o’clock	 in	 the	 morning	 while	 Dylan’s

quick	 breaths	 tel 	 me	 he’s	 awake,	 too.

“Dylan?”	 I	 turn	 towards	 his	 back.	 “You	 awake?”

“Yeah,”	 he	 says,	 rol ing	 over	 to	 face	 me.	 “Did

you	 have	 a	 bad	 dream?”

“I	 don’t	 know.	 I	 can’t	 remember.	 Something

woke	 me	 up.	 I’m	 usually	 a	 heavy	 sleeper,	 but

sometimes	 those	 owls	 and	 crickets	 make	 a	 peep

and	 then	 I’m	 wide	 awake.	 Country	 noises	 are

creepy	 compared	 to	 the	 city.”

I	 can	 see	 Dylan’s	 smile	 in	 the	 moonlight	 as	 he

reaches	 over	 with	 one	 arm	 and	 pul s	 me	 closer.



285

“Why	 are	 you	 awake?”	 I	 ask	 him.	 His	 smile	 is

not	 convincing,	 I	 sense	 something	 closer	 to	 anguish

from	 him.	 “What’s	 wrong,	 Dylan?”

“Sometimes	 I	 have	 insomnia.”

“How	 often?”

“A	 lot,	 but	 then	 sometimes,	 on	 the	 weekends,	 I

crash	 and	 sleep	 like	 a	 log.”

“How	 long	 has	 this	 been	 going	 on?”	 I	 ask,

wondering	 if	 it	 started	 with	 my	 arrival.

“About	 six	 months.	 I	 stopped	 taking	 the	 anti-‐

depressant	 I	 was	 on	 because	 it	 made	 me	 sleepy.

Ironic,	 isn’t	 it?”

“Dylan,”	 I	 say	 urgently.	 “When	 was	 the	 last

time	 you	 saw	 a	 doctor?”

“I	 saw	 the	 shrink	 about	 a	 year	 ago.	 I	 took	 the

pil s	 for	 about	 six	 months	 and	 then	 stopped.	 Except

for	 the	 sleepiness,	 I	 was	 feeling	 pretty	 good.	 You

don’t	 have	 to	 worry	 about	 me,	 Jess.	 I’m	 fine.”

“Don’t	 you	 think	 you	 were	 feeling	 good

because	 of	 the	 medication?	 It’s	 supposed	 to

balance	 you	 out.”

Dylan	 gives	 a	 tired	 laugh.	 “Jesus,	 I	 know	 what

the	 meds	 are	 supposed	 to	 do	 and	 I	 know	 Carson



286

told	 you	 I’ve	 been	 at	 this	 a	 while.	 I’m	 fine.	 I’m

taking	 on	 some	 new	 responsibilities	 at	 the	 shop

and	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 let	 Carson	 down.	 Maybe	 I’ve

been	 worrying	 a	 little	 too	 much	 about	 it	 and	 it

keeps	 me	 up	 at	 night,	 but	 it	 wil 	 go	 away.”

“Why	 can’t	 you	 see	 your	 doctor,	 or	 a	 new

doctor,	 and	 try	 a	 new	 medication	 that	 doesn’t

make	 you	 tired?”

“I	 don’t	 need	 another	 anti-‐depressant	 or	 anti-‐

anxiety	 drug.	 I’ve	 taken	 so	 many	 pil s	 since	 I	 was	 a

teenager,	 enough	 to	 disable	 an	 elephant.	 I’m	 done

with	 the	 pil 	 regimen.”

“That’s	 not	 how	 it	 works	 and	 you	 know	 it.	 You

took	 those	 meds	 over	 many	 years.	 The	 doctors

didn’t	 keep	 you	 loaded	 and	 drugged	 up.”

“How	 do	 you	 know?”	 Now	 Dylan	 is	 propped	 on

his	 arm,	 in	 my	 face.	 “Do	 you	 and	 Carson	 discuss	 my

medical	 history	 a	 lot?	 Do	 you	 think	 I’m	 sick?”

“I	 didn’t	 mean	 to	 be	 intrusive,”	 I	 say,	 my	 voice

trying	 to	 find	 a	 soothing	 tone.	 “I	 think	 you’re	 trying

too	 hard	 to	 be	 perfect.	 Believe	 me,	 Dylan;	 I	 know

what	 it’s	 like	 to	 worry	 about	 pleasing	 other	 people

and	 always	 trying	 to	 be	 the	 best.	 I	 lived	 like	 that	 my



287

whole	 life,	 living	 the	 life	 my	 parents	 wanted	 for	 me,

but	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 do	 that.”

“Jess,”	 he	 snaps.	 “Don’t	 talk	 to	 me	 like	 a	 child.

My	 brother	 has	 done	 that	 enough	 over	 the	 last

twenty	 years.	 I	 may	 not	 have	 a	 fucking	 Ph.D.	 like

you,	 but	 I	 know	 how	 to	 take	 care	 of	 myself.”

I	 fall	 back	 on	 the	 bed	 and	 rol 	 away	 from	 him.

“Sorry	 I	 yel ed	 at	 you.	 I	 think	 if	 I	 exercise	 more,

I’l 	 sleep	 better,”	 he	 says,	 putting	 his	 hand	 on	 my

shoulder.

I’m	 not	 giving	 into	 to	 his	 gentle	 apology	 again.	 I

can’t	 decide	 if	 I’m	 completely	 enraged	 with	 him	 for

dropping	 his	 treatment	 or	 if	 I	 feel	 sorry	 for	 him.	 I

can’t	 look	 at	 him.	 “Dylan,	 you	 already	 put	 in	 thirty

miles	 a	 week	 running.	 Uphil .	 You	 should	 be

sleeping	 like	 a	 baby	 every	 night.”

I’m	 watching	 the	 shadows	 of	 the	 tree	 limbs

cast	 by	 the	 moonlight	 as	 they	 dance	 across	 the	 wall

like	 nighttime	 fairies.	 It’s	 so	 strange	 to	 be	 in	 a

home	 that	 is	 now	 mine	 with	 a	 man	 that	 shares	 my

bed	 every	 night.	 I	 no	 longer	 hear	 my	 roommates

arriving	 home	 loud	 and	 drunk	 or	 the	 neighbors

jamming	 horribly	 on	 their	 guitars	 and	 drums.	 I’m



288

supposed	 to	 be	 an	 adult	 and	 Dylan,	 who	 I	 found	 to

be	 sweet	 and	 comforting	 in	 the	 beginning	 of	 my

Hera	 life,	 is	 making	 me	 question	 my	 own

sensibilities.	 I	 have	 misgivings	 about	 him,	 which

doesn’t	 bode	 wel 	 for	 either	 of	 us.

“Besides,	 I	 don’t	 have	 a	 Ph.D.;	 I	 have	 a

master’s	 degree.	 See	 how	 little	 you	 know	 about

me?”

“I	 know,	 you	 have	 two	 masters,”	 he	 says.

“Okay,	 exercise	 is	 probably	 not	 the	 answer	 to	 my

problem,	 but	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 go	 through	 a	 gauntlet

of	 drugs	 again,	 the	 insanity	 of	 trying	 to	 find	 the

right	 match.	 It’s	 too	 hard.	 Besides,	 I’ve	 been	 happy

since	 you	 came	 here.	 You’re	 my	 drug,	 Jess.”

He	 pul s	 me	 on	 my	 back	 so	 he	 can	 see	 my	 face.

“Dylan,	 I’m	 not	 enough.	 I	 haven’t	 managed	 my

own	 life	 without	 assistance	 from	 caring	 friends,

especially	 people	 in	 this	 town.	 Do	 I	 look	 like

someone	 who	 can	 take	 care	 of	 a	 home,	 manage	 a

career,	 start	 a	 new	 career	 based	 on	 a	 dream	 and

take	 care	 of	 a	 dog?	 I	 haven’t	 been	 doing	 this	 by

myself.	 Besides	 you,	 there	 are	 a	 lot	 of	 people

helping	 me.	 If	 you	 think	 I’m	 enough	 to	 help	 you



289

through	 this,	 you’re	 wrong.	 Your	 brother	 loves	 you,

he	 wants	 to	 help	 you.”

“I	 know.	 It’s	 not	 that	 you	 can’t	 help	 me.	 It’s

that	 you	 don’t	 feel	 the	 same	 way	 I	 feel	 about	 you.”

“I	 didn’t	 say	 that.”

“You	 didn’t	 have	 to.	 Every	 time	 I	 tel 	 you	 that	 I

love	 you,	 you	 change	 the	 subject.”

“Because	 this	 is	 happening	 so	 fast	 and	 it’s	 new.

It’s	 exciting,	 but	 it’s	 overwhelming,”	 I	 stammer.

“You	 don’t	 have	 to	 explain	 or	 justify	 your

feelings	 to	 me.	 I’m	 not	 mad.	 Do	 you	 think	 I’m	 angry

at	 you?”

“How	 could	 you	 not	 be?	 You’re	 doing

everything	 right	 and	 I’m	 coming	 off	 as	 some

unappreciative	 bitch.”

“I	 never	 think	 that	 and	 you	 shouldn’t,	 either.”

His	 fingers	 trace	 lightly	 up	 and	 down	 my	 arm.

“I	 can’t	 help	 feeling	 that	 way.	 I	 have	 something

so	 good	 here	 and	 most	 people	 would	 envy	 my

situation.	 I’m	 squandering	 my	 good	 fortune,	 but	 I

can’t	 make	 myself	 fall	 in	 love	 before	 I’m	 ready.”

“Or	 ever,”	 Dylan	 says.



290

True.	 Sometimes	 I	 feel	 smothered	 by	 Dylan

and	 I	 know	 I	 wouldn’t	 if	 my	 feelings	 for	 him	 weren’t

waning	 or	 based	 on	 something	 more	 solid	 than	 our

sex	 life.

As	 much	 as	 I	 want	 to	 help	 Dylan	 and	 keep

thinking	 I’l 	 eventually	 fall	 in	 love	 with	 him,	 I’m	 not

as	 happy	 as	 someone	 should	 be	 in	 my	 situation.	 I

spend	 an	 awful	 lot	 of	 time	 daydreaming	 in	 my

country	 home.	 Most	 of	 the	 images	 that	 loop

endlessly	 in	 my	 brain	 are	 homey	 scenes	 of	 me

painting	 and	 relaxing	 on	 the	 porch	 with	 friends.

The	 only	 man	 in	 every	 single	 scene	 of	 my	 domestic

tranquility	 is	 there	 because	 I	 put	 him	 there.	 Carson.





291





Twenty-‐One



When	 I	 wake	 up,	 Dylan’s	 side	 of	 the	 bed	 is

empty.	 He	 usually	 leaves	 for	 work	 before	 I	 rise,	 but

today	 there	 is	 no	 cute	 little	 note	 on	 the	 kitchen

counter	 with	 his	 plans	 for	 our	 dinner	 or	 night	 out.

He	 didn’t	 even	 leave	 me	 a	 fresh	 a	 pot	 of	 coffee.

I	 feed	 Bert	 and	 shoo	 him	 outside	 so	 he	 can	 do

his	 business.	 Then	 I	 check	 in	 with	 5	 Alpha	 to	 tel 	 my

team	 that	 I’l 	 be	 out	 for	 the	 morning,	 but	 that	 they

can	 reach	 me	 later	 in	 the	 afternoon.	 I	 put	 on	 a	 tank

top	 and	 some	 running	 tights,	 which	 I	 bought	 last

year	 when	 I	 thought	 I’d	 become	 a	 runner,	 only	 to

discover	 that	 I	 can’t	 run	 unless	 I’m	 trying	 to	 catch	 a

cab	 or	 get	 the	 last	 muffin	 at	 Magnolia	 Bakery.	 I

grab	 one	 of	 the	 yoga	 mats	 Aunt	 Virginia	 had

stowed	 in	 her	 closet	 and	 head	 out.	 Bert	 refuses	 to

walk	 with	 me	 so	 I	 let	 him	 back	 inside	 to	 wile	 his

hours	 away	 in	 blissful	 slumber.



292

I	 make	 it	 to	 Beyond	 The	 Pants	 in	 time	 for	 the

nine	 o’clock	 yoga	 class	 with	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren.

The	 instructor	 is	 a	 striking	 woman	 in	 her	 forties

with	 silver	 hair	 and	 deeply	 tanned	 skin.	 Lois	 is	 up

front,	 fol owing	 the	 moves	 at	 her	 own	 graceful

pace	 while	 I	 like	 to	 hide	 in	 the	 back	 of	 the	 class.

The	 yogi’s	 voice	 is	 deep	 and	 smooth;	 she

manages	 to	 make	 her	 way	 over	 to	 me	 frequently	 to

adjust	 my	 hips	 or	 put	 a	 palm	 on	 my	 back	 to	 guide

me	 into	 a	 better	 position.	 She	 has	 me	 contorted

into	 some	 kind	 of	 pretzel	 move	 that	 requires	 quiet

breathing	 and	 that’s	 when	 it	 occurs	 to	 me	 that	 it’s

conceivable	 that	 I	 really	 don’t	 fit	 in	 Hera.	 As	 much

as	 I	 have	 come	 to	 love	 my	 new	 little	 town	 and	 how

my	 life	 seems	 to	 be	 better,	 maybe	 I’m	 a	 poison	 for

the	 town,	 or	 rather	 Dylan.	 I	 contemplate	 this	 and

replay	 last	 night’s	 conversation	 in	 my	 head	 when	 I

realize	 I	 can’t	 move.

“Sweet	 mother	 of	 nuts,”	 Lois	 says,	 bending

down	 to	 look	 me	 in	 the	 face.	 “What	 the	 heavens

are	 you	 doing	 there?”

One	 of	 my	 legs	 is	 tucked	 under	 me	 and	 the

other	 is	 bent	 across	 the	 front.	 I	 can’t	 move	 because



293

the	 leg	 under	 my	 ass	 has	 fallen	 asleep	 and	 that

crazy,	 painful,	 tingling	 sensation	 of	 paralysis	 makes

me	 stay	 put.	 “I	 think	 I	 did	 it	 wrong,”	 I	 say.

“Well,	 if	 you	 could	 see	 your	 purple	 face	 you’d

sure	 as	 heck	 know	 it	 isn’t	 right.”	 Lois	 laughs.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 burst	 out	 laughing,	 too.	 The

class	 is	 finished	 and	 everyone	 is	 mil ing	 out	 with

their	 rol ed	 mats	 under	 their	 arms;	 except	 for	 me,

pretzel	 girl.	 The	 instructor	 comes	 over	 and	 gently

removes	 my	 bent	 leg	 and	 massages	 both	 so	 I	 can

stand	 with	 minimal	 pain.

“I	 didn’t	 get	 much	 sleep	 last	 night.	 I	 think	 I’m

having	 trouble	 fol owing	 directions	 this	 morning.”	 I

rub	 my	 leg.

“Dylan	 must	 be	 voracious,”	 Lauren	 says	 in	 low

voice	 as	 we	 exit,	 but	 loud	 enough	 that	 Lois	 looks

back	 at	 me	 and	 grimaces.	 I	 smile	 and	 hurry	 the	 girls

outside.

“Did	 you	 have	 to	 say	 that	 in	 front	 of	 Lois?”	 I

ask	 Lauren.	 “You	 made	 it	 sound	 like	 I’m	 the	 town

hooker.”

“No,	 I	 didn’t.	 I	 only	 said—”



294

“I	 know	 what	 you	 said.	 Everyone	 heard	 what

you	 said.	 Did	 you	 see	 Lois’s	 face?	 She	 looked

pissed.”

“She’s	 not	 mad	 at	 you,	 Jess,”	 Imogene	 says	 as

she	 lights	 a	 cigarette.

“How	 can	 you	 smoke	 after	 yoga	 class?”	 I	 ask.

“Easy,	 I	 keep	 the	 cigs	 and	 lighter	 in	 my	 yoga

bag.	 Just	 light,	 puff	 and	 blow.”

I	 cringe.	 “What	 is	 going	 on	 with	 Lois?”

“She’s	 not	 a	 fan	 of	 you	 and	 Dylan	 dating,”

Lauren	 answers.	 “Actually,	 she	 told	 us	 a	 couple	 of

weeks	 ago	 that	 she	 didn’t	 think	 it	 was	 a	 good	 idea

for	 you	 and	 Dylan	 to	 date,	 but	 I	 suppose	 now	 she’s

aware	 you’re	 sleeping	 together.	 Thanks	 to	 me,	 I

guess.”

“I	 thought	 Lois	 liked	 me.	 Are	 you	 going	 to	 tel

me	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 story?	 Why	 is	 she	 opposed	 to

me	 dating	 Dylan?”

“Oh,	 sweetie,	 it’s	 not	 you.	 She’s	 opposed	 to

anyone—”

“Lauren!”	 Imogene	 scolds.	 “Jess,	 Lois	 is

concerned	 that	 you	 and	 Dylan	 may	 be	 rushing

things.	 That’s	 her	 problem,	 not	 yours.”



295

A	 look	 passes	 between	 the	 two	 women	 with

Imogene	 winning	 the	 stare	 down	 battle	 and

ultimately	 whatever	 it	 is	 they	 are	 keeping	 from	 me.

“I	 don’t	 believe	 you	 two.	 I	 don’t	 have	 time	 for

these	 guessing	 games.	 I	 have	 work	 to	 do,”	 I	 say	 and

then	 head	 down	 the	 main	 street	 for	 my	 long	 walk

home.

I	 make	 it	 as	 far	 as	 The	 General	 Store	 when	 I	 see

Carson	 coming	 out	 with	 a	 bottle	 of	 water.

“How’s	 the	 yoga	 going?”	 he	 asks	 with	 a	 forced

smile.

“Oh,	 geez.	 Not	 you,	 too,”	 I	 say,	 trying	 to	 pass

him	 on	 the	 sidewalk.

“What?”	 he	 laughs	 and	 intentionally	 blocks	 my

path.

“I	 came	 down	 from	 my	 crumbling	 house	 on	 the

hil 	 to	 get	 my	 Zen	 on	 and	 relax	 for	 a	 change	 and	 I’ve

had	 nothing	 except	 the	 weirdest	 encounters	 with

everyone	 this	 morning.	 Go	 ahead,	 make	 your	 crack

so	 I	 can	 be	 on	 my	 way.”	 I	 stand	 my	 ground	 with	 my

yoga	 satchel	 in	 one	 hand	 and	 my	 New	 York	 Yankees

cap	 in	 the	 other.



296

“Hera	 has	 Zen?	 How	 do	 you	 get	 that	 on?”

Although	 this	 is	 a	 rare	 moment	 for	 Carson	 and

someone	 should	 record	 it,	 I’m	 too	 annoyed	 for

anymore	 evasive	 or	 humorous	 conversations	 at	 my

expense.

“Step	 aside,	 cowboy.	 I	 need	 to	 get	 going.”

“Where’s	 your	 car?”

“I	 walked.”

“Ah	 girly,	 you	 and	 your	 citified	 ways,”	 he	 says

in	 a	 Hil bil y	 accent	 and	 I	 have	 to	 laugh.	 “We	 don’t

walk	 here.	 Come	 on,	 cowpoke;	 let	 me	 give	 you	 a

ride	 home.”

I’m	 actually	 relieved	 that	 he	 offers	 to	 drive	 me.

I’m	 not	 cut	 out	 for	 long,	 hot,	 country	 walks.	 I	 climb

into	 the	 truck’s	 cab	 and	 Carson	 turns	 on	 the	 air

conditioning	 ful 	 blast.

“That’s	 heaven,”	 I	 mumble	 and	 close	 my	 eyes,

letting	 the	 cool	 air	 chil 	 the	 sweat	 on	 my	 face.

“Can	 I	 ask	 you	 something?”

“If	 I	 say	 no,	 you’l 	 ask	 anyway.”	 I	 look	 over	 at

him	 as	 he	 drives	 with	 one	 hand	 while	 the	 other	 one

does	 that	 Blackard	 tic	 of	 stroking	 his	 chin,	 which

means	 he’s	 ready	 to	 be	 all	 serious	 again.	 “What?”



297

“Has	 Dylan	 been	 acting	 a	 little	 different?”	 he

asks.	 This	 is	 not	 an	 impromptu	 question.	 Carson

has	 been	 thinking	 about	 this	 for	 a	 while	 and	 is

trying	 to	 say	 it	 as	 delicately	 as	 possible	 without

causing	 me	 to	 be	 alarmed.	 He’s	 a	 planner	 and	 I	 can

see	 that	 it	 is	 difficult	 for	 him	 to	 ask	 someone	 else

about	 his	 own	 brother;	 the	 boy	 and	 the	 man	 he	 has

been	 raising	 for	 a	 lifetime.

“In	 what	 way?”	 I	 ask	 in	 a	 meek	 voice	 I	 haven’t

used	 in	 a	 long	 time.

Carson	 glances	 at	 me	 and	 then	 back	 at	 the

road	 in	 front	 of	 us.	 “He’s	 been	 too	 low	 key.	 Very

quiet	 and	 distant.”

“Doesn’t	 his	 anti-‐depressant	 medication	 do

that?	 Calm	 him?”	 I	 ask,	 hopeful	 that	 maybe	 Dylan	 is

secretly	 getting	 treatment,	 but	 wasn’t	 ready	 to	 tel

me.

“It	 calms	 him,	 but	 it	 doesn’t	 make	 him

indifferent,”	 Carson	 answers.	 “Jess,	 I	 told	 you	 he

went	 off	 his	 medication	 and	 hasn’t	 been	 very

stable	 since	 then.”

“I	 know.	 I	 was	 just	 hoping	 you	 were	 going	 to

tel 	 me	 his	 behavior	 was	 a	 good	 sign.”



298

“Do	 you	 think	 he’s	 doing	 wel ?”	 Carson	 asks

me.	 “He’s	 quiet	 at	 work.	 He	 does	 his	 job,	 although

he’s	 less	 talkative.	 He	 uses	 his	 lunch	 hour	 to	 go

running,	 and	 before	 he	 used	 to	 hang	 out	 with	 the

guys	 and	 eat	 and	 shoot	 the	 shit.	 Now	 he	 runs	 like	 a

maniac.	 Excuse	 me,	 poor	 choice	 of	 words.	 You	 see

him	 more	 than	 I	 do.	 That’s	 why	 I’m	 asking.”

“No,	 I	 don’t	 think	 he’s	 doing	 wel .	 He	 told	 me

last	 night	 that	 he	 doesn’t	 want	 to	 go	 back	 on	 any

treatment	 program.	 It’s	 a	 sore	 point	 between	 us.”

“I’m	 sorry,”	 Carson	 says	 under	 his	 breath.	 He

parks	 his	 truck	 in	 front	 of	 my	 house.

“Wel ,	 thanks	 for	 the	 ride.”

“Yeah,	 about	 that.	 Sorry	 to	 tel 	 you,	 but	 I’m

coming	 in.	 I’ve	 got	 my	 equipment	 in	 back	 and	 I

have	 to	 rip	 out	 some	 of	 the	 kitchen	 cabinets	 we

can’t	 save,	 so	 we	 can	 slide	 in	 your	 new	 appliances

which	 wil 	 be	 arriving	 on	 a	 delivery	 truck	 in

approximately	 two	 hours,	 or	 less.”

“It’s	 a	 good	 thing	 I	 don’t	 cook	 or	 I’d	 be	 really

pissed	 off	 at	 your	 lack	 of	 notice.	 I	 have	 to	 get	 to

work	 anyway.”



299

“How	 is	 that	 going?	 Working	 from	 here?”

Carson	 asks	 as	 he	 begins	 unloading	 equipment

from	 the	 truck	 bed.

“Pretty	 good.	 I	 like	 the	 quiet	 of	 the	 library.	 It’s

kind	 of	 lonely	 not	 having	 my	 col eagues	 around	 and

people	 to	 eat	 lunch	 with,	 but	 it’s	 a	 pretty	 good

trade-‐off	 with	 the	 views	 and	 the	 peacefulness.

Other	 than	 Bert,	 I	 have	 very	 few	 distractions.”

“Except	 for	 Dylan,”	 Carson	 says.	 “Have	 you

given	 him	 his	 own	 set	 of	 drawers	 and	 a	 closet	 yet?

He	 spends	 more	 time	 here	 than	 anywhere	 else.”

One	 minute	 Carson	 is	 concerned	 about	 his

brother,	 the	 next	 he’s	 taking	 jabs	 at	 me	 as	 if	 he’s

resentful	 of	 me	 or	 Dylan,	 or	 both.	 I’m	 too	 stunned

to	 reply.	 Carson	 carries	 a	 toolbox	 and	 a	 small

ladder,	 and	 I	 fol ow	 him	 into	 the	 house.

“Wait	 a	 minute,”	 I	 say.	 Carson	 sets	 his

equipment	 down	 on	 the	 kitchen	 floor	 and	 turns

back	 to	 me.	 “Do	 you	 think	 I’ve	 caused	 Dylan	 to

behave	 this	 way?	 Do	 you	 think	 this	 is	 my	 fault?”

“No.”	 Carson	 shakes	 his	 head	 in	 exasperation.

“Forget	 I	 said	 anything.”	 He	 leans	 down	 to	 pet	 Bert.



300

“It’s	 hard	 to	 forget	 when	 you	 keep	 bringing	 it

up.”

Carson	 gives	 me	 the	 once	 over	 and	 shakes	 his

head.	 Then	 he	 retrieves	 Bert’s	 food	 dishes	 to	 give

him	 fresh	 water	 and	 the	 dry	 smel y	 pel ets	 he	 eats.

“I	 was	 going	 to	 do	 that.”	 I	 point	 to	 the	 dishes.

“Don’t	 be	 so	 defensive.	 I’m	 trying	 to	 help	 out;

I’m	 not	 blaming	 you	 for	 Dylan	 or	 for	 Bert’s	 dirty

water	 dish.”

“Jesus.	 Something	 is	 going	 on.	 Between	 you

and	 Lois	 and	 the	 others,	 I	 swear	 something	 is	 going

on	 and	 no	 one	 is	 tel ing	 me.	 I	 feel	 like	 I’m	 the	 star	 in

some	 crazy	 Fel ini	 movie,	 except	 I’m	 the	 only	 one

who	 doesn’t	 have	 a	 script.”	 I	 swing	 my	 arms	 in

frustration	 and	 whack	 my	 hand	 unintentionally

against	 the	 doorframe.	 “Fuck!”

“Are	 you	 okay?”	 Carson	 comes	 towards	 me.

“Leave	 me	 alone.”	 I	 hold	 my	 hand	 up	 so	 he

doesn’t	 touch	 it.	 “I	 have	 work	 to	 do.”	 I	 leave	 and

jog	 up	 the	 staircase	 to	 my	 bedroom,	 pounding	 my

feet	 as	 hard	 as	 I	 can.

After	 a	 shower	 and	 an	 hour	 of	 sitting	 in	 front

of	 my	 computer	 screens,	 I	 realize	 I	 never	 ate



301

breakfast	 or	 lunch	 and	 my	 stomach	 is	 gurgling.

Carson	 is	 making	 a	 racket,	 demolishing	 part	 of	 my

kitchen,	 though,	 and	 the	 last	 thing	 I	 want	 to	 do	 is

slink	 down	 to	 the	 kitchen	 to	 grab	 some	 food	 while

he’s	 there.

I	 continue	 to	 work,	 plodding	 through	 code	 that

I	 should	 know	 wel ,	 yet	 my	 thoughts	 are	 distracted

so	 I	 might	 as	 wel 	 be	 translating	 a	 foreign	 language.

I	 should	 be	 celebrating	 after	 what	 Tom	 has	 offered

to	 do	 with	 my	 paintings,	 but	 other	 than	 Dylan,	 I

haven’t	 told	 anyone	 my	 good	 news.	 The	 fact	 that

Dylan	 did	 not	 mention	 it	 again	 last	 night	 and	 did

not	 congratulate	 me	 or	 seem	 happy	 in	 the	 least

strikes	 an	 unsettling	 chord.

By	 late	 afternoon	 the	 house	 is	 quiet.	 The

demolition	 has	 stopped	 and	 I	 see	 a	 large	 delivery

truck	 pul 	 up	 in	 the	 front	 yard.	 I	 let	 Carson	 handle

the	 order	 since	 it’s	 been	 organized	 by	 him	 and	 I’d

only	 get	 in	 the	 way.	 I	 sit	 in	 the	 bay	 window	 and

watch	 the	 delivery	 men	 rol 	 the	 stainless	 steel

appliances	 off	 the	 truck	 ramp,	 Carson	 directing	 the

way.



302

I	 go	 back	 to	 work,	 joining	 in	 a	 late	 afternoon

conference	 call	 with	 Nathan	 and	 my	 team	 to	 go

over	 changes	 they	 want	 to	 make	 in	 one	 of	 our

software	 programs	 before	 a	 final	 product	 is

presented	 to	 the	 client.	 I	 listen,	 but	 say	 little.	 I’m

too	 busy	 doodling	 on	 my	 notepad,	 thinking	 I’d

rather	 be	 in	 the	 studio	 right	 now,	 playing	 with	 my

paints	 and	 inks.	 I	 hear	 the	 delivery	 truck	 drive	 away

and	 Bert	 perks	 up	 from	 his	 place	 on	 the	 couch	 as	 I

get	 off	 the	 conference	 call.

“I	 think	 it’s	 safe	 for	 you	 to	 go	 down	 and	 eat

now,”	 I	 tel 	 him.	 He	 cocks	 his	 head	 and	 then	 does	 a

wobbly	 stand	 before	 stumbling	 off	 the	 couch	 and

running	 out	 of	 the	 room.

I	 stare	 past	 my	 computer	 monitors	 to	 the	 large

tree	 outside	 the	 bay	 windows,	 mesmerized	 by	 a

swaying	 branch.	 I	 don’t	 even	 notice	 the	 plate	 being

put	 in	 front	 of	 me	 until	 Carson	 speaks.	 “Thought

you	 must	 be	 hungry.”

He	 made	 me	 a	 peanut	 butter	 and	 jel y

sandwich	 with	 apple	 slices	 and	 a	 glass	 of	 lemonade.

This	 is	 the	 same	 meal	 he	 used	 to	 serve	 Dylan	 and

me	 when	 we	 were	 kids.



303

“Thanks.	 I’m	 famished,”	 I	 say,	 finally	 looking	 at

him.

“The	 kitchen	 is	 almost	 done.	 You	 can	 use	 it

now,	 though.	 I	 stil 	 have	 to	 put	 the	 new	 cabinet

fronts	 on,	 but	 the	 appliances	 are	 all	 hooked	 up.”	 He

perches	 on	 the	 edge	 of	 my	 desk	 while	 I	 eat.	 His

great	 ass	 is	 awful y	 close	 to	 my	 keyboard.	 Talk

about	 a	 distraction.

“Did	 my	 Aunt’s	 trust	 cover	 the	 expense	 and	 did

Archie	 already	 pay	 you	 for	 everything?”	 I	 keep	 my

eyes	 on	 my	 plate.

“Everything	 is	 in	 order.	 You	 don’t	 have	 to	 do	 a

thing.”

I	 nod	 and	 hold	 up	 an	 apple	 slice	 before	 biting

into	 it.	 “Really?	 You	 think	 you	 have	 to	 cut	 up	 my

apples	 like	 I’m	 a	 five-‐year-‐old?”	 I	 smile.

Carson	 shrugs	 and	 chuckles.	 “Habit.	 I	 stil 	 slice

my	 apples,	 too.”

I	 nibble	 the	 apple	 while	 he	 watches	 me,	 and	 it

seems	 an	 odd	 turn	 of	 events	 that	 Carson	 is	 here

instead	 of	 Dylan,	 and	 that	 we	 can	 be	 close	 to	 one

another	 in	 this	 pleasant	 state	 without	 any	 friction



304

bordering	 the	 edges	 of	 the	 air	 between	 us	 as	 it

does	 when	 I’m	 with	 Dylan.

Being	 with	 Carson,	 I	 don’t	 sense	 that	 I’m	 on

the	 verge	 of	 something	 disagreeable	 taking	 over.

He’s	 black	 and	 white,	 easy	 to	 read.	 He’s	 either

pissed	 or	 pleasant.	 I	 may	 not	 know	 why,	 but	 I	 can

always	 read	 his	 emotions.	 By	 comparison,	 Dylan	 is

made	 of	 many	 hues	 in	 between	 that	 I	 can’t

interpret.	 Dylan	 is	 a	 palette	 of	 paint	 that	 I	 don’t

know	 how	 to	 brush	 on	 paper,	 no	 matter	 how	 long	 I

stare	 at	 the	 various	 color	 combinations.	 Nothing

clicks	 with	 Dylan,	 unless	 it’s	 sex.

“Did	 Dylan	 tel 	 you	 my	 good	 news?	 About	 the

art	 show	 I’m	 going	 to	 be	 in	 this	 winter.”	 I	 say	 it

joylessly.

Carson	 senses	 my	 disappointment.	 “No.	 He

didn’t	 say	 anything	 about	 it.	 Congratulations,	 Jess.

Gin	 would	 be	 very	 proud	 of	 you.”

I	 want	 to	 stay	 in	 this	 lovely	 room	 with	 its	 warm

wood,	 smel s	 of	 worn	 leather	 and	 old	 books	 and

keep	 talking	 to	 Carson.	 This	 is	 where	 I	 want	 to	 be,

but	 I	 have	 to	 remind	 myself	 that	 he	 is	 not	 mine.	 I



305

have	 chosen	 to	 be	 with	 someone	 else	 and	 it’s	 a

mistake	 that	 is	 entirely	 my	 fault.



Dylan	 arrives	 with	 Leo	 and	 Daniel	 from	 the

shop,	 and	 they	 help	 Carson	 finish	 the	 new	 cabinets

in	 a	 matter	 of	 hours.	 I	 spend	 the	 time	 painting	 in

the	 studio.	 In	 the	 evening,	 Dylan	 brings	 me	 down

for	 the	 unveiling	 of	 the	 new	 kitchen.

“A	 dishwasher!”	 I	 exclaim	 and	 the	 men	 laugh.

They	 even	 transferred	 the	 old	 food	 to	 the	 new

fridge	 and	 cupboards	 and	 mopped	 the	 dust	 off	 the

floor.	 Carson	 is	 right;	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 do	 anything.

They	 crack	 open	 a	 few	 bottles	 of	 beer	 and	 talk

for	 a	 while	 about	 business	 and	 then	 Leo	 and	 Daniel

load	 the	 tools	 into	 the	 back	 of	 Carson’s	 truck.

Before	 he	 leaves,	 Carson	 stops	 at	 the	 front

door,	 turns	 to	 me	 and	 puts	 his	 hand	 on	 my

shoulder.	 “Congratulations,	 Jess.	 Your	 show	 will	 be

great.”

“Thanks,	 Carson.”	 I	 want	 to	 do	 more.	 I	 want	 to

hug	 him	 for	 this,	 but	 I	 can’t.	 Not	 in	 front	 of	 Dylan.

Dylan	 closes	 the	 door.	 “You	 told	 him	 about	 the

show?”



306

“Yes.	 I	 wanted	 to	 share	 it	 with	 someone.	 I	 was

surprised	 you	 didn’t	 tel 	 him	 this	 morning	 at	 work.”

“I	 forgot,	 that’s	 all,”	 Dylan	 says,	 but	 his

dejected	 expression	 says	 otherwise.

“Dylan,	 this	 show	 is	 a	 big	 deal	 to	 me	 and	 I

thought	 you’d	 be	 happy	 for	 me.	 You’re	 acting	 like

I’ve	 been	 called	 for	 duty	 and	 I’m	 going	 off	 to	 war.”

He	 doesn’t	 say	 anything.	 I	 fol ow	 him	 around

the	 first	 floor	 as	 he	 shuts	 off	 lights.	 “Dylan,	 what’s

going	 on?	 Is	 this	 because	 of	 our	 conversation	 last

night?	 Is	 this	 because	 you’re	 depressed	 again	 and

you	 won’t	 get	 help?”	 I	 ask,	 pleading.

“I	 don’t	 want	 to	 talk	 about	 it,”	 he	 raises	 his

voice.	 “You	 and	 Carson	 both,	 lay	 off.”

“I’m	 sick	 of	 you	 acting	 like	 this	 doesn’t	 affect

the	 rest	 of	 us.	 It	 has	 everything	 to	 do	 with	 me	 and

Carson	 and	 your	 friends,”	 I	 say.	 He	 avoids	 eye

contact	 with	 me,	 closing	 windows,	 shutting	 off

lights	 and	 locking	 doors.	 I’m	 right	 behind	 him

because	 I	 need	 to	 resolve	 this.

“Let’s	 go	 to	 bed.”

“You	 can’t	 fuck	 your	 way	 out	 of	 everything,

Dylan!”	 I	 shout.	 “I’m	 sick	 of	 you	 being	 so	 glum,	 and



307

your	 answer	 to	 avoiding	 your	 problem	 when	 you’re

with	 me	 is	 to	 screw.	 You	 can’t	 decide	 that	 you’l 	 be

happy	 only	 during	 sex	 and	 then	 miserable	 the	 rest

of	 the	 time.	 You	 may	 think	 that	 works	 for	 you,	 but

it	 doesn’t	 work	 for	 me.”

Dylan	 stands	 on	 the	 first	 landing	 and	 stares	 at

me,	 shocked	 by	 my	 rant.	 I	 try	 to	 run	 past	 him	 up

the	 stairs	 to	 get	 to	 my	 bedroom,	 but	 he	 grabs	 my

arm	 and	 pul s	 me	 back	 to	 him.	 “I	 don’t	 want	 to

make	 you	 miserable,”	 he	 says.	 “I	 thought	 we	 were

becoming	 closer.	 I	 want	 to	 live	 with	 you.	 I	 thought

you’d	 want	 me	 to	 move	 in.”

“What?	 Live	 together?	 Dylan,	 we	 can’t	 even

work	 out	 the	 problems	 we	 have	 now.	 You	 think

moving	 in	 together	 and	 combining	 our	 belongings

wil 	 solve	 our	 problems?”

“I	 practically	 live	 here	 as	 it	 is.”

“Yes,	 I	 know.	 And	 we	 don’t	 seem	 to	 be	 doing

very	 wel 	 outside	 of	 the	 bedroom.”	 It’s	 too	 late	 to

take	 back	 my	 harsh	 words.	 “I	 shouldn’t	 have	 said

that.”

Dylan	 lets	 go	 of	 my	 arm.	 “I	 haven’t	 done

everything	 the	 way	 you	 think	 I	 should,	 but	 I	 do	 love



308

you.	 I	 know	 if	 we	 live	 together,	 I’l 	 get	 back	 on	 track

so	 my—my	 mood	 swings	 are	 under	 control.”

“No,	 Dylan,	 you	 have	 to	 do	 that	 anyway,

whether	 you	 live	 with	 me	 or	 not.	 You	 have	 to	 get

professional	 help.	 I	 can’t	 live	 with	 you.	 Not	 like	 this.

This	 is	 how	 wrong	 the	 situation	 is;	 you	 were

thinking	 of	 moving	 in	 together	 and	 I	 was	 thinking

we	 need	 to	 take	 a	 break	 from	 us.”

“You’re	 breaking	 up	 with	 me?”	 He	 looks	 down.

His	 whole	 body	 seems	 to	 deplete	 whatever	 energy

it	 has	 left.	 He’s	 not	 the	 Dylan	 I	 met	 two	 months	 ago,

the	 gregarious	 personality	 that	 took	 over	 a	 room.

The	 strength	 and	 effervescence	 is	 seeping	 from	 this

Dylan.	 He’s	 becoming	 hol ow	 and	 muted	 and	 he

won’t	 let	 anyone	 help	 him.

“We	 both	 need	 to	 be	 apart	 from	 one	 another

for	 a	 while,	 but—”

“Don’t	 say	 ‘ we’.	 It’s	 you	 that	 needs	 to	 be	 apart

from	 me,”	 he	 says	 without	 any	 hostility.	 He	 walks

slowly	 back	 down	 the	 stairs	 and	 I	 want	 to	 go	 after

him,	 but	 I	 have	 nothing	 left	 to	 give	 him.	 Dylan	 picks

up	 the	 keys	 to	 his	 Jeep	 from	 the	 hall	 table	 and



309

walks	 out	 the	 front	 door	 without	 looking	 back	 at

me.

I	 sit	 down	 on	 the	 step	 and	 cry,	 sparsely	 at	 first

and	 then	 it	 pours	 out	 of	 me.	 I	 have	 never	 cried	 over

a	 broken	 relationship,	 I’ve	 never	 been	 in	 this

situation	 where	 my	 stomach	 hurts	 and	 my	 heart

aches	 for	 something	 I’ve	 done,	 somebody	 I’ve	 hurt.



With	 Dylan’s	 absence,	 my	 bed	 seems

enormous.	 Bert	 takes	 it	 upon	 himself	 to	 hobble	 up

on	 the	 covers	 and	 join	 me.	 I	 am	 awake	 most	 of	 the

night,	 wondering	 what	 I	 could	 have	 done	 better	 to

make	 things	 right,	 however,	 even	 a	 genius	 can	 get

it	 wrong	 most	 of	 the	 time.	 I	 get	 up	 and	 find	 my	 cel

phone.	 I	 think	 about	 calling	 Marissa	 and	 Kate	 to

make	 plans	 to	 meet	 them	 back	 in	 the	 city,	 instead	 I

text	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene,	 asking	 if	 we	 can	 spend

Saturday	 together.	 I’l 	 be	 turning	 twenty-‐one	 and

I’d	 rather	 have	 people	 around	 me	 so	 I	 can	 pretend

to	 be	 happy.





310





Twenty-‐Two



On	 Saturday	 it	 rains,	 bringing	 with	 it	 a	 cool

wind	 and	 some	 relief.	 It	 allows	 me	 to	 sleep	 in	 and

make	 up	 for	 all	 those	 late-‐night	 wake-‐ups.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 plan	 to	 come	 for	 the	 day

and	 spend	 the	 night.	 They	 show	 up	 with	 overnight

bags,	 junk	 food,	 a	 bag	 of	 limes	 and	 tequila.	 “Happy

Birthday!”	 they	 scream	 when	 I	 open	 the	 front	 door.

“How	 did	 you	 know?”	 I	 ask,	 hustling	 them	 off

the	 wet	 porch.

“Archie	 told	 us,”	 Lauren	 answers.	 “He	 knows

everything.	 He’s	 like	 a	 wizard	 or	 something.”

“It’s	 official;	 you’re	 old	 enough	 for	 margarita

night.”	 Imogene	 holds	 up	 the	 tequila.

“I	 am	 so	 glad	 you	 guys	 are	 here,”	 I	 say	 with	 a

timid	 smile	 before	 the	 crying	 starts.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 usher	 me	 over	 to	 the

living	 room	 couch	 and	 I	 gladly	 sit	 down	 and	 bawl

uncontrol ably.



311

“I	 really	 screwed	 up,”	 I	 say	 between	 sobs.

“We	 heard	 all	 about	 the	 break	 up;	 you	 don’t

have	 to	 say	 anything.	 These	 things	 happen	 every

day.	 You’l 	 be	 fine.”	 Imogene	 puts	 her	 arm	 around

my	 shoulders.

“Don’t	 listen	 to	 her,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “You	 can	 tel

us	 anything.	 Al 	 we	 heard	 is	 that	 Dylan	 has	 been

crashing	 at	 Leo’s	 again.	 He	 told	 us	 the	 other	 day	 at

the	 diner.”

I	 wipe	 my	 eyes	 with	 the	 tissues	 Imogene	 gives

me.	 “Great,	 now	 everyone	 knows.”

“No,	 only	 the	 people	 at	 the	 diner.”	 Lauren

sighs.

“Yep,	 that’s	 pretty	 much	 the	 whole	 town,”

Imogene	 adds.

“Carson	 was	 right	 again.	 He’s	 the	 wizard.	 I

should	 have	 listened	 to	 him,”	 I	 say.	 “Al 	 this	 time,

he	 knew	 this	 would	 happen.”

“No,	 he	 didn’t,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “What	 did	 he

say	 to	 you?”

“I	 haven’t	 seen	 him	 since	 Dylan	 left,	 but	 when

Dylan	 first	 asked	 me	 out,	 Carson	 didn’t	 want	 us	 to

start	 anything.	 He	 said	 I’d	 hurt	 Dylan	 and	 I	 did.”



312

“Even	 Carson	 could	 not	 predict	 this.	 Besides,

you	 didn’t	 intentionally	 hurt	 Dylan.	 You	 look	 pretty

broken	 up,	 too,	 so	 it’s	 fair	 to	 say	 that	 it	 took	 two

people	 to	 make	 this	 happen.”	 Imogene	 rubs	 my

back.

“Leo	 says	 that	 Dylan	 hasn’t	 said	 a	 word	 about

what	 happened.	 He	 said	 Dylan	 is	 barely	 speaking	 at

all.”	 Lauren’s	 eyes	 bug	 out	 to	 emphasize	 Dylan’s

awful	 state.

“So	 you	 finally	 started	 talking	 to	 Leo?”	 I	 ask.

“Oh,	 God,	 no.	 He’s	 stil 	 afraid	 to	 talk	 to	 me,	 I

guess,	 but	 he	 talks	 to	 Bonnie	 and	 I	 stand	 right	 there

to	 listen	 in.”

Imogene	 shakes	 her	 head.	 “They	 are	 so

pathetic.	 They’re	 both	 too	 terrified	 to	 ask	 the	 other

out	 so	 they	 have	 conversations	 through	 my

grandmother.	 Honestly,	 my	 grandmother	 is	 afraid

she’l 	 have	 to	 go	 on	 a	 date	 with	 them.”

Imogene	 and	 I	 both	 laugh	 at	 that.

“See,	 Jess?	 I’m	 not	 doing	 much	 better	 than	 you.

That’s	 why	 I	 have	 brought	 the	 best	 movies	 to	 get

over	 heartbreak.”	 Lauren	 digs	 through	 her	 tote	 bag.



313

“Like	 what?”	 I	 ask,	 expecting	 a	 slew	 of	 sappy

romantic	 comedies.

“I	 have	 Goodfellas.”	 She	 hands	 me	 the	 DVD

case.	 “I	 have	 Dog	 Day	 Afternoon,	 one	 of	 the

greatest	 love	 stories	 ever	 told,	 by	 the	 way.”

“Aren’t	 these	 bloody,	 violent	 films?”	 I	 ask.

“Lauren	 has	 a	 thing	 for	 mob	 movies	 and	 crime

flicks,”	 Imogene	 says.

“No,	 I	 watch	 what	 my	 dad	 watches.	 It’s	 our

thing.	 I	 also	 brought	 Raging	 Bul , Fargo,	 and	 I	 have

two	 seasons	 of	 Boardwalk	 Empire.	 There	 is	 a	 lot	 of

romance	 in	 B.E.;	 al 	 we	 need	 are	 the	 margaritas	 and

we	 can	 get	 this	 party	 started!”	 Lauren	 cheers	 with

a	 jump.

“I	 don’t	 think	 these	 movies	 are	 going	 to	 be

much	 help.”	 I	 fan	 through	 the	 gloomy	 DVD	 covers.

“It’s	 going	 to	 be	 fun.	 Besides,	 it’s	 not	 like	 we

can	 go	 out.	 The	 rain	 is	 coming	 down	 sideways.	 We

can’t	 go	 out	 driving	 in	 this	 weather,”	 Lauren	 says.

“The	 news	 said	 the	 hurricane	 has	 turned	 into	 a

tropical	 storm	 and	 it’s	 coming	 inland.	 It’s	 going	 to

get	 worse	 before	 it	 gets	 better.”



314

“Fine,”	 I	 say	 as	 Imogene	 pul s	 me	 into	 the

kitchen	 after	 Lauren.

We	 mix	 drinks	 and	 fil 	 big	 bowls	 with	 chips	 and

Cheetos,	 a	 forbidden	 food	 in	 my	 parents’	 home

because	 my	 father	 thought	 the	 orange	 powder	 was

unhealthy,	 this	 from	 a	 man	 who	 stocked	 our	 home

with	 Oreos	 and	 pudding.

Imogene	 is	 rummaging	 through	 cupboards,

which	 have	 been	 re-‐arranged	 by	 Carson	 and	 Dylan

when	 they	 finished	 the	 kitchen.	 “Where	 are	 the

friggin’	 margarita	 glasses	 that	 Gin	 used	 to	 have	 in

here?”

“I	 don’t	 know	 where	 anything	 is,”	 I	 say.

“The	 boys	 did	 an	 amazing	 job	 on	 the	 kitchen,

but	 I	 want	 those	 fucking	 giant	 margarita	 glasses!”

Imogene	 shouts.	 Then	 she	 lets	 out	 a	 loud	 gasp	 that

causes	 Lauren	 and	 me	 to	 whip	 our	 heads	 in	 unison.

“What?”	 Lauren	 asks.

“Oh.	 My.	 God.”	 Imogene	 turns	 around	 and	 we

see	 the	 small,	 velvet	 ring	 box	 open	 in	 her	 hand	 with

a	 solitaire	 diamond	 ring	 nestled	 in	 it.

I’m	 staring	 at	 it,	 hoping	 that	 we	 find	 a	 scrap	 of

information	 to	 go	 along	 with	 it,	 something	 along



315

the	 lines	 of	 a	 love	 letter	 from	 one	 of	 Aunt	 Virginia’s

former	 lovers,	 but	 I	 know	 this	 cupboard	 has	 been

wiped	 out	 within	 the	 last	 week	 and	 anything	 in

there	 now—groceries	 or	 diamond	 rings—are	 from

recent	 purchases.

“Shit	 almighty.	 That	 looks	 real,”	 Lauren	 says.

“It	 is.	 The	 bag	 and	 receipt	 were	 next	 to	 it	 on

the	 shelf.”	 Imogene	 hands	 me	 the	 receipt	 so	 I	 can

see	 the	 proof	 for	 myself.	 She	 timidly	 holds	 the	 ring

box	 in	 her	 open	 palm.

I	 study	 the	 receipt.	 The	 ring	 was	 purchased	 in

the	 city	 at	 a	 jewelry	 story	 in	 midtown	 Manhattan,

the	 diamond	 district.	 It’s	 dated	 last	 week,	 the	 night

of	 my	 blow	 up	 with	 Dylan.	 He	 came	 home	 and

helped	 finish	 the	 kitchen	 then	 hid	 the	 ring	 on	 a

shelf	 where	 he	 knew	 I’d	 never	 look	 because	 I	 can’t

cook	 and	 never	 scrounge	 for	 dishware.

“Dylan	 bought	 this,”	 I	 say.	 Imogene	 holds	 the

ring	 out	 to	 me,	 but	 I	 can’t	 touch	 it.	 I	 shake	 my	 head

and	 step	 back	 as	 if	 it’s	 radioactive.	 “This	 is	 worse

than	 I	 thought.”

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 huddle	 and	 snatch	 the

ring	 from	 its	 velvet	 cradle.	 Lauren	 holds	 it	 up	 to	 the



316

kitchen	 light.	 “Is	 this	 three	 carats?	 This	 is

unbelievable.	 What	 was	 Dylan	 thinking?	 Men	 don’t

propose	 marriage	 after	 a	 few	 weeks	 of	 dating.”

“Tel 	 that	 to	 my	 parents.	 You	 remember	 them,

Pammy	 and	 Mark?	 Our	 cooks?	 They	 got	 hitched

after	 three	 dates	 and	 guess	 who	 was	 born	 eleven

months	 later?”	 Imogene	 points	 a	 finger	 at	 herself.

“No	 one	 says	 ‘ hitched’,”	 Lauren	 adds.	 “But	 on

the	 bright	 side,	 that’s	 a	 great	 story	 with	 a	 happy

ending.”

“No.	 No,”	 I	 say.	 “This	 is	 unbelievable.	 I	 had	 no

idea	 Dylan	 was	 thinking	 about	 marriage.	 This	 is

crazy.”	 I	 run	 down	 to	 the	 hall	 to	 get	 away	 from	 the

ring.	 I’m	 getting	 good	 at	 fleeing	 rooms.	 Apparently

the	 country	 life	 and	 having	 so	 much	 space	 to	 run	 in

my	 home	 has	 taught	 me	 how	 to	 flee	 any	 scene	 like

a	 crazed	 chicken.	 The	 girls	 fol ow	 me	 with	 a	 tray	 of

margaritas.

“We	 put	 the	 ring	 back	 in	 the	 cupboard.	 Tonight

we	 celebrate	 your	 birthday.	 We	 shall	 not	 speak	 of

you-‐know-‐who,”	 Lauren	 says.

“I	 can’t	 ignore	 this.	 I’m	 going	 to	 have	 to	 talk	 to

Dylan	 about	 this	 and	 I’l 	 have	 to	 return	 the	 ring.”



317

“That’s	 not	 going	 to	 happen	 tonight,	 so	 for

now,	 put	 it	 out	 of	 your	 mind,	 if	 that’s	 possible,	 and

bottoms	 up,”	 Imogene	 says.

We	 slam	 back	 the	 cocktails	 like	 shots.	 After	 my

drama,	 there	 seems	 no	 point	 in	 pretending	 this	 is	 a

regular	 girls’	 night	 out.

I	 burp.	 “That	 was	 good.	 I’l 	 need	 a	 bucket	 of

these.”

“Oh	 no,	 we	 forgot	 the	 toast,”	 Lauren	 says.

“Here’s	 to	 twenty-‐one.”	 As	 the	 three	 of	 us	 clink	 our

empty	 glasses,	 we	 hear	 a	 popping	 sound	 in	 the

house	 and	 then	 we	 are	 submerged	 in	 complete

darkness.

“Shit!	 A	 power	 outage!”	 This	 comes	 from

Imogene.

“Where	 do	 you	 keep	 the	 flashlights?”	 Lauren

asks.

“I	 have	 no	 idea,”	 I	 say	 to	 the	 two	 dark	 figures.

The	 rain	 outside	 has	 turned	 into	 a	 ful -‐on

apocalyptic	 thunderstorm	 and	 the	 only	 light	 we	 get

is	 from	 lightning	 strikes	 close	 to	 the	 house	 that

wash	 the	 room	 with	 a	 white	 haze	 before	 going	 dark

again.



318

We	 hear	 a	 crack	 outside	 and	 something	 hits

the	 house.	 We	 let	 out	 blood-‐curdling	 screams	 and

laugh	 at	 the	 same	 time.	 It’s	 a	 like	 a	 cheesy	 horror

movie.

“I	 think	 one	 of	 your	 trees	 just	 lost	 a	 limb,”

Imogene	 points	 out.

“Wait!	 I	 do	 have	 a	 flashlight	 on	 me.	 I	 forgot	 my

dad	 gave	 me	 this	 for	 my	 car.”	 Lauren	 stumbles	 in

the	 dark	 somewhere	 by	 the	 couch.	 “Ah	 ha!	 Found

it.”	 A	 little	 light	 comes	 on	 in	 Lauren’s	 hands.	 It’s	 a

tiny	 key	 light,	 enough	 to	 cast	 a	 dim	 glow	 across	 her

face.

“A	 key	 light?”	 Imogene	 asks.	 “Lauren,	 that	 isn’t

going	 to	 help;	 I	 stil 	 can’t	 see	 my	 hands	 or	 feet,	 all

we	 can	 see	 is	 your	 mug	 and	 you	 look	 crazy,	 lady.”

“It’s	 not	 great,	 but	 look,	 we	 can	 point	 it	 at	 the

floor	 and	 use	 it	 to	 guide	 us	 to	 the	 basement.	 I	 bet

Gin	 has	 a	 stash	 of	 tools	 down	 there	 and	 there	 must

be	 at	 least	 a	 few	 flashlights.	 She’s	 lived	 here

forever	 and	 has	 been	 through	 a	 few	 bad	 storms,

she	 must	 have	 kept	 emergency	 supplies

somewhere.”



319

“My	 phone	 has	 a	 flashlight	 app,”	 I	 say.	 “Except

I	 have	 no	 idea	 where	 I	 left	 the	 phone.”

“Perfect,”	 Imogene	 huffs.

“Let’s	 go	 with	 Lauren’s	 idea,”	 I	 suggest.	 “I

know	 there’s	 more	 than	 wine	 downstairs.	 There’s	 a

ladder	 and	 an	 old	 saw,	 so	 maybe	 there	 are	 some

flashlights	 and	 batteries.”

“Fine,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “You	 lead,	 Lauren.	 We’l

follow	 your	 itty	 bitty	 light.”

Imogene	 holds	 my	 arm	 and	 guides	 me	 as	 we

shuffle	 down	 the	 long	 hallway	 towards	 the	 kitchen

and	 cel ar	 door.	 We	 jump	 every	 time	 we	 hear	 a

crack	 of	 thunder.	 Before	 we’re	 halfway	 down	 the

hall,	 there’s	 another	 blinding	 flash	 of	 light	 coming

from	 the	 living	 room	 windows	 and	 a	 crack	 fol ows

too	 closely	 as	 if	 the	 lightning	 hit	 the	 house.	 At	 the

same	 exact	 moment	 the	 front	 door	 swings	 open,

banging	 against	 the	 hall	 console,	 and	 we	 see	 a	 tall,

hulking,	 dark	 figure	 in	 the	 doorway.

Imogene	 produces	 another	 movie-‐worthy

scream	 and	 then	 Lauren	 joins	 her.	 I	 am	 too	 terrified

to	 scream	 or	 move.	 A	 flash	 of	 lightning	 il uminates

the	 face	 of	 the	 stranger,	 and	 I	 see	 it’s	 Carson



320

looking	 drenched	 and	 wild-‐eyed,	 but	 oh	 so	 sexy

with	 his	 shirt	 plastered	 to	 his	 chest.

“It’s	 Carson,”	 I	 yel .	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 are

stil 	 screaming	 as	 if	 he’s	 an	 ax	 murderer.	 I	 decide

that	 I	 must	 remember	 this	 moment	 because,

should	 we	 ever	 find	 ourselves	 in	 a	 similar	 crisis,	 at

least	 I	 now	 know	 that	 these	 two	 women	 are	 the

type	 to	 panic	 first	 and	 react	 later.

“Jesus,	 stop	 screaming,”	 Carson	 says,	 walking

towards	 us.

“Carson,	 how	 did	 you	 get	 here?”	 Imogene	 asks.

In	 the	 darkness	 I	 see	 her	 grabbing	 on	 to	 him.

Lauren	 shines	 her	 little	 light	 in	 his	 face.

“Get	 that	 thing	 off	 my	 face,”	 he	 says,	 so	 she

points	 it	 at	 his	 neck.	 “Are	 you	 all	 okay?”

“We’re	 fine,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “We	 were

celebrating	 Jess’s	 birthday	 when	 the	 power	 went

out.”

Carson	 searches	 for	 my	 face	 and	 we	 lock	 eyes

for	 a	 second	 when	 another	 flash	 of	 lightning	 strikes.

“Let’s	 get	 you	 some	 flashlights,”	 he	 says.

“You’re	 in	 a	 suit;	 did	 you	 come	 from	 your

house?”	 Lauren	 asks.



321

“No,	 I	 was	 at	 Mohonk	 when	 the	 power	 went

out.	 I	 left	 the	 flashlights	 I	 had	 in	 my	 truck	 with

some	 people	 at	 the	 hotel,”	 he	 says.	 “I	 got	 a	 text

from	 Archie,	 Pam	 and	 Bonnie.	 They	 all	 said	 the

power	 was	 out	 down	 here,	 too,	 and	 they	 couldn’t

call	 you,	 but	 they	 could	 text	 me.	 I	 told	 them	 I’d

check	 on	 you.	 I	 made	 Gin	 an	 emergency	 kit	 and	 put

it	 in	 the	 pantry	 so	 it	 would	 be	 close	 by.”

“God,	 we’re	 so	 lucky	 you	 came	 to	 our	 rescue,”

Imogene	 says.	 “We	 were	 going	 to	 go	 hunt	 around

the	 scary	 cel ar	 for	 flashlights.	 I’m	 so	 glad	 you	 got

here	 first.”

Carson	 leads	 us	 in	 the	 dark	 back	 down	 the

hallway	 to	 the	 pantry.	 “It’s	 the	 lower	 cabinet

behind	 the	 door,”	 he	 says.	 I	 hear	 him	 banging

things	 around	 and	 then	 a	 light	 comes	 on.	 It	 lights

up	 the	 whole	 pantry.	 “These	 are	 LED	 lanterns.”

“Awesome,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “Are	 there	 more?”

“There	 are	 ten	 lanterns	 and	 at	 least	 six

flashlights.	 They’re	 all	 LED	 so	 they	 should	 last	 a

while.	 There’s	 also	 a	 box	 of	 new	 batteries	 in	 every

size	 so	 let’s	 start	 fil ing	 these.”	 He	 hands	 out	 the

camping	 lanterns	 and	 handheld	 flashlights.



322

We	 assemble	 all	 the	 lanterns	 and	 place	 one	 in

all	 the	 downstairs	 rooms	 so	 we	 have	 light	 in	 every

room.	 The	 lanterns	 give	 off	 a	 ghastly	 whiteness	 like

moonbeams.	 We	 all	 look	 like	 the	 walking	 dead.

“Carson	 Blackard,	 you	 have	 saved	 the	 day—I

mean	 night,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “Now	 we	 must	 continue

with	 our	 party	 because	 I	 sure	 as	 hel 	 can’t	 sleep	 in

this.”

“So	 my	 parents	 called	 you	 because	 they

thought	 you	 were	 home	 and	 could	 roll	 down	 the

hil 	 and	 check	 on	 us?”	 Imogene	 asks	 Carson.

“”Hmm,	 interesting.”

“What?”	 Lauren	 asks.	 She’s	 refil ing	 our

margarita	 glasses	 from	 the	 pitcher	 as	 I	 eagerly	 hold

my	 glass	 out	 for	 her.	 Carson	 is	 checking	 the

window	 frames	 or	 something	 manly	 that	 guys	 think

they	 should	 be	 doing	 in	 a	 storm	 to	 look	 busy	 and

productive.

“Carson	 is	 in	 a	 suit,”	 Imogene	 says	 and	 at	 that

we	 all	 turn	 to	 look	 at	 Carson	 who	 tosses	 his	 wet

suit	 coat	 on	 the	 couch	 to	 reveal	 a	 wet,	 white	 dress

shirt	 that	 clings	 to	 his	 superbly	 defined	 muscular

chest.	 His	 wet	 locks	 are	 disheveled	 and	 only	 help	 to



323

make	 him	 look	 more	 attractive.	 Fuckity-‐fuck.	 I	 can’t

be	 around	 him	 without	 getting	 all	 worked	 up.

“A	 very	 nice	 suit,”	 Imogene	 continues.	 “And	 he

just	 told	 us	 that	 he	 was	 at	 swanky	 Mohonk	 which

means	 he	 must	 be	 on	 a	 date.	 I	 bet	 he	 left	 a	 lovely

lady	 up	 at	 the	 hotel	 where	 she	 probably	 has	 a	 nice

room	 and	 a	 candle	 light	 dinner	 waiting	 for	 him.”

“Who	 are	 you	 two?	 Cagney	 and	 Lacey?	 The

power	 went	 out	 at	 Mohonk,	 too,”	 Carson	 says

which	 doesn’t	 sound	 like	 much	 of	 a	 defense	 to	 me.

Little	 pangs	 of	 jealousy	 are	 rattling	 me,	 thinking	 of

Carson	 at	 a	 nice	 resort	 with	 another	 woman.

“Ha!	 But	 you	 are	 on	 a	 date	 and	 she	 IS	 up	 at

Mohonk	 waiting	 for	 you!”	 Lauren	 shouts.

“So	 what?”	 Carson	 says	 and	 glances	 over	 at	 me.

I	 put	 on	 a	 show	 of	 loving	 my	 strong	 drink	 too	 much

to	 even	 consider	 participating	 in	 the	 conversation.

I’m	 actually	 seething,	 thinking	 of	 some	 pretty

woman	 waiting	 in	 a	 hotel	 room	 for	 Carson.	 What’s

his	 type?	 Bombshel s	 with	 boobs	 or	 leggy,	 skinny

models?

“Just	 saying,”	 Imogene	 says,	 a	 little	 drunk.

“You	 never	 bring	 women	 to	 your	 home.	 You	 are	 a



324

true	 mystery,	 Mr.	 Blackard.	 You	 take	 a	 date	 to

Mohonk	 for	 a	 fabulous	 dinner	 and	 stunning

ambiance.	 You	 book	 a	 room	 so	 you	 don’t	 have	 to

share	 your	 home	 with	 her.	 Then,	 to	 make	 it	 less

personal,	 you	 get	 a	 text	 or	 call	 from	 my	 parents

and	 you	 tel 	 your	 date	 to	 make	 herself	 comfortable

while	 you	 go	 to	 check	 on	 three	 women,	 but	 you’l

be	 back	 in	 time	 for	 sex.”

“Yes!	 That’s	 it.”	 Lauren	 points	 her	 finger	 at	 him.

“You’re	 all	 drunk,”	 he	 says,	 loosening	 his	 tie.

“Don’t	 sleep	 upstairs.	 Ride	 out	 the	 storm	 down

here,	 okay?”

“Did	 you	 at	 least	 get	 dinner	 before	 the	 power

went	 out?”	 Imogene	 grins	 at	 Carson.	 “Who’s	 the

woman,	 Carson?”

“No	 one	 special,”	 he	 mutters.

“Is	 that	 why	 you	 didn’t	 invite	 her	 to	 your

home?”	 Lauren	 asks.	 “You	 only	 date	 out-‐of-‐town

women?	 Locals	 aren’t	 good	 enough	 for	 you?”

“Do	 you	 have	 everything	 you	 need	 here?”	 he

asks	 me,	 ignoring	 Imogene’s	 and	 Lauren’s	 taunts.

I	 nod	 and	 he	 looks	 at	 me	 a	 moment	 longer

than	 necessary.	 My	 eyes	 linger	 on	 him,	 too,	 as	 I



325

wonder	 what	 Dylan	 has	 told	 him.	 I	 consider	 that

Carson	 is	 probably	 angry	 with	 me	 and	 wants	 to

shout, “I	 told	 you	 so!”

“You	 can’t	 drive	 in	 this	 weather,”	 Imogene	 says

to	 him.

“What	 are	 you	 talking	 about?	 I	 drove	 down	 in

this	 weather,	 I	 can	 drive	 back.	 I	 have	 my	 truck.	 I

knew	 the	 weather	 would	 be	 bad.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 it

would	 be	 this	 rough,	 though.”

“You	 can’t	 leave	 us	 now.	 Besides,	 I	 have	 some

things	 I	 need	 to	 discuss	 with	 you,”	 Imogene	 says,

sounding	 drunker	 by	 the	 minute.

“Where’s	 Bert?”	 Carson	 directs	 at	 me.

“Oh	 my	 God,	 I	 don’t	 know.”	 I	 put	 down	 my

drink.	 “He’s	 in	 the	 house	 somewhere,	 but	 I

completely	 forgot	 about	 him	 when	 the	 lights	 went

out.	 I’l 	 go	 search	 upstairs.”

“No.	 Don’t,”	 Carson	 says.	 “Come	 here.”

I	 fol ow	 him	 into	 the	 dining	 room,	 which	 looks

more	 austere	 and	 eerie	 than	 the	 living	 room.

“Look,”	 Carson	 says,	 pointing	 under	 the	 dining

room	 table	 where	 Bert	 is	 hiding	 flat	 out	 on	 his

stomach	 with	 his	 face	 buried	 in	 his	 front	 paws.	 “It’s



326

his	 go-‐to	 place	 when	 he	 freaks	 out.	 Thunderstorms

always	 freak	 him	 out.”

“Oh,	 honey,”	 I	 say,	 bending	 down	 to	 see	 Bert.

“I’m	 sorry.”

“Put	 his	 dishes	 under	 there	 and	 he’l 	 be	 fine,”

Carson	 instructs.	 I	 nod	 and	 realize	 I’m	 afraid	 to

speak	 to	 Carson.	 I’m	 anxious	 and	 worried	 that	 he’s

pissed	 off	 with	 me	 and	 frankly,	 I’m	 tired	 of

disappointing	 people,	 especially	 him.

“Come	 and	 join	 the	 party,	 Carson,”	 Imogene

says	 from	 the	 living	 room.	 Lauren	 is	 dancing	 to	 a

Michael	 Jackson	 cassette	 tape	 on	 an	 old	 battery-‐

operated	 boom	 box	 that	 was	 in	 the	 pantry.

“I	 don’t	 think	 so,”	 Carson	 says	 so	 quietly	 that

only	 I	 can	 hear	 him.

We’re	 standing	 together,	 alone	 in	 the	 dining

room.	 I	 don’t	 know	 why	 he	 doesn’t	 race	 back	 up	 to

New	 Paltz	 and	 his	 hot	 date	 instead	 of	 taking	 the

drunken	 abuse	 from	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren.

Somehow,	 he	 doesn’t	 seem	 in	 a	 rush,	 though.

Besides,	 I’m	 not	 in	 a	 rush	 to	 see	 him	 leave.	 In	 the

chaos	 of	 the	 stormy	 weather	 outside	 and	 the	 drunk

women	 laughing	 in	 the	 other	 room,	 this	 moment



327

alone	 with	 him	 in	 the	 dining	 room	 seems	 private

and	 rather	 intimate.

“Are	 you	 okay?”	 he	 asks	 me,	 breaking	 our

silence.

“We’re	 fine.	 Thanks	 for	 finding	 the	 lanterns.”

“I	 meant	 you.	 Dylan	 doesn’t	 talk	 to	 me	 about

you,	 but	 I	 know	 you	 two	 had	 a—”

“Break-‐up,”	 I	 finish	 for	 him.

“Yeah.”

“Please	 don’t	 get	 the	 wrong	 idea	 by	 what	 you

see	 here.	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 came	 over	 to	 cheer

me	 up.	 I’m	 not	 happy	 about	 what	 happened

between	 Dylan	 and	 me.”

“I	 would	 never	 think	 badly	 of	 you.”	 His	 voice	 is

soft	 and	 understanding.	 “Dylan	 is	 closed	 off.	 That’s

nothing	 new.	 I	 wanted	 to	 make	 sure	 that	 you’re	 all

right.	 That’s	 the	 real	 reason	 I	 came	 down	 here

tonight.	 I	 know	 those	 two	 can	 handle	 themselves	 in

this	 storm,	 but	 it	 gave	 me	 a	 good	 excuse	 to	 come

check	 on	 you.”

My	 breath	 hitches	 in	 my	 throat;	 I’m	 surprised

by	 his	 admission.



328

“Did	 you	 really	 leave	 your	 date	 back	 at

Mohonk?”

“She’s	 in	 good	 company.	 We	 met	 some	 nice

couples	 at	 the	 dinner	 we	 were	 invited	 to,	 so	 she’l

be	 fine	 without	 me.”

“Hmm,	 she’l 	 probably	 be	 ticked	 off	 that	 you

left	 her	 to	 go	 check	 on	 three	 young,	 drunk	 women.

Did	 you	 tel 	 her	 that	 part	 or	 did	 you	 tel 	 her	 you

were	 checking	 on	 seniors?”

Carson	 laughs	 softly.	 “I	 told	 her	 a	 friend	 was

worried	 about	 her	 granddaughter’s	 safety.”

“So	 she	 thinks	 you’re	 checking	 on	 a	 baby.

Good	 one.”

We	 both	 laugh	 and	 then	 a	 thunderbolt	 cracks,

causing	 me	 to	 duck	 and	 shudder	 with	 it.	 Carson

holds	 my	 shoulders	 and	 moves	 closer.	 “It’s	 fine.

That’s	 at	 least	 two	 miles	 away.”

I	 try	 to	 look	 brave.	 “Sure.	 I’m	 fine.”

“Hey,	 happy	 birthday.”

“Not	 really.	 I	 expected	 twenty-‐one	 to	 be	 a

great	 celebration,	 but	 the	 timing	 is	 horrible.”



329

“Don’t	 let	 a	 little	 thunderstorm	 ruin	 your	 night.

You	 have	 two	 very	 good	 friends	 in	 there	 who	 want

to	 have	 fun	 with	 you.”

“They	 are	 good	 friends.	 It’s	 not	 the	 storm,”	 I

say	 and	 then	 I	 begin	 to	 hem	 and	 haw	 because	 I’m

afraid	 to	 tel 	 Carson	 about	 the	 ring.

“What	 is	 it?”	 His	 smile	 fades	 and	 he	 looks

concerned.

“Tonight,	 before	 the	 power	 went	 out,	 Imogene

found	 a	 ring	 in	 the	 kitchen	 cupboard.	 We	 were

mixing	 drinks	 and	 you	 know	 I	 don’t	 cook	 or	 really

know	 my	 way	 around	 a	 kitchen,	 so	 if	 you	 wanted	 to

hide	 something	 from	 me,	 where	 would	 you	 put	 it?”

I’m	 rambling	 while	 Carson	 stares	 at	 me,	 waiting	 for

me	 to	 get	 to	 the	 point.

“In	 the	 cupboard?	 And?”	 Carson’s	 tone	 is

heavy	 with	 worry.	 His	 brow	 furrows.

“Dylan	 bought	 a	 ring	 and	 hid	 it	 in	 the	 cupboard,

Carson.	 It’s	 a	 big,	 fat	 diamond	 ring	 that	 was

purchased	 last	 week.	 I	 saw	 the	 receipt.	 He	 put	 it	 in

there	 the	 same	 night	 we	 argued	 and	 he	 left.”

“Did	 you	 and	 Dylan	 talk	 about	 marriage?”	 His

voice	 is	 less	 friendly.



330

“No,	 of	 course	 not.	 We	 never	 even	 talked

about	 living	 together	 until	 that	 night.	 Dylan

brought	 it	 up.	 I	 thought	 we	 were	 moving	 too	 fast

and	 I	 wanted	 to	 slow	 down,	 take	 a	 break.”

“A	 break	 up,	 you	 mean.	 Taking	 a	 break	 is	 a

break	 up,”	 Carson	 clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Did	 Dylan	 have	 any	 idea	 that	 you	 wanted	 to

end	 it?”	 There’s	 that	 accusatory	 tone	 again.

“I	 never	 said	 I	 wanted	 to	 end	 it,	 Carson.	 I	 said	 it

was	 moving	 too	 fast	 and	 I	 wanted	 to	 slow	 down.”

“You	 wanted	 to	 break	 up.	 No	 guy	 is	 stupid

enough	 to	 believe	 that	 slowing	 down	 isn’t	 the	 same

thing	 as	 saying	 you	 aren’t	 that	 in	 to	 him	 and	 want

to	 break	 up.”	 His	 voice	 is	 stern.

“I	 didn’t	 realize	 that	 after	 less	 than	 two

months,	 Dylan	 would	 want	 to	 live	 together	 and

that	 he	 was	 actually	 thinking	 of	 proposing.	 Maybe

we’re	 wrong	 about	 all	 of	 this.	 We’re	 just

speculating	 about	 this	 ring.”

“We’re	 not	 speculating.	 He	 bought	 a	 ring.”

Carson	 spits	 out	 the	 words	 at	 me.



331

“But	 he	 never	 gave	 it	 to	 me.	 Maybe	 he

changed	 his	 mind.”

“Or	 maybe	 he	 didn’t	 have	 a	 chance	 to	 propose

because	 you	 kicked	 him	 out.”

The	 blood	 rises	 in	 my	 face.	 Now	 I’m	 pissed	 at

Carson	 and	 any	 sweet	 thoughts	 I	 had	 about	 him	 are

quickly	 being	 erased.	 “I	 didn’t	 kick	 him	 out.	 He	 left

on	 his	 own	 without	 saying	 a	 word	 to	 me!”

My	 shouting	 attracts	 the	 attention	 of	 Imogene

and	 Lauren.	 They	 stop	 dancing	 and	 drinking	 to	 join

us	 in	 the	 dining	 room.

“Carson,	 you	 know	 that	 Jess	 is	 not	 responsible

for	 what	 Dylan	 has	 done.	 She	 didn’t	 know	 he	 was

so	 serious	 about	 her,”	 Imogene	 says,	 sounding

pretty	 sober.

“I	 know	 that!”	 Carson	 shouts.

“Stop	 yel ing	 at	 my	 friends,	 Blackard,”	 Lauren

snaps.

Carson	 undoes	 his	 tie	 completely	 and	 opens

the	 top	 two	 buttons	 of	 his	 dress	 shirt.

“What?	 Are	 you	 getting	 ready	 for	 a	 fist	 fight?”

Imogene	 asks.



332

Carson	 ignores	 her	 and	 turns	 back	 to	 me.	 “I

warned	 you	 about	 Dylan.”

“You	 said	 he’s	 very	 sensitive.	 You	 didn’t	 say	 he

was	 intensely	 serious.	 I	 like	 Dylan,	 I	 didn’t	 want	 to

break	 it	 off	 completely,	 but	 I	 was	 not	 ready	 to	 live

with	 him.	 I	 had	 no	 idea	 he	 was	 considering

marriage.”

“She	 just	 turned	 twenty-‐one	 for	 fuck’s	 sake.”

Lauren	 is	 much	 drunker	 than	 Imogene.	 “Dylan	 was

her	 first	 real	 boyfriend.	 She	 was	 expecting	 sex,	 not

a	 husband.”

Carson	 glares	 at	 me	 as	 if	 I’m	 responsible	 for

Lauren’s	 crass	 words.

“Dylan	 may	 be	 in	 worse	 shape	 than	 we	 think,”

I	 say.

“You	 think?”	 Carson	 says	 loudly.	 He	 has	 every

right	 to	 be	 mean	 and	 sarcastic.	 It’s	 his	 brother	 I

screwed	 around	 with,	 but	 I	 can’t	 stand	 being

scolded	 by	 him.

“I	 want	 to	 help,”	 I	 say.	 “I	 told	 him	 to	 see	 his

doctor.	 Dylan	 wasn’t	 listening	 to	 me.	 Tel 	 me	 what

to	 do.”



333

“I’l 	 tel 	 you	 what	 to	 do.	 Stop	 trying	 to	 help	 my

brother,”	 Carson	 says,	 so	 enraged	 that	 Imogene

and	 Lauren	 gasp.	 “Don’t	 date	 him,	 don’t	 talk	 to	 him

and	 definitely	 don’t	 fuck	 him.”	 He	 walks	 to	 the

couch	 and	 picks	 up	 his	 jacket	 before	 going	 to	 the

front	 door	 to	 head	 out	 into	 the	 rain.

I	 run	 after	 him	 through	 the	 blinding	 sheets	 of

rain,	 ignoring	 the	 pleas	 from	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren

to	 let	 him	 go.	 I	 chase	 him	 down	 to	 the	 truck	 and

grab	 his	 arm.

“Carson,	 wait!”

“Get	 back	 in	 the	 house!”

Instead	 I	 open	 the	 driver’s	 side	 door	 and	 climb

in	 the	 truck	 cab.	 Carson	 fol ows	 and	 slams	 the	 door

as	 I	 scramble	 to	 the	 passenger	 side.	 The	 rain	 beats

down	 on	 the	 truck	 roof	 and	 it’s	 like	 being	 inside	 a

drum.	 We’re	 drenched	 and	 I’m	 freezing.	 Carson

swings	 his	 wet	 jacket	 around	 my	 shoulders.	 My	 hair

is	 plastered	 to	 my	 head	 like	 a	 wet	 blanket.

“That	 was	 stupid,”	 he	 says	 to	 me	 in	 a	 calmer

voice.

“You	 can’t	 blame	 me	 for	 Dylan,”	 I	 say,

shivering.



334

“I	 don’t.	 And	 I’m	 sorry	 for	 yel ing	 at	 you	 back

there.”	 He	 nods	 towards	 the	 house.	 “I	 hate	 you

seeing	 me	 like	 that.”

I	 pul 	 his	 coat	 in	 closer	 around	 me.

“I	 blame	 myself	 and	 I	 blame	 Dylan.	 You’re	 not

the	 cause	 of	 Dylan’s	 behavior,	 you’re	 a	 symptom.

We’re	 all	 part	 of	 the	 fallout	 whenever	 he	 does

something	 like	 this.	 He’s	 very	 emotional	 and	 he

sometimes	 lives	 in	 another	 world	 all	 his	 own.”

“So	 you	 don’t	 think	 my	 rejection	 of	 him	 is	 the

cause?”

“Wel ,	 it	 didn’t	 help.	 He	 had	 problems	 before

you	 got	 here.	 I	 saw	 the	 signs,	 but	 you	 were	 a

distraction,	 at	 least	 temporarily.	 Then,	 when	 his

depression	 started	 creeping	 back	 in,	 he	 thought	 he

could	 cover	 it	 with	 more	 drama,	 moving	 in	 with

you,	 I	 suppose.	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 he	 was	 thinking.

He	 didn’t	 talk	 to	 me	 about	 this,	 but	 I’m	 assuming

he	 thought	 ramping	 up	 the	 stakes	 to	 living	 together

and	 a	 proposal	 were	 the	 way	 to	 go.	 He’s	 probable

feeling	 very	 desperate	 to	 find	 an	 antidote	 to	 his

melancholy	 and	 he	 believed	 falling	 in	 love	 with	 you



335

and	 escalating	 the	 relationship	 would	 make	 him

better.”

“Are	 you	 saying	 he	 doesn’t	 really	 love	 me?

That	 he’s	 crazy?”

“No.	 Of	 course	 he	 has	 very	 strong	 feelings	 for

you	 and	 he’s	 not	 crazy.	 He	 simply	 overdramatizes

things	 in	 his	 head.	 In	 his	 mind	 everything	 is	 on	 fast

forward	 because	 it’s	 like	 a	 drug;	 he	 keeps	 reaching

for	 his	 next	 hit	 to	 make	 himself	 feel	 better,	 feel

happy,	 or	 at	 least	 make	 the	 pain	 go	 away.”

I	 am	 shocked	 and	 a	 little	 hurt	 to	 think	 that

Carson	 thinks	 I	 am	 a	 participant,	 even	 if

unknowingly,	 in	 Dylan’s	 delusions,	 as	 he	 implies.

That	 Dylan	 isn’t	 really	 in	 love	 with	 me.	 At	 least,	 I

feel	 like	 a	 dope	 for	 not	 comprehending	 what

Carson	 was	 tel ing	 me	 weeks	 ago	 when	 the

relationship	 started.	 I	 did	 not	 heed	 Carson’s	 words

seriously	 and	 I	 know	 nothing	 about	 the	 mindset	 of

someone	 who	 suffers	 from	 extreme	 depression.	 I

was	 the	 ninny	 who	 assumed	 she	 would	 be	 an

enormous	 help,	 a	 saving	 grace	 for	 Dylan.

“Dylan	 said	 I	 was	 his	 drug,	 the	 only	 one	 he

needed.	 I	 thought	 he	 meant	 that	 he	 was	 so	 in	 love



336

with	 me	 that	 he	 didn’t	 need	 medication	 because	 I

made	 him	 happy,	 but	 you’re	 tel ing	 me	 that	 he

latches	 on	 to	 people.	 That	 I	 could	 have	 been

replaced	 with	 any	 other	 woman	 and	 he	 would	 have

reacted	 the	 same	 way?”

Carson	 cups	 my	 cheek	 with	 his	 hand.	 “God,	 no.

That’s	 not	 what	 I	 meant.	 He	 is	 in	 love	 with	 you,	 or

at	 least,	 it’s	 his	 idea	 of	 love.	 It’s	 real	 to	 him.	 Are	 you

in	 love	 with	 him?”

I	 shake	 my	 head	 slowly.	 “No,”	 I	 whisper.

Carson’s	 face	 gives	 away	 his	 relief.

“What	 I	 meant	 is	 that	 a	 drug	 for	 Dylan	 is	 any

idea	 that	 he	 gets	 in	 his	 head.	 It	 doesn’t	 have	 to	 be	 a

person;	 it	 could	 be	 an	 activity	 like	 when	 he	 was

racing	 motorcycles	 in	 col ege,	 or	 it	 could	 be	 his

work.	 He’s	 asked	 for	 a	 bigger	 role	 in	 managing	 our

business	 accounts	 and	 he’s	 obsessive	 about	 it.	 In

this	 case,	 you	 did	 become	 his	 drug.	 He’s	 obsessed

about	 you,	 thinking	 you	 wil 	 keep	 him	 distracted

enough	 from	 his	 il ness.	 His	 feelings	 for	 you	 are

genuine;	 however,	 he’s	 not	 really	 in	 a	 healthy

enough	 emotional	 state	 to	 tel 	 the	 difference



337

between	 caring	 for	 a	 girlfriend	 and	 asking	 her	 to

marry	 him.	 He’s	 not	 thinking	 clearly.”

“That’s	 what	 I	 thought,”	 I	 say.	 “You	 have	 to

believe	 me	 when	 I	 say	 this	 started	 out	 fairly

innocently.	 He	 flirted,	 I	 liked	 him	 and	 I	 thought

we’d	 date	 and	 have	 fun.	 I	 should	 have	 listened	 to

you	 in	 the	 beginning.	 Dylan	 was	 becoming	 so

intense	 that	 I	 should	 have	 stopped	 him	 then	 or	 told

you.	 When	 we	 found	 that	 ring	 tonight,	 I	 felt	 sick	 to

my	 stomach.	 I	 think	 of	 how	 I	 must	 have	 led	 him	 on;

that	 if	 he’s	 feeling	 rejected	 and	 it’s	 exasperated	 by

his	 depression,	 then	 I	 know	 I	 have	 a	 hand	 in	 that.”

“No.	 Stop,”	 Carson	 says,	 shushing	 me.	 “We’l …

I’l 	 get	 him	 help.	 If	 I	 have	 to	 do	 it	 by	 force,	 I	 wil .”

“I’m	 so	 sorry,	 Carson.	 You	 have	 to	 believe	 that

if	 I	 could	 take	 all	 this	 back	 I	 would.	 Even	 if	 it	 meant	 I

never	 came	 to	 Hera	 and	 never	 made	 these	 new

friends.	 I’d	 give	 it	 all	 back	 to	 take	 all	 this	 pain	 away

from	 Dylan.”

“That’s	 a	 nice	 thing	 to	 say,	 but	 Dylan	 is	 like	 the

weather	 tonight.	 He’s	 been	 a	 storm	 that	 was

brewing.	 As	 long	 as	 he	 refused	 treatment,	 refused

going	 to	 therapy	 and	 taking	 his	 medication,	 this



338

was	 going	 to	 happen.	 Maybe	 in	 a	 different	 way,

maybe	 worse,	 but	 it	 was	 going	 to	 happen	 in	 some

way.”

“Lauren	 says	 he’s	 living	 at	 Leo’s	 house	 again.”

“Yeah.	 He’s	 there	 and	 he’s	 lying	 low.	 He	 comes

into	 work	 early	 every	 morning.	 He’s	 quiet,	 but	 he’s

working	 hard.	 He	 wants	 me	 to	 send	 him	 out	 to	 visit

some	 accounts	 in	 other	 states.	 If	 he	 was	 on

medication	 I’d	 say	 yes,	 right	 now,	 though,	 I	 have

reservations	 about	 letting	 him	 leave	 town.	 He’s

okay.	 At	 least	 I	 know	 he’s	 with	 Leo,	 who	 is	 a	 very

good	 friend	 to	 Dylan.	 My	 brother	 is	 safe,	 that’s

what	 I	 know.”

My	 eyes	 pool	 with	 tears.	 I	 wipe	 them	 with	 the

sleeve	 of	 Carson’s	 suit	 coat.	 Then	 I	 take	 it	 off	 and

hand	 it	 back.	 “Maybe	 you	 don’t	 want	 to	 wear	 this

now	 that	 I	 slobbered	 all	 over	 it,	 but	 you	 probably

need	 to	 get	 back	 to	 your	 date	 before	 she	 feels

completely	 deserted	 by	 you.”

“I’m	 not	 going	 back	 there.	 She	 has	 a	 room	 at

the	 hotel	 so	 she’s	 not	 stranded.	 I’m	 going	 to	 head

back	 to	 my	 house.”	 He	 sounds	 as	 though	 he	 wants



339

to	 make	 sure	 I	 understand	 explicitly	 that	 he	 is	 not

sleeping	 with	 his	 date	 tonight.

“Really,	 you’re	 going	 to	 disappoint	 the	 lady?”	 I

laugh,	 although	 I’m	 very	 relieved.	 I	 don’t	 want	 him

with	 another	 woman.	 I	 don’t	 care	 if	 Dylan	 is	 with

another	 woman,	 but	 the	 thought	 of	 Carson

touching	 his	 date	 makes	 me	 feel	 very	 territorial.

“Who	 is	 she?”	 I	 want	 to	 sound	 nonchalant,	 but	 I’m

really	 dying	 to	 know	 what	 kind	 of	 woman	 attracts

Carson.

“She’s	 someone	 I	 know	 through	 my	 business.”

“But	 you	 brought	 her	 all	 the	 way	 out	 here	 and

then	 you	 stood	 her	 up?”	 I	 tease.

“She	 asked	 me	 out.	 She	 asked	 if	 I’d	 meet	 her	 at

Mohonk	 because	 she	 was	 meeting	 other	 business

col eagues	 there.	 I	 didn’t	 stand	 her	 up.	 We	 were

done	 with	 our	 dinner	 when	 Imogene’s	 parents

contacted	 me.	 So	 I	 cut	 the	 date	 short.	 She’l 	 live,”

he	 replies.	 “There	 wasn’t	 any	 chemistry	 going	 on

there	 anyway.”

“Ah,”	 I	 say,	 trying	 to	 not	 sound	 so	 happy	 about

that.





340

“Hey.”	 He	 leans	 in	 quickly	 to	 give	 me	 a	 peck	 on

the	 cheek.	 “Happy	 birthday,	 Jessica	 Olivia

Channing.”

My	 breath	 catches.	 He	 knows	 my	 ful 	 name

and	 says	 it	 so	 beautiful y.

“How	 do	 you	 know	 my	 middle	 name?”

There’s	 that	 lopsided	 smile.	 Small,	 but	 it’s

there.	 “Archie	 and	 Gin	 showed	 me	 the	 wil .”

“Oh,	 right.	 Wel ,	 thanks.”	 We	 look	 at	 each

other	 for	 a	 moment.	 It’s	 awkward	 after	 yel ing	 at

each	 other,	 yet	 the	 high-‐octane	 atmosphere	 in	 the

truck	 cab	 is	 fueled	 by	 the	 intensity	 of	 the	 storm

raging	 outside	 of	 our	 small,	 enclosed	 space.	 “I

should	 get	 back	 to	 my	 drunk	 friends,”	 I	 say,	 but	 I

don’t	 really	 want	 to	 leave	 and	 Carson	 doesn’t

acknowledge	 my	 statement.	 He	 merely	 runs	 his

hand	 through	 his	 wet	 hair	 and	 continues	 to	 look	 at

me.	 It’s	 as	 if	 we’re	 both	 waiting	 for	 the	 right	 words

to	 come	 to	 us.

If	 being	 with	 Carson	 is	 right,	 then	 I	 suspect

we’d	 have	 plenty	 to	 say.	 That	 sentiment	 along	 with

the	 thought	 of	 all	 the	 grief	 I	 may	 have	 inflicted	 on

Dylan	 is	 upsetting.	 I’m	 stupid	 enough	 to	 get



341

romantically	 involved	 with	 Dylan	 and	 harbor	 a

crush	 for	 his	 brother	 at	 the	 same	 time.	 I	 am

pathetic,	 the	 type	 of	 person	 I	 wouldn’t	 trust.

“Before	 you	 go,	 I	 have	 something	 for	 you.”

Carson	 reaches	 across	 me	 and	 opens	 the	 glove

compartment	 to	 take	 out	 a	 small	 gift	 box	 with	 a

bow.	 My	 mouth	 drops	 open	 and	 Carson	 must	 have

mistaken	 my	 surprise	 for	 alarm.	 “Don’t	 worry.	 It’s

not	 a	 ring.”

“You	 got	 me	 a	 birthday	 present?”

“Yeah.”	 He	 says	 this	 as	 though	 the	 drama	 of

Dylan’s	 diamond	 ring	 has	 already	 overshadowed

any	 gift	 Carson	 could	 give	 me.	 “Open	 it.”

I	 unwrap	 the	 paper	 and	 open	 the	 box.	 It’s	 an

old	 fashioned	 skeleton	 key.	 I	 turn	 it	 in	 my	 fingers.

It’s	 gold	 with	 HERA	 engraved	 on	 the	 side	 and	 it’s

attached	 to	 a	 delicate	 gold	 chain.

“Not	 so	 impressive	 after	 seeing	 Dylan’s	 gift,”

Carson	 says.

“It’s	 beautiful.	 A	 goddess	 key,”	 I	 say.	 “Hera,

wife	 of	 Zeus,	 goddess	 of	 marriage.”

Carson	 looks	 down	 and	 I’m	 not	 sure	 if	 it’s

because	 he’s	 uncomfortable	 that	 I	 make	 the	 gift



342

sound	 more	 personal	 than	 he	 has	 intended.	 I	 try	 to

change	 his	 discomfort	 as	 quickly	 as	 possible.	 “It’s

very	 cool.	 Where	 did	 you	 get	 this?”

“One	 of	 the	 estate	 auctions	 nearby.	 The	 key

belonged	 to	 some	 local	 banker	 from	 a	 hundred

years	 ago	 or	 so.	 He	 had	 these	 keys	 made	 for	 his

personal	 use.”

“Hera	 doesn’t	 have	 a	 bank.”

“No,	 it	 doesn’t,”	 Carson	 laughs.	 “It’s	 a	 yoga

studio	 now.”

“That’s	 funny.	 And	 this	 is	 very	 thoughtful.”

“It’s	 nothing	 special,	 I	 guess,	 but	 I	 thought	 of

you	 when	 I	 saw	 it.	 Maybe	 it	 wil 	 bring	 you	 better

luck	 here.”

I	 slip	 the	 necklace	 over	 my	 head.	 “It’s	 my

favorite	 present.”	 He	 could	 have	 given	 me	 one	 of

his	 grungy	 hammers	 and	 it	 would	 have	 been	 my

favorite	 present.	 I	 like	 Carson	 more	 than	 I’ve	 ever

liked	 any	 man	 and	 being	 with	 him	 sets	 my	 insides

on	 fire.	 I’ve	 known	 this	 all	 along.	 I	 should	 have

been	 honest	 with	 Dylan	 from	 the	 beginning.

Carson’s	 tense	 face	 relaxes	 as	 he	 gives	 me	 a

one-‐sided	 shrug.



343

“I	 should	 let	 you	 go,”	 I	 say.	 I’m	 getting	 really

good	 at	 lying	 to	 men.

“Take	 my	 coat	 and	 use	 it	 to	 cover	 your	 head	 on

the	 run	 back	 to	 the	 house.”	 He	 hands	 the	 coat	 back

to	 me.

“Thanks.”

“Was	 Dylan	 really	 your	 first	 boyfriend?”	 he

blurts	 out.	 “Lauren	 said	 that	 in	 there.”

“I	 dated	 some	 dweebs	 and	 jerks	 in	 col ege,	 but,

yes,	 Dylan	 was	 the	 first	 really	 nice	 guy	 I	 would	 call	 a

boyfriend,”	 I	 say.	 I	 know	 he’s	 fishing.	 What	 Lauren

implied	 correctly	 was	 that	 Dylan	 was	 the	 first	 guy

I’ve	 slept	 with	 and	 Carson	 is	 really	 asking	 me	 about

that;	 however,	 considering	 we’re	 connected	 by	 his

brother	 in	 a	 very	 awkward	 way,	 he	 doesn’t	 pry

further.

“Do	 you	 stil 	 have	 feelings	 for	 Dylan?”

I’m	 about	 to	 open	 the	 door,	 but	 I	 pause.

“Carson,	 I	 never	 felt	 for	 Dylan	 what	 he	 felt	 for

me.	 After	 what	 you	 told	 me	 tonight,	 I	 don’t	 even

know	 if	 Dylan’s	 feelings	 were	 authentic.	 I’m	 really

confused	 about	 all	 of	 this.”



344

“I	 get	 that,	 but	 Dylan’s	 feelings	 aside.	 Were

you	 ever	 in	 love	 with	 him	 at	 any	 point?”	 He’s

already	 asked	 me	 that,	 but	 this	 time	 he	 adds	 “ever”,

as	 if	 to	 clarify	 for	 himself.

I	 shake	 my	 head	 slowly.	 “No.”

Carson	 doesn’t	 say	 anything.	 I	 lift	 his	 coat	 to

cover	 my	 head.	 “Fifty	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 myself

and	 Carson	 chuckles.

“This	 is	 Armani,”	 I	 say,	 looking	 above	 my	 head

at	 the	 label.

“So?	 It’s	 a	 suit,	 who	 cares?”

“We’l 	 have	 to	 take	 this	 to	 the	 dry	 cleaners.

And	 what	 about	 the	 ring?	 I	 forgot	 to	 give	 it	 to	 you.”

“I	 can’t	 deal	 with	 the	 ring	 right	 now.	 I’l 	 get	 it

later.”

“I	 saw	 the	 receipt.	 Carson,	 he	 spent	 thirty

thousand	 on	 that	 ring.	 I	 can’t	 let	 it	 sit	 around	 with

the	 Domino	 Sugar	 and	 the	 Jif.”

“Damn,	 Dylan,”	 he	 says.	 “Put	 it	 in	 one	 of	 the

upstairs	 closets	 and	 I’l 	 come	 by	 to	 pick	 it	 up	 in	 a

few	 days.	 Wil 	 that	 work?”

“Sure,”	 I	 say,	 but	 I’m	 already	 on	 to	 another

thought	 that	 strikes	 me.



345

“What’s	 wrong?”

“He	 spent	 thirty	 thousand	 on	 that	 ring	 and

that’s	 right	 after	 I	 got	 a	 check	 from	 my	 art	 dealer

for	 close	 to	 the	 same	 amount.	 Do	 you	 think	 that

means	 something?”

“You	 think	 it	 has	 something	 to	 do	 with	 Dylan’s

idea	 of	 self-‐worth	 and	 the	 need	 to	 give	 you

something	 comparable	 to	 what	 you	 just	 earned?

Could	 be,	 but	 even	 that’s	 a	 little	 convoluted	 for

Dylan.	 Numbers	 are	 your	 thing,	 remember?”	 He

laughs	 lightly.

“That’s	 true.”	 I	 drape	 the	 coat	 over	 my	 head.

“Be	 careful	 on	 the	 path.	 I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 fall.

Can	 I	 walk	 you	 back	 to	 the	 house?”

“No.	 I’l 	 be	 fine.”	 I	 hesitate.	 “What’s	 your

middle	 name?”

“Phineas,”	 he	 says	 with	 a	 slight	 eye	 rol .

“You	 must	 have	 been	 loved	 dearly	 to	 receive

such	 a	 beautiful,	 impressive	 set	 of	 names.	 Goodbye,

Carson	 Phineas	 Blackard.”	 I	 open	 the	 door	 fast	 and

jump	 out.	 Right	 before	 the	 door	 closes,	 though,	 I

think	 I	 hear	 Carson	 say, “I’l 	 see	 you	 soon,	 Jessica.”





346





Twenty-‐Three



The	 power	 comes	 back	 on	 late	 in	 the	 morning

and,	 with	 the	 exception	 of	 a	 few	 small	 tree	 limbs

and	 branches	 sprinkled	 around	 the	 yard,	 we’ve

survived.	 Even	 my	 new	 fridge	 spared	 the	 food	 from

spoilage	 and	 Imogene	 is	 able	 to	 fry	 up	 eggs	 and

bacon	 for	 breakfast.	 We	 all	 have	 headaches	 so	 we

guzzle	 glasses	 of	 water	 and	 wear	 sunglasses	 as	 it

turns	 into	 another	 hot	 and	 humid	 day.

Carson	 calls	 to	 tel 	 me	 that	 he’l 	 clean	 up	 the

storm	 debris	 when	 he	 comes	 by	 for	 the	 ring.	 When

I	 hang	 up	 all	 I	 can	 think	 about	 is	 the	 next	 time	 I	 wil

be	 able	 to	 see	 Carson.	 Regardless	 of	 Carson’s

demand	 that	 I	 not	 see	 his	 brother,	 I	 do	 have	 a

responsibility	 to	 see	 Dylan,	 even	 though	 I	 dread	 it.

I	 think	 back	 on	 my	 behavior	 with	 Dylan—the

school-‐girl	 giggles,	 the	 lust	 and	 sex—never	 once	 did

I	 think	 that	 it	 would	 come	 to	 this.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to

believe	 that	 I	 was	 very	 cavalier	 with	 Dylan.	 Yet	 it’s



347

true.	 It	 all	 went	 to	 my	 head.	 I	 was	 finally	 old

enough	 and	 pretty	 enough	 to	 catch	 the	 hot	 guy.	 I

wanted	 a	 boyfriend	 like	 Dylan,	 but	 I	 got	 more	 than

a	 casual	 fling	 you	 can	 drop	 when	 it	 gets	 boring.

I	 hate	 that	 I	 became	 one	 of	 those	 selfish

women	 I	 hate	 seeing	 with	 nice	 guys.	 They	 take

them	 for	 granted.	 Even	 if	 Dylan’s	 depression	 played

the	 biggest	 role,	 I,	 too,	 had	 a	 starring	 role	 in	 this

disaster.

“I	 wish	 you	 guys	 weren’t	 going	 to	 work	 today,”

I	 say	 as	 Imogene	 washes	 dishes	 and	 Lauren	 reads

on	 her	 tablet.

“Are	 you	 lonely	 here	 by	 yourself?”	 Lauren	 asks.

“Yes.	 Bert	 doesn’t	 talk	 much	 and	 he	 certainly

doesn’t	 know	 how	 to	 have	 a	 proper	 cocktail	 hour.”

I	 pout.

Imogene	 pul s	 the	 rubber	 gloves	 off	 her	 hands

and	 joins	 us	 at	 the	 table.	 “Do	 you	 miss	 Dylan	 or	 is	 it

just	 having	 a	 boyfriend	 around	 that	 you	 miss?”

“I	 miss	 being	 with	 someone,	 but	 I	 don’t	 want

to	 be	 back	 in	 that	 situation.”

“Of	 course	 not,”	 Imogene	 agrees.	 “Even	 if	 you

weren’t	 in	 love	 with	 the	 guy,	 Dylan	 is	 pretty	 terrific.



348

You	 had	 a	 live-‐in	 stud.	 But	 Dylan	 needs	 to	 do

what’s	 best	 for	 him	 right	 now.	 We’ve	 all	 known

he’s	 bipolar,	 but	 Carson	 is	 the	 person	 who	 manages

him	 when	 he	 won’t	 or	 can’t	 manage	 himself.	 So

now	 it’s	 time	 for	 Dylan	 to	 help	 Dylan.”

“Bipolar,”	 I	 repeat.	 ”So	 you	 all	 have	 known

this?”

“For	 years,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “At	 least	 since	 Dylan

was	 a	 teenager.	 It’s	 not	 anything	 new.	 A	 lot	 of

people	 are	 bipolar.”

“Why	 didn’t	 you	 tel 	 me?”

“It	 wasn’t	 our	 place,”	 Imogene	 answers.	 “Dylan

should	 have	 told	 you.	 He	 did,	 right?”

“Carson	 told	 me	 Dylan	 had	 issues.	 I	 didn’t

know	 the	 ful 	 extent	 of	 his	 problems	 and	 Dylan

didn’t	 say	 anything	 until	 after	 Carson	 told	 me.	 By

then,	 Dylan	 was	 in	 a	 ful -‐blown	 obsession	 with	 me

or	 really	 our	 relationship.	 I	 was	 in	 the	 dating	 stage

and	 Dylan	 was	 way	 ahead	 of	 me	 planning	 our

wedding.”

“Unfortunately,	 that’s	 part	 of	 Dylan’s	 problem

and	 you	 got	 dragged	 into	 it	 before	 you	 knew	 what

was	 going	 on,”	 Lauren	 says,	 but	 there’s	 an	 edge	 of



349

annoyance	 to	 her	 voice	 and	 I	 suspect	 she’s	 irritated

with	 me	 for	 some	 reason.

“I	 wanted	 to	 end	 my	 virgin	 status.	 I	 didn’t	 want

it	 to	 blow	 up	 in	 my	 face.”

“Listen	 to	 you,”	 Lauren	 snaps	 at	 me.	 “Is	 this

really	 about	 you?	 Our	 dear	 friend,	 Dylan,	 is	 falling

apart	 and	 you’re	 stil 	 blubbering	 on	 about	 yourself.

I’m	 going	 to	 say	 this	 once.	 You	 are	 so	 fucking	 lucky.

I	 know	 you’re	 smart	 and	 you’ve	 worked	 hard,	 but

you	 also	 got	 the	 lucky	 gene.	 We	 all	 pray	 for	 the

lucky	 gene	 while	 most	 of	 us	 never	 get	 it.	 You	 got	 it.

You’re	 smart,	 you’re	 pretty	 and	 you	 got	 Dylan.

Even	 if	 it	 was	 short	 lived,	 you	 got	 a	 great	 guy.	 I’m

sorry	 he’s	 out	 of	 the	 picture	 now.	 It’s	 for	 the	 best,

but	 stil .”

My	 humiliation	 is	 obvious;	 I	 sense	 my	 face

reddening.

“Lauren,”	 Imogene	 scolds.

“Jess,	 I	 like	 you	 a	 lot,	 but	 I’ve	 only	 known	 you

for	 a	 few	 months.	 Dylan	 has	 been	 my	 friend	 my

whole	 life.	 He’s	 had	 a	 history	 of	 wild	 behavior	 and	 a

trail	 of	 women,	 but	 he’s	 a	 good	 person.	 At	 least

you	 lost	 your	 virginity	 to	 a	 nice	 guy	 who	 cares



350

about	 you	 and	 not	 some	 lame	 geek	 you	 dug	 out	 of

the	 library	 stacks.”

Imogene	 and	 I	 look	 at	 one	 another	 and	 burst

out	 laughing.

“Fair	 enough,”	 I	 say.

“It’s	 amazing	 that	 you	 didn’t	 fall	 in	 love	 with

Dylan,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “Usually	 it’s	 the

inexperienced	 girls	 that	 fall	 really	 hard	 for	 the	 first

hunk,	 but	 you’re	 so…”

“Pragmatic,”	 I	 tack	 on.	 “It’s	 our	 family	 motto.

Why	 fall	 hopelessly	 in	 love	 when	 you	 can	 be

practical?”

“Ew.	 Really?”	 Imogene	 asks.	 “My	 parents	 have

been	 working	 side-‐by-‐side	 in	 that	 diner	 forever	 and

they	 argue	 over	 dinner	 orders	 or	 ketchup,	 but	 they

are	 real	 romantics	 at	 heart.	 My	 dad	 stil 	 can’t	 keep

his	 hands	 off	 my	 mom.	 Sometimes	 it’s	 like	 living

with	 lovey-‐dovey	 teenagers.”

“That’s	 nice.”	 I	 picture	 my	 parents,	 content

with	 their	 rigid	 routine	 of	 work,	 eating	 at	 the	 same

restaurants	 and	 going	 to	 the	 same	 benefits	 where

they	 can	 be	 seen	 by	 people	 they	 call	 friends,	 but

who	 they	 secretly	 detest.	 “My	 parents	 are	 not



351

affectionate	 people	 and	 they	 pushed	 me	 into	 the

early	 col ege	 program,	 assuming	 I’d	 skip	 over	 all	 the

pesky	 puberty	 and	 dating	 business.	 They	 got	 their

wish.	 Almost.	 I	 think	 they	 would	 have	 preferred	 if	 I

was	 a	 eunuch	 so	 they’d	 never	 have	 to	 deal	 with	 the

possibility	 of	 me	 having	 a	 boyfriend	 or	 worse,	 a

husband.”

“Nonsense.”	 Imogene	 laughs.	 “Be	 grateful	 they

made	 sure	 you	 got	 the	 education	 you	 received.

Your	 accomplishments	 are	 remarkable.”

“But	 it’s	 lonely	 always	 being	 the	 youngest

person	 in	 the	 dorms,	 in	 my	 classes,	 in	 my	 office.

Even	 here,	 everyone	 treats	 me	 like	 a	 naïve	 school

girl.”

“No,	 we	 don’t.	 We	 don’t	 think	 of	 you	 like	 that,”

Lauren	 says.

“Wel ,	 maybe	 a	 little,”	 Imogene	 adds.

“Carson	 always	 lectures	 me.”

“That’s	 how	 Carson	 is,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “Do	 you

know	 how	 many	 times	 he’s	 lectured	 Imogene	 to

quit	 smoking?”

“Hey,	 I	 haven’t	 seen	 you	 smoking	 lately,”	 I

note.



352

“I	 quit.	 And	 I’m	 fucking	 irritable.	 Can’t	 you	 tel ?”

“No,	 you’re	 doing	 great.	 Did	 you	 do	 it	 cold

turkey?”	 I	 ask.

“Yes.”

“Tel 	 her	 why,”	 Lauren	 says.

I	 look	 back	 at	 Imogene	 who	 rol s	 her	 eyes	 up	 to

the	 ceiling	 and	 lets	 out	 a	 dramatic	 sigh.	 “I	 happen

to	 like	 someone	 who	 has	 asthma.	 Wouldn’t	 ya

know?”

Lauren	 giggles.	 “It’s	 perfect.	 She	 has	 to	 quit

smoking	 because	 Jeremy	 is	 asthmatic.	 He	 told

Imogene	 when	 she	 offered	 him	 a	 smoke.	 He

actually	 said	 his	 future	 family	 wil 	 live	 in	 a	 non-‐

smoking	 environment.”	 Lauren	 is	 beside	 herself

with	 laughter.

“It	 wasn’t	 that	 funny,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “I	 was

trying	 to	 break	 the	 ice,	 get	 the	 conversation	 going,

and	 we	 were	 outside	 a	 pool	 hall.	 Everyone	 smokes

there,	 but	 not	 the	 one	 guy	 I’m	 interested	 in.”

“Who’s	 Jeremy?”	 I	 ask,	 excited	 to	 hear	 about

someone	 else’s	 dating	 woes.

“The	 new	 guy	 at	 Blackard	 Designs,”	 Lauren

answers.



353

“I	 met	 him.	 Dylan	 introduced	 me	 to	 him,”	 I	 say.

“Really,	 you’re	 into	 this	 guy?	 Like	 seriously	 enough

that	 you’l 	 quit	 smoking?”

Imogene	 glares	 at	 me.	 “He	 better	 be	 worth	 it.	 I

gave	 up	 two	 packs	 a	 day	 for	 this	 guy,	 but	 the

upside	 is	 that	 now	 I	 can	 afford	 to	 buy	 new	 shoes.”

“The	 upside	 is	 now	 you	 can	 breathe,”	 I	 say.

“Have	 you	 gone	 out?”

“Oh,	 no,	 she	 hasn’t	 even	 gotten	 that	 far.	 Miss

big	 mouth	 over	 here,	 who	 tel s	 the	 rest	 of	 us	 how

to	 date,	 can’t	 get	 up	 the	 nerve	 to	 ask	 him	 out,	 so

she’s	 hoping	 she’l 	 bump	 into	 him	 again	 and	 then

the	 magic	 wil 	 really	 happen.”

Imogene	 shrugs.	 “What	 can	 I	 say?	 I’m	 a	 little

shy	 around	 guys	 I’m	 attracted	 to.”

“It	 sounds	 very	 promising,”	 I	 add.

“What	 about	 you,	 Jess.	 Are	 you	 going	 to	 talk	 to

Dylan?	 Mend	 things?	 I	 don’t	 mean	 get	 back

together,	 but	 find	 a	 way	 to	 speak	 to	 each	 other	 like

friends?”

“Carson	 would	 rather	 I	 stay	 away	 from	 Dylan

right	 now.”



354

“We	 all	 heard	 what	 Carson	 said	 to	 you,	 but

Carson’s	 no	 expert.	 I	 think	 it’s	 pretty	 nasty	 for	 him

to	 say	 you	 need	 to	 be	 cut	 off	 from	 Dylan.	 Dylan

isn’t	 a	 leper	 and	 maybe	 a	 come-‐to-‐Jesus

conversation	 with	 you	 wil 	 help	 him	 after	 all.	 You

could	 be	 the	 push	 he	 needs	 to	 get	 back	 into

treatment.”	 Imogene	 sounds	 so	 sure	 of	 herself.

“Dylan	 really	 likes	 you	 and	 he’s	 had	 time	 to	 calm

down	 since	 he’s	 been	 back	 at	 Leo’s	 place.	 He’s

rational	 again.	 Isn’t	 that	 the	 time	 to	 talk	 him?”

“I	 don’t	 know.	 I	 trust	 Carson	 on	 this,”	 I	 answer.

“I	 don’t	 want	 to	 make	 things	 worse	 again.”	 I’m

afraid	 to	 see	 Dylan.	 That’s	 what	 I	 can’t	 admit.

Afraid	 because	 I	 don’t	 love	 him	 and	 it	 makes	 me

feel	 like	 an	 awful	 person;	 the	 one	 who	 should	 be

persecuted.	 I	 have	 no	 doubt	 that	 I	 would	 have	 been

the	 first	 woman	 burned	 at	 the	 Salem	 witch	 trials	 if	 I

had	 been	 born	 during	 that	 era.

“Enough	 about	 these	 men,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “I’l

never	 get	 Leo	 to	 speak	 to	 me,	 Imogene	 wil 	 never

ask	 Jeremy	 out,	 Dylan	 won’t	 face	 reality	 and	 Carson

and	 Jess	 wil 	 dance	 around	 each	 other,	 avoiding	 the



355

obvious	 forever,	 so	 let’s	 move	 on	 to	 another	 topic

like	 our	 jewelry	 business.”

“What	 about	 Carson	 and	 me?”	 I	 ask,	 bolting

upright	 in	 my	 chair.

“Lauren	 thinks	 she	 has	 a	 sixth	 sense	 for	 these

things.	 She	 thinks	 you	 and	 Carson	 are	 really	 better

suited	 for	 one	 another	 and	 that’s	 why	 he

antagonizes	 you,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “I	 don’t	 know.	 I

can’t	 think	 straight	 since	 I	 quit	 smoking,	 but	 you

know	 the	 old	 saying	 about	 boys	 who	 tease	 girls

they	 secretly	 like.”

“For	 the	 boss	 of	 his	 own	 company,	 who

doesn’t	 need	 to	 do	 the	 actual	 labor	 any	 more,

Carson	 sure	 spends	 a	 lot	 of	 time	 over	 here,”	 Lauren

says.

“He	 was	 hired	 by	 Aunt	 Virginia,”	 I	 say.

“Carson	 has	 a	 crew	 for	 his	 contracting	 business,

Jess.	 They	 go	 out	 and	 do	 the	 house	 renovations.

I’m	 not	 talking	 about	 his	 employees	 at	 Blackard

Designs.	 Those	 guys	 make	 the	 furniture.	 I’m	 talking

about	 Carson’s	 high-‐end	 carpentry	 and	 renovation

work	 he	 does	 in	 private	 homes.	 He	 has	 a	 huge	 crew

for	 that.	 He	 has	 two	 very	 successful	 businesses	 and



356

he	 doesn’t	 pick	 up	 a	 saw	 or	 a	 hammer,	 but	 he’s

over	 here	 every	 other	 day	 repairing	 or	 building

things.	 He’s	 here	 because	 of	 you.”	 Lauren	 nods	 her

head	 after	 her	 solid	 closing	 argument.	 “I	 saw	 that

sweet	 little	 necklace	 he	 gave	 you.	 Is	 that	 the	 key	 to

his	 heart?”

“Key	 to	 his	 heart?”	 Imogene	 barks	 with

laughter.	 “Okay,	 it	 sounds	 lame,	 but	 Lauren,	 you

may	 be	 on	 to	 something.”

I	 look	 down	 at	 the	 necklace	 that	 I	 slept	 in.	 I

fiddle	 with	 the	 key,	 hoping	 it	 is	 a	 way	 to	 Carson.	 It

seems	 inappropriate	 for	 me	 to	 comment	 about

Carson	 and	 the	 attraction	 I	 have	 felt	 for	 him	 since	 I

was	 sleeping	 with	 his	 brother.	 The	 whole	 idea	 of

tel ing	 them	 sounds	 crude,	 so	 I	 avoid	 Lauren’s

remark	 entirely.

“Tel 	 me	 about	 your	 jewelry	 business,”	 I	 say.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 look	 at	 one	 another,

debating	 whether	 to	 let	 me	 change	 the	 topic	 or	 not.



We	 spend	 the	 next	 hour,	 before	 they	 have	 to

leave	 for	 their	 shifts	 at	 the	 diner,	 discussing	 re-‐

purposed	 vintage	 necklaces.	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren



357

have	 been	 making	 necklaces,	 bracelets	 and

earrings	 from	 pieces	 of	 vintage	 jewelry	 they	 buy	 at

estate	 sales	 or	 as	 lots	 on	 auction	 sites.	 They	 take

the	 old	 jewelry	 apart	 if	 it	 is	 damaged	 or	 has	 missing

pieces	 and	 then	 they	 use	 the	 undamaged

components	 in	 their	 own	 creations.	 Their	 pieces

are	 quite	 elaborate	 and	 require	 a	 lot	 of	 labor,	 yet

they	 enjoy	 the	 work	 and	 doing	 it	 together.	 Their

online	 presence	 in	 a	 community	 store	 for	 artists

brings	 in	 good	 sales,	 but	 they	 want	 to	 expand	 with

their	 own	 website	 and	 figure	 out	 how	 to	 make	 it	 a

full-‐time	 career,	 so	 they	 can	 stop	 waitressing.

It’s	 exciting	 to	 hear	 them	 talk	 about	 it	 and	 they

promise	 to	 bring	 their	 jewelry	 cases	 over	 next	 time

for	 show	 and	 tel .	 They	 want	 to	 get	 professional

photos	 of	 their	 work	 and	 would	 like	 me	 to	 help

them	 create	 their	 website.	 When	 people	 hear	 that

I’m	 good	 with	 computer	 coding	 and	 design	 they

seem	 to	 think	 I	 have	 some	 kind	 of	 supernatural

abilities.	 If	 that	 were	 true,	 I	 wouldn’t	 feel	 so	 alone.



Losing	 track	 of	 time	 is	 easy	 when	 you	 don’t

have	 to	 be	 anywhere.	 My	 office,	 my	 home	 and	 my



358

studio	 all	 blur	 together.	 I	 spend	 more	 time	 painting,

staying	 in	 my	 pajamas,	 working	 on	 5	 Alpha	 projects

before	 going	 to	 the	 studio.	 I	 eat	 at	 odd	 hours.

Apples	 are	 easy	 to	 eat	 any	 time	 and	 in	 any	 room.

It’s	 easy	 to	 wallow	 in	 self-‐pity	 and	 loneliness,

it’s	 also	 unattractive.	 Hair	 goes	 unwashed,	 showers

get	 skipped,	 clothes	 get	 over-‐worn	 and	 even	 man’s

best	 friend	 starts	 to	 get	 turned	 off.

Bert	 stops	 sleeping	 on	 my	 bed	 and	 moves	 to

the	 floor	 when	 my	 moping	 becomes	 the

overbearing	 third	 person	 in	 the	 room.	 His	 dog

sense	 tel s	 him	 that	 his	 master	 needs	 to	 get	 her	 act

together.

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 are	 often	 at	 the	 diner	 or

working	 on	 their	 jewelry	 business	 out	 of	 Bonnie’s

home’s	 basement.	 I	 look	 forward	 to	 when	 they

make	 time	 to	 see	 me,	 like	 a	 kid	 waiting	 for	 their

parents	 to	 take	 them	 to	 the	 circus.

It’s	 the	 end	 of	 August	 and	 I’m	 wearing	 a	 flannel,

granny	 nightgown	 because	 it’s	 the	 last	 clean

sleeping	 garment	 available.	 I’m	 sitting	 in	 the	 bay

window	 of	 the	 library,	 eating	 a	 bowl	 of	 dry

Cheerios	 because	 I	 ran	 out	 of	 milk	 three	 days	 ago.



359

My	 thick	 hair	 has	 grown	 longer	 and	 it’s	 flat	 with

grease	 build-‐up.	 I	 tuck	 it	 behind	 my	 ears	 and

munch	 on	 my	 cereal	 when	 Carson’s	 big,	 black	 truck

pul s	 up	 in	 front	 of	 the	 house	 and	 he	 and	 Leo	 get

out.	 They	 inspect	 the	 large	 tree	 closest	 to	 the

house	 and	 the	 branches	 on	 the	 ground	 that	 were

brought	 down	 by	 the	 storm.	 Carson	 looks	 up	 at	 the

library	 window	 and	 sees	 me.	 I	 wave	 my	 spoon	 and

continue	 eating.

A	 few	 minutes	 later,	 the	 slamming	 door	 and

his	 boots	 pounding	 on	 the	 stairs	 makes	 me	 think

I’m	 reliving	 some	 kind	 of	 bad	 school	 play.	 I	 expect

to	 see	 the	 star	 football	 player-‐slash-‐theater	 major

barrel	 onto	 the	 set	 with	 his	 overeager	 entrance.

Carson	 swaggers	 into	 the	 library	 and	 I	 think,

Here’s	 Carson!

He	 takes	 in	 my	 flannel	 nightgown	 and	 fuzzy

footies.	 It’s	 only	 ninety	 degrees	 outside.	 “What	 has

happened	 to	 you?”

“I’ve	 been	 busy	 with	 work,”	 I	 mumble	 through

a	 mouth	 ful 	 of	 cereal.



360

He	 continues	 to	 look	 at	 my	 unkempt	 hair,	 the

paint	 under	 my	 long	 fingernails	 and	 my	 miserable

meal.

“No	 time	 to	 get	 my	 hair	 and	 nails	 done.	 Big

project	 at	 work	 and	 I	 have	 all	 those	 paintings	 that	 I

need	 to	 finish,”	 I	 go	 on.

“Uh-‐huh,”	 he	 says.	 “When	 was	 the	 last	 time

you	 left	 the	 house?”

“I	 take	 Bert	 out	 every	 day.”

“You	 mean	 you	 open	 the	 door	 everyday	 so

Bert	 can	 go	 out.”

I	 shrug	 and	 continue	 to	 eat	 my	 dry,	 tasteless

food.	 I’m	 not	 even	 swayed	 by	 the	 fact	 that	 Carson

is	 freshly	 showered	 and	 I	 can	 smel 	 his	 scented

deodorant	 along	 with	 a	 whiff	 of	 the	 shampoo	 from

his	 wet	 hair.	 He	 takes	 my	 cereal	 bowl	 from	 me	 and

puts	 it	 on	 the	 windowsil .	 Then	 he	 walks	 me

upstairs	 to	 my	 bathroom.

“Shower,”	 he	 demands.	 “Put	 on	 clean	 clothes

and	 meet	 me	 downstairs	 when	 you’re	 done.”	 He

leaves	 and	 I	 hear	 him	 jog	 back	 down	 the	 stairs.

I	 decide	 to	 use	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 master	 bath

instead	 because	 I’ve	 never	 used	 the	 enormous	 claw



361

tub	 in	 there.	 I	 fil 	 it	 with	 her	 herbal-‐scented	 bubble

bath	 and	 then	 discover	 a	 long	 rubber	 tube	 with	 a

showerhead	 that	 screws	 onto	 the	 faucet	 so	 you	 can

wash	 your	 hair	 while	 taking	 a	 bath.	 Either	 that	 or

it’s	 to	 give	 yourself	 an	 enema.

When	 I	 sink	 into	 the	 hot	 water,	 I	 slip	 down	 far

enough	 to	 realize	 that	 the	 tub	 could	 easily	 hold	 two

people	 comfortably.	 Why	 did	 I	 always	 rush	 through

showers	 when	 I	 could	 have	 taken	 a	 long,	 hot	 bath

and	 soaked	 as	 long	 as	 I	 want?	 I	 have	 no	 place	 to	 be.

I	 take	 my	 time,	 shaving	 my	 legs,	 deep

conditioning	 my	 hair	 and	 trying	 out	 one	 of	 my

aunt’s	 mud	 masks.	 It’s	 a	 very	 slow	 process	 to	 wake

up	 all	 of	 my	 senses,	 but	 after	 a	 half	 hour	 in	 the	 tub,

I	 feel	 like	 I’m	 coming	 back	 to	 earth.

My	 hair	 takes	 a	 while	 to	 dry	 with	 the	 low

wattage	 hair	 dryer,	 so	 I	 swing	 my	 head	 upside

down	 to	 help	 hurry	 it	 along.	 Then	 I	 slather	 on	 body

oil	 that	 smel s	 like	 roses	 and	 makes	 my	 skin	 baby

smooth.	 Then	 I	 dab	 on	 one	 of	 her	 perfumes	 and

find	 a	 simple	 cream-‐colored	 cotton	 sheath	 dress	 in

her	 closet	 to	 wear.



362

My	 aunt	 left	 behind	 a	 lot	 of	 little	 luxuries	 I

never	 noticed	 in	 her	 room	 when	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor

helped	 me	 clean	 out	 her	 closets.	 Her	 friends

obviously	 saved	 some	 of	 the	 special	 toiletries	 and

clothing	 for	 me,	 and	 it’s	 a	 treat	 to	 discover

everything	 I	 missed	 up	 until	 this	 point.	 I	 imagine	 my

aunt	 getting	 ready	 for	 a	 date,	 going	 through	 the

same	 rituals	 with	 the	 same	 products	 I’ve	 used.	 She

was	 very	 beautiful	 and	 I	 suspect	 she	 had	 admirers

and	 lovers	 even	 in	 old	 age.

Before	 I	 leave	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 bedroom,	 I	 take

the	 jeweler’s	 bag	 from	 the	 closet	 shelf.	 I	 haven’t

looked	 at	 the	 ring	 since	 the	 night	 Imogene	 found	 it.

I	 kept	 it	 in	 the	 bag	 with	 the	 receipt	 and	 shoved	 it	 in

the	 back	 of	 the	 closet. As	 if	 that	 would	 stop	 me

from	 thinking	 about	 it,	 I	 laugh.

I	 pad	 barefoot	 back	 out	 to	 the	 porch	 to	 watch

Carson	 and	 Leo	 haul	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 yard	 debris

onto	 the	 truck	 bed.	 I	 lean	 against	 the	 porch	 railing

and	 watch	 them	 lift	 the	 heavy	 broken	 limbs.	 Carson

glances	 at	 me	 only	 briefly,	 before	 giving	 his	 full

attention	 to	 the	 yard	 work.



363

The	 sun	 beats	 down	 on	 them	 as	 they	 haul	 the

heavy	 branches	 over	 their	 heads	 with	 loud	 grunts

and	 a	 final	 ARGH	 as	 they	 dump	 it	 on	 a	 flatbed

hooked	 up	 to	 Carson’s	 truck.	 They	 use	 cables	 to

secure	 the	 large	 limbs	 from	 rol ing	 and	 then	 take	 a

break	 from	 their	 hard	 work.	 Carson	 wipes	 his

sweaty	 brow	 with	 the	 bottom	 of	 his	 t-‐shirt	 and

slugs	 back	 a	 ful 	 bottle	 of	 water.

I	 wonder	 if	 some	 of	 this	 Paul	 Bunyan	 activity	 is

for	 my	 benefit.

When	 the	 yard	 is	 cleared	 and	 the	 truck	 is

loaded,	 Leo	 takes	 out	 his	 cel 	 phone	 to	 make	 a	 call.

He	 sits	 half	 in	 and	 half	 out	 of	 the	 cab	 of	 the	 truck

talking	 to	 someone. What	 Lauren	 wouldn’t	 give	 to

see	 this,	 I	 think.

Carson	 makes	 his	 way	 over	 to	 the	 porch	 and

eyes	 me	 with	 suspicion.	 I	 am	 groomed	 and	 dressed,

nothing	 like	 the	 zombie	 he	 encountered	 earlier.

“Feel	 better?”	 he	 asks,	 stepping	 up	 on	 the

porch.

“I	 wasn’t	 sick.	 Seventy	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper.



364

“You	 do	 that	 around	 me	 a	 lot.”	 His	 shirt	 is

soaked	 with	 perspiration	 and	 his	 face	 has	 droplets

that	 I’m	 tempted	 to	 touch.

“I’m	 sure	 I’ve	 done	 it	 around	 many	 people,	 but

they	 were	 polite	 enough	 not	 to	 mention	 it.	 I	 know

Dylan	 caught	 me	 at	 it.”

“Do	 you	 only	 do	 it	 around	 guys	 you’re

interested	 in	 then?”

“Hah!	 I	 don’t	 think	 that’s	 how	 it	 works,”	 I	 tel

him.

“I	 do.	 I	 think	 it’s	 a	 nervous	 tic	 that	 happens

when	 you’re	 with—”

“Why	 are	 you	 here?”	 I	 cut	 him	 off.

“What	 do	 you	 mean?	 I	 told	 you	 I’d	 come	 clean

the	 storm	 debris.”

“No,	 I	 mean	 in	 general.	 You	 have	 a	 contracting

crew	 that	 does	 all	 this	 work.	 I	 know	 that	 because

Lauren	 told	 me	 you	 never	 handle	 the	 work	 at	 a

client’s	 home.”

“Gin	 was	 more	 than	 a	 client.	 She	 was	 a	 friend,

like	 a	 second	 mother.”



365

“She’s	 not	 here.	 I	 am.	 And	 you’ve	 been	 coming

to	 my	 house	 for	 months	 doing	 an	 awful	 lot	 of	 work

when	 you	 could	 have	 had	 your	 men	 handle	 it.”

“They’re	 working	 up	 at	 the	 Peterson	 house	 and

the	 Tuturro	 place.	 I	 need	 them	 on	 those	 big

projects.	 Is	 there	 a	 problem	 with	 me	 being	 here?”

“No,”	 I	 answer.	 We	 look	 at	 each	 other	 quietly

for	 a	 moment	 and	 then	 he	 looks	 at	 the	 pretty	 little

gift	 bag	 in	 my	 hand.	 “The	 ring.”	 I	 hold	 it	 up	 for	 him.

“Take	 it	 with	 you.”

“It	 doesn’t	 feel	 right,	 but	 I	 wil .	 I’l 	 give	 it	 to

Dylan.”

“Thank	 you.”

He	 takes	 the	 bag	 and	 his	 calloused	 fingers

brush	 against	 mine.	 The	 sensation	 of	 his	 rough	 skin

against	 mine	 sends	 a	 firestorm	 of	 lascivious	 signals

screaming	 through	 my	 body.	 Carson	 lets	 his	 fingers

linger	 and	 at	 one	 point	 we’re	 both	 holding	 the	 ring

bag.

“I	 like	 being	 around	 you,”	 he	 finally	 says.

“That’s	 why	 I’m	 here.”

I	 consider	 his	 words	 for	 a	 moment,	 trembling

with	 joy	 that	 he	 would	 say	 that,	 however,	 I’m



366

realistic	 enough	 to	 know	 that	 I	 had	 already	 made

my	 choice	 when	 I	 slept	 with	 Dylan.	 I	 sabotaged	 this

from	 the	 beginning.	 To	 think	 I	 could	 then	 move	 on

to	 the	 next	 brother	 and	 start	 over	 sounds

incestuous	 and	 ugly.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 be	 a	 woman

who	 does	 that.

He	 looks	 frustrated	 by	 my	 unresponsiveness	 to

his	 confession	 while	 he	 stands	 there	 a	 bit	 longer,

waiting	 for	 me	 to	 acknowledge	 him.

“I	 have	 an	 errand	 to	 run,	 so	 I	 have	 to	 get	 back

inside,	 but	 thanks	 for	 doing	 this	 and	 tel 	 Dylan…

well…”

Carson	 regards	 me	 with	 disappointment.

“Never	 mind.”	 I	 head	 back	 into	 the	 house	 so	 I

don’t	 have	 to	 see	 Carson’s	 confused,	 handsome

face.





367





Twenty-‐Four



As	 the	 yoga	 class	 ends,	 I’m	 doing	 one	 last

stretch	 when	 I	 see	 Dylan	 look	 through	 the	 front

window,	 directly	 at	 me.	 His	 face	 is	 expressionless.

It’s	 similar	 to	 viewing	 someone	 who	 has	 the	 same

disease	 as	 me,	 the	 loss	 of	 wil 	 to	 move	 on	 quickly

and	 the	 ability	 to	 flounder	 in	 one’s	 own	 world.	 Like

me,	 he’s	 lost	 some	 weight	 and	 his	 general	 spark

has	 been	 diffused.	 I	 hear	 Lois	 call	 my	 name	 and	 I

turn	 away	 for	 a	 moment.	 When	 I	 turn	 back	 to	 the

window,	 Dylan	 is	 gone.	 Perhaps	 he	 wasn’t	 really

there	 to	 begin	 with	 and	 now	 my	 guilt	 is	 haunting

me.

I	 leave	 Beyond	 The	 Pants	 and	 head	 across	 the

street	 to	 Archie’s	 office.	 We	 spend	 some	 time	 on

the	 investment	 accounts	 and	 he	 hands	 me	 another

check	 from	 the	 trust.	 There	 are	 investments	 that

Archie	 was	 instructed	 to	 liquidate	 upon	 Aunt

Virginia’s	 death.	 The	 taxes	 take	 a	 huge	 chunk,	 but



368

the	 remaining	 balance	 is	 supposed	 to	 go	 into	 a

special	 interest-‐bearing	 account	 to	 cover	 house

maintenance,	 Bert’s	 expenses,	 and	 general	 needs

for	 living	 in	 a	 home	 that’s	 much	 too	 big	 for	 me	 with

property	 that	 extends	 beyond	 what	 any	 single

person	 could	 possibly	 need.

“What	 do	 you	 think	 the	 house	 is	 worth?”	 I	 ask

Archie.

This	 catches	 him	 off	 guard	 and	 he	 studies	 me

with	 a	 slight	 frown	 before	 responding.

“I’m	 not	 sure	 exactly.	 Comparable	 properties

in	 the	 area	 have	 sold	 between	 six	 and	 seven	 figures.

It	 would	 have	 to	 be	 appraised.	 Is	 there	 something

you	 want	 to	 tel 	 me?”

“I’m	 not	 sure	 I	 should	 stay	 in	 Hera.”	 I	 try	 to

think	 of	 a	 way	 to	 explain	 it	 without	 all	 the	 dramatic

parts	 included,	 yet	 it	 seems	 impossible.

“That	 would	 be	 a	 tragedy,”	 Archie	 says	 softly.

He	 places	 his	 hands	 on	 the	 stack	 of	 papers	 in	 front

of	 him	 and	 lets	 out	 a	 deep,	 wounded	 sigh.	 “I

thought	 life	 was	 going	 wel 	 for	 you	 here.	 Am	 I

mistaken?”



369

“It’s	 a	 wonderful	 town.	 I’ve	 made	 some	 very

nice	 friends.”

“But	 that	 whole	 business	 with	 Dylan	 didn’t

help,”	 Archie	 includes.

“You	 know	 about	 that?”

“This	 town	 has	 no	 secrets.	 That’s	 what	 you	 get

with	 a	 small	 place	 like	 Hera,	 but	 it’s	 also	 one	 of	 the

reasons	 to	 live	 here.	 Ginnie	 thought	 this	 would	 be

the	 perfect	 remedy	 for	 you.”

“Remedy	 for	 what?’

“Oh,	 let	 me	 see	 how	 Gin	 put	 it,”	 he	 says,

thumping	 his	 fingers.	 “Ah,	 yes.	 She	 said	 ‘your	 life	 in

New	 York	 was	 utterly	 conventional	 with	 you	 being

one	 of	 the	 many	 Generation	 XYZs	 or	 whatever

they’re	 called	 today.	 They’re	 all	 working	 long	 hours

in	 jobs	 that	 make	 them	 miserable	 while	 being

saddled	 with	 student	 loan	 debts	 in	 a	 terrible

economy	 which	 only	 makes	 the	 recipe	 worse’.	 She

wanted	 Hera	 to	 be	 a	 refuge,	 a	 home	 where	 you

pursue	 art	 and	 all	 things	 grand.	 Nice,	 isn’t	 it?”

“That’s	 a	 lovely	 idea,	 but	 I	 actually	 have	 a	 good

job.	 I’m	 kind	 of	 the	 exception	 for	 my	 age	 group.

Plus,	 I	 went	 to	 school	 on	 an	 academic	 scholarship



370

and	 my	 parents	 helped	 cover	 whatever	 else	 I

needed,	 so	 I’m	 not	 buried	 in	 debt.	 I	 had	 a	 few	 lousy

jobs	 during	 school,	 but	 I’m	 not	 one	 those	 col ege

grads	 who	 can	 really	 say	 I’m	 struggling.”

“Point	 wel 	 taken.	 How	 about	 this	 then?	 Gin

wanted	 to	 give	 you	 something	 wonderful.	 It’s

certainly	 your	 right	 to	 sel 	 the	 property	 and	 you

could	 put	 a	 tidy	 sum	 of	 money	 in	 your	 savings,	 but

would	 you	 really	 be	 happier?”

“It’s	 not	 about	 happiness.	 It’s	 about	 getting

out	 before	 I	 cause	 more	 damage.”

“I	 see	 you	 have	 a	 talent	 for	 the	 dramatic	 flair

like	 your	 aunt.	 Let	 me	 stop	 you	 before	 you	 go	 any

further	 with	 your	 creative	 storytel ing.	 I	 have	 an

idea	 I	 think	 might	 appeal	 to	 you.”

“You’re	 a	 crafty	 one,	 aren’t	 you?”	 I	 tease	 him.

“I’m	 listening,	 Bixby.	 Tel 	 me	 what	 you’ve	 got.”



The	 idea	 of	 gril ing	 pizzas	 like	 they	 do	 in

restaurants	 sounded	 like	 a	 good	 idea,	 but	 we	 burn

three	 crusts	 until	 they	 are	 nothing	 other	 than

charred,	 black	 discs.	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 launch

them	 like	 Frisbees	 across	 the	 yard.	 Upon	 the	 failure



371

of	 our	 bril iant	 plan,	 we	 decide	 to	 take	 our	 unused

pizza	 toppings	 and	 make	 an	 antipasto	 plate	 along

with	 a	 pot	 of	 linguine	 swimming	 in	 olive	 oil,	 garlic

and	 herbs.	 We	 feast	 in	 the	 dining	 room	 and	 open	 a

nice	 bottle	 of	 red	 wine	 that	 Lauren	 brings	 up	 from

the	 cel ar	 for	 our	 special	 celebratory	 occasion.

After	 Archie	 told	 me	 his	 idea,	 I	 couldn’t	 wait	 to

share	 it	 with	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren.	 I	 don’t	 know

why	 I	 didn’t	 think	 of	 it	 earlier.	 Having	 them	 in	 the

house	 instantly	 lifts	 my	 spirits	 as	 we	 gorge

ourselves	 on	 our	 rich	 cuisine.	 We’re	 reaching	 for	 a

toast	 when	 the	 front	 door	 slams	 open	 and	 Imogene

plunks	 herself	 back	 down	 in	 her	 chair.

“Not	 again,”	 she	 says.

Carson	 and	 his	 angry	 testosterone	 army	 of	 one

comes	 whirling	 through	 the	 living	 room	 and	 pushes

a	 dining	 chair	 aside	 to	 lunge	 across	 the	 table	 at	 me.

His	 fists	 are	 on	 the	 table	 and	 his	 face	 is	 inches	 from

mine.	 “So	 you’re	 going	 to	 run	 like	 a	 coward?”	 he

shouts	 at	 me.

I’m	 frozen,	 holding	 my	 glass	 of	 wine	 as	 my

mouth	 remains	 hanging	 open.



372

“What	 the	 hel 	 are	 you	 doing,	 Carson?”

Imogene	 yel s	 back.	 She	 stands	 and	 yanks	 him	 away

from	 the	 table.	 “Where	 do	 you	 get	 off	 storming	 in

here	 in	 your	 goddamn	 muddy	 boots,	 yel ing	 at	 Jess

in	 her	 own	 home?”

“Archie	 said	 you’re	 thinking	 of	 moving	 back	 to

the	 city.”	 Carson	 points	 a	 finger	 at	 me.	 He’s	 really

good	 at	 dramatic	 entrances	 and	 he	 never	 hides	 his

anger.	 This	 makes	 the	 night	 he	 wrestled	 Dylan	 to

the	 ground	 look	 pretty	 tame.

“Get	 your	 finger	 out	 of	 her	 face	 and	 calm

down,”	 Lauren	 interjects.

He	 puts	 his	 hands	 on	 his	 hips	 and	 leans

forward	 like	 he’s	 getting	 ready	 to	 smash	 the	 table,

the	 only	 barrier	 protecting	 me	 from	 him.	 I	 put	 my

wine	 glass	 down	 and	 walk	 around	 the	 table	 to

meet	 him.	 “We	 can	 discuss	 this	 outside	 so	 my

friends	 can	 enjoy	 their	 meal,”	 I	 tel 	 him.	 “Let’s	 go.”

“But	 I	 want	 to	 hear	 what’s	 going	 on,”	 Lauren

whines	 as	 Carson	 fol ows	 me	 out	 to	 the	 porch.

“First	 of	 all,	 don’t	 ever	 talk	 that	 way	 to	 me	 in

front	 of	 my	 friends.”	 I	 am	 terse,	 though	 not

shouting.	 “Second,	 stop	 walking	 into	 my	 house



373

whenever	 you	 feel	 like	 it.	 You	 don’t	 see	 me

storming	 into	 your	 home,	 ever.	 Third,	 you	 don’t

know	 the	 ful 	 story,	 and	 even	 if	 you	 did,	 you	 have

no	 right	 to	 judge	 what	 I	 do	 with	 my	 life.”

“So	 you’re	 moving	 back?	 You’re	 sel ing

everything	 Gin	 worked	 so	 hard	 to	 give	 you,	 just	 like

that?	 You’re	 going	 to	 take	 the	 money	 and	 run?”	 He

looms	 over	 me,	 but	 speaks	 in	 a	 much	 more

measured	 tone.

“Archie	 didn’t	 tel 	 you	 that.”	 My	 fingers

nervously	 fiddle	 with	 the	 key	 necklace	 Carson	 gave

me.	 He	 glances	 at	 the	 necklace	 and	 then	 back	 at

my	 face.

“Not	 in	 so	 many	 words.	 He	 said	 you	 inquired

about	 sel ing	 the	 property	 and	 that	 you	 have

reservations	 about	 living	 here.	 Why?	 Because	 of

Dylan?	 Or	 is	 this	 place	 too	 boring	 for	 you?”

“No	 and	 no.	 I	 am	 a	 little	 worried	 about	 how

I’m	 going	 to	 talk	 to	 Dylan	 and	 for	 a	 while	 there	 I	 did

tinker	 with	 the	 idea	 of	 moving	 back	 to	 the	 city.

There	 were	 a	 few	 weeks	 where	 I	 thought	 this	 place

was	 a	 bad	 idea	 and	 that	 I	 had	 really	 screwed	 up.	 I

hurt	 Dylan	 and	 I’ve	 never	 felt	 responsible	 for



374

someone	 else.	 No	 matter	 what	 you	 told	 me,	 I	 did

think	 that	 I	 had	 some	 serious	 part	 in	 his	 breakdown

or	 whatever	 it	 was.	 Being	 here,	 alone	 in	 this	 house,

became	 pretty	 oppressive.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 what	 to	 do.

That’s	 why	 I	 went	 to	 talk	 to	 Archie	 about	 sel ing	 the

house.”

“But	 you’re	 not?”	 he	 asks	 and	 I	 think	 I	 see

something	 that	 resembles	 hope	 in	 his	 eyes.

“Why	 do	 you	 care	 so	 much	 about	 what	 I	 do,

Carson?”	 My	 voice	 cracks	 as	 I	 ask	 it.	 “You’re	 really

good	 at	 showing	 up	 and	 giving	 me	 a	 piece	 of	 your

mind.”

“You	 think	 I’m	 an	 asshole,	 don’t	 you?”

“No.	 I	 have	 never	 thought	 that	 about	 you,	 but

I’m	 not	 Dylan.	 You	 can’t	 force	 your	 way	 in	 and	 tel

me	 what	 to	 do.	 I	 can’t	 stand	 your	 lectures.”

“That’s	 understandable,”	 he	 says.

“So	 why	 do	 you	 care	 so	 much	 about	 what	 I	 do?

Is	 it	 the	 house?	 Are	 you	 afraid	 of	 losing	 a	 pleasant

part	 of	 your	 childhood?	 At	 least,	 I	 assume	 the	 time

here	 with	 Aunt	 Virginia	 was	 a	 nice	 time.”



375

Carson	 smiles	 a	 little.	 “I	 love	 how	 you	 analyze

and	 try	 to	 get	 in	 other	 peoples’	 heads	 like	 a	 shrink,

but	 sometimes	 you	 miss	 the	 bigger	 picture,	 Jess.”

“Then	 what’s	 the	 big	 picture?	 What’s	 lit	 a	 fire

under	 your	 ass?”

He’s	 quiet	 for	 a	 moment	 and	 we	 stare	 at	 each

other.	 Yel ing	 or	 not,	 his	 beauty	 upends	 my	 reserve.

He	 cranks	 my	 anxiety	 dial	 up	 to	 the	 maximum	 and

the	 excitement	 of	 being	 near	 him	 draws	 me	 in.

“It’s	 you.	 I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 leave.”	 Carson

says	 it	 more	 as	 a	 demand	 and	 my	 stupid	 insides

swoon	 a	 little	 bit.	 “I	 told	 you	 I	 like	 coming	 around

here	 to	 see	 you.	 I	 meant	 it.”

Every	 thought	 and	 image	 I	 have	 of	 Carson,

from	 the	 first	 day	 I	 saw	 him	 in	 Archie’s	 office

scowling	 to	 this	 moment,	 plays	 like	 a	 montage	 in

my	 head.	 The	 nerves	 in	 my	 body	 swirl	 with	 elation

and	 I	 want	 him	 to	 hold	 me	 close	 like	 he	 did	 that

night	 on	 Barron’s	 Creek,	 yet	 the	 woman	 in	 me	 says

I’m	 rushing	 into	 something	 blindly	 again.	 Dylan	 is

no	 longer	 in	 the	 picture;	 however,	 it	 would	 be

vulgar	 for	 me	 to	 throw	 myself	 at	 his	 brother	 while

Dylan	 is	 in	 the	 midst	 of	 working	 out	 his	 issues.	 I’m



376

not	 supposed	 to	 be	 going	 near	 Dylan	 or	 talking	 to

him,	 but	 I’m	 pretty	 sure	 I	 shouldn’t	 be	 doing

anything	 with	 Carson,	 either.	 Anything	 that	 gives

off	 a	 romantic	 vibe	 has	 got	 to	 be	 off	 limits.

I	 maintain	 my	 composure	 and	 give	 away

nothing.	 “I’m	 not	 leaving.	 In	 fact,	 Imogene	 and

Lauren	 are	 moving	 in.	 They	 need	 to	 get	 out	 of	 their

parents’	 homes	 so	 they’re	 going	 to	 pay	 rent	 while

also	 setting	 up	 their	 jewelry	 business	 upstairs	 in

the	 old	 playroom,	 since	 I	 never	 use	 it.	 It	 was

Archie’s	 idea	 and	 I	 think	 it’s	 a	 pretty	 great	 one.	 We

were	 celebrating	 our	 new	 living	 arrangements

when	 you	 came	 in	 and	 blew	 a	 gasket.”

“I’m	 not	 like	 Dylan.	 I	 don’t	 fly	 off	 in

unexplained	 rages,”	 he	 defends.	 “Okay,	 I	 admit	 I

can	 yel ,	 but	 that	 in	 there	 was	 me	 being	 mad.

Nothing	 more.	 I	 don’t	 hold	 it	 in	 when	 I’m	 pissed	 off.

I	 say	 something.”	 Carson’s	 fear	 of	 being	 compared

to	 his	 brother	 is	 unnecessary.	 After	 knowing	 him

for	 several	 months,	 I	 would	 never	 consider	 them	 to

be	 alike	 in	 any	 way.

I	 smile.	 “You	 do	 mad	 really,	 really	 wel .”



377

“It	 gets	 old,”	 he	 confesses.	 “I	 spend	 too	 much

time	 trying	 to	 control	 things,	 trying	 to	 contain

Dylan.”

I	 lean	 against	 the	 porch	 railing	 and	 Carson

walks	 closer,	 perching	 himself	 next	 to	 me.

A	 confidence	 soars	 in	 me.	 I	 am	 more	 like	 my

true	 self	 when	 I’m	 with	 Carson	 than	 I	 ever	 was	 with

Dylan,	 who	 took	 attentiveness	 to	 a	 painstaking

level.	 Dylan	 couldn’t	 wrap	 his	 head	 around	 my	 art

and	 my	 need	 to	 paint	 at	 any	 given	 hour	 of	 the	 day

or	 night.

It’s	 exciting	 being	 near	 Carson	 and	 I	 know	 he

has	 made	 a	 point	 of	 figuring	 out	 my	 likes	 and

dislikes	 with	 a	 genuine	 interest	 in	 what	 makes	 me

tick.	 I	 am	 deeply	 moved	 by	 his	 declaration	 of	 I	 don’t

want	 you	 to	 leave.	 He	 may	 not	 be	 interested	 in	 me

beyond	 a	 simple	 affection,	 but	 I	 matter	 to	 him	 and

that’s	 something	 significant	 to	 my	 weak	 ego.	 Yet	 I

also	 want	 to	 be	 more	 realistic	 about	 men	 in	 general,

right	 down	 to	 reading	 the	 signals	 correctly	 and

owning	 up	 to	 my	 poor	 decisions.

“You	 know,	 at	 some	 point	 I	 wil 	 need	 to	 talk	 to

Dylan.	 I	 owe	 it	 to	 him	 and	 to	 myself.	 We	 can’t	 live



378

in	 the	 same	 town	 and	 pretend	 we’re	 strangers.”	 I

study	 Carson’s	 face	 for	 any	 sign	 of	 jealousy,	 but	 of

course,	 there	 is	 none.	 I	 suppose	 he’s	 not	 that	 kind

of	 guy	 and	 I’m	 not	 the	 kind	 of	 girl	 he’d	 feel	 that

way	 about.

“Do	 you	 think	 you	 stil 	 have	 feelings	 for	 him?”

he	 asks	 in	 a	 very	 clinical,	 non-‐emotional	 way.

“No.	 I	 told	 you	 no.	 I’m	 concerned	 about	 him,

though.”

“You	 should	 see	 him,	 but	 not	 now.	 There	 wil

be	 a	 better	 opportunity	 when	 the	 time	 is	 right,	 to

clear	 the	 air.	 Dylan	 is	 going	 to	 get	 better.	 He’l 	 be

fine.”

Carson	 picks	 up	 my	 hand	 and	 looks	 at	 it	 while

holding	 it	 gently	 in	 his	 own.	 “You’re	 wearing	 the

necklace.”

I	 nod.

“Would	 you	 come	 see	 my	 house?”	 His	 steely

eyes	 are	 serious	 as	 he	 waits	 for	 my	 reply.

“Ninety	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper.

Carson	 chuckles.	 “Am	 I	 making	 you	 nervous?”

Yes,	 and	 if	 you	 keeping	 holding	 my	 hand	 and

caressing	 my	 palm,	 my	 body	 is	 going	 to	 shatter.



379

“Maybe.	 This	 doesn’t	 seem	 like	 a	 good	 idea.	 I

haven’t	 seen	 Dylan	 in	 over	 a	 month	 and	 I	 should

probably	 talk	 to	 him	 before	 I	 see	 your	 house,”	 I	 say

and	 then	 realize	 how	 idiotic	 that	 sounds.

“You	 want	 to	 ask	 Dylan	 for	 permission	 to	 see

my	 house?”	 Carson	 laughs.

“No,	 of	 course	 not.	 That’s	 not	 what	 I	 meant.”

“I’m	 joking.	 I	 know	 what	 you	 meant.	 You	 don’t

want	 him	 to	 see	 you	 with	 me.	 You’re	 afraid	 he	 stil

has	 feelings	 for	 you,	 no	 matter	 how	 irrational	 they

may	 be.	 Like	 I	 said,	 Dylan	 wil 	 be	 fine.”

“How	 do	 you	 know?	 Before	 today,	 you	 were

pretty	 sure	 I	 needed	 to	 stay	 away	 from	 Dylan.	 Now,

you	 think	 he’l 	 be	 fine.	 You	 seem	 awful y	 sure	 about

all	 of	 this.”

“We’ve	 already	 looked	 into	 a	 residential

treatment	 program	 and	 it	 looks	 like	 a	 good	 fit	 for

Dylan.”

“Dylan	 is	 agreeing	 to	 this?”	 I	 ask.	 I’m	 both

amazed	 and	 ticked	 off	 that	 Carson	 didn’t	 tel 	 me

this	 sooner.	 “Carson,	 this	 is	 the	 news	 you	 were

supposed	 to	 lead	 with	 when	 you	 came	 crashing

through	 my	 door.”



380

“So,	 now	 wil 	 you	 come	 over	 to	 my	 house?”





381





Twenty-‐Five



I	 drive	 up	 the	 solitary	 road	 that	 narrows	 with

trees	 arching	 over	 the	 dirt	 road	 like	 a	 secret

entrance.	 It’s	 September	 and	 the	 autumn	 colors

are	 beginning	 to	 take	 over	 the	 closer	 I	 get	 to

Carson’s	 home.	 I	 navigate	 my	 car	 through	 the

heavily	 wooded	 patch	 of	 red	 and	 yel ow	 trees

before	 I	 burst	 upon	 a	 scene	 of	 unbelievable	 beauty.

With	 the	 trees	 behind	 me	 I	 am	 overlooking	 the

valley,	 the	 same	 view	 I	 have	 from	 my	 home,	 but	 I’m

more	 elevated	 up	 here,	 therefore,	 everything

appears	 more	 majestic	 and	 vast.	 In	 the	 middle	 of	 it

all,	 before	 the	 drop	 down	 to	 the	 valley,	 is	 a	 lone

house.

Carson’s	 home.

It’s	 a	 contemporary	 design	 with	 straight	 lines

and	 glass,	 but	 instead	 of	 looking	 grotesquely

modern	 like	 an	 “office	 building”	 type	 structure,	 it

has	 organic	 qualities	 of	 wood	 and	 shades	 of	 neutral



382

tones	 that	 give	 it	 an	 earthy	 appearance.	 It’s	 huge,

bigger	 than	 my	 Victorian	 house.

I	 park	 near	 his	 detached	 garage,	 which	 is	 a	 low

structure	 covered	 by	 a	 green	 screen	 of	 living	 plants.

As	 I	 get	 out	 of	 the	 car	 to	 view	 my	 surroundings,

Carson	 steps	 out	 of	 the	 house	 and	 walks	 towards

me	 with	 a	 casual	 gait.	 No	 tool	 belt	 hanging	 on	 his

hips	 and	 no	 muddy	 boots.	 He’s	 barefoot,	 in	 jeans

and	 a	 white	 T-‐shirt.

“Hi,”	 he	 greets,	 smiling.	 His	 intentions	 are	 clear.

He	 wants	 to	 be	 with	 me	 and	 I	 have	 every	 inch	 of

desire	 in	 my	 body	 and	 brain	 pushing	 me	 towards

him.	 The	 way	 he	 looks	 at	 me	 is	 all	 I	 need	 to	 feel

wonderful	 and	 special.

We’re	 surrounded	 by	 clean,	 crisp,	 cool	 air	 and

it	 makes	 the	 mood	 incredibly	 promising.	 It’s	 just	 us

with	 no	 pretext	 of	 doing	 anything	 else.	 I’m	 here	 to

see	 him	 and	 he	 looks	 happy.	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 to

make	 of	 this	 homebody.	 I’ve	 only	 known	 the	 work-‐

driven,	 hard-‐edged	 Carson	 who’s	 usually	 covered	 in

saw	 dust	 or	 dressed	 for	 an	 unwanted	 occasion.	 This

is	 the	 most	 relaxed	 I	 have	 ever	 seen	 him	 and	 it

causes	 me	 to	 smile	 in	 return.



383

“I’m	 really	 glad	 you’re	 here.”	 He	 puts	 a	 hand

on	 my	 back	 and	 guides	 me	 towards	 the	 house.

“I	 had	 to	 see	 the	 house	 that	 is	 forbidden	 to	 all

of	 Carson’s	 dates.”

“That	 sounds	 like	 something	 Imogene	 and

Lauren	 cooked	 up.”	 He	 leads	 me	 through	 the	 front

door.	 The	 first	 thing	 that	 strikes	 me	 is	 the	 thirty-‐

foot	 high	 ceilings,	 the	 polished	 concrete	 floors	 and

the	 floor-‐to-‐ceiling	 windows.

“This	 is	 amazing,”	 I	 say	 with	 my	 head	 swiveling

around.

“Thank	 you.	 I	 know	 most	 people	 think	 it	 looks

too	 stark,	 kind	 of	 bleak,	 but	 it’s	 really	 very

comfortable.	 I	 wanted	 a	 casual	 place.	 I	 don’t	 have	 a

lot	 of	 possessions,	 but	 everything	 is	 made	 for

comfort,	 not	 show.”

It’s	 so	 Carson.	 There’s	 no	 clutter,	 no	 nick-‐

knacks.	 Everything	 has	 a	 purpose.	 Two	 leather

couches	 and	 Blackard	 chairs	 grace	 the	 living	 room

that	 opens	 into	 a	 dining	 area	 with	 a	 massive

Blackard	 dining	 table	 and	 chair	 set.	 The	 dining

room	 wall	 is	 one	 of	 those	 retractable	 windows	 like

you	 see	 at	 a	 gas	 station.	 There	 are	 a	 few	 area	 rugs,



384

some	 exceptional	 works	 of	 art	 on	 the	 walls	 and	 a

wood-‐burning	 fireplace	 that	 comes	 down	 in	 the

middle	 of	 the	 living	 room.	 It’s	 simple,	 tasteful	 and

very	 masculine.

“It	 looks	 very	 comfortable,”	 I	 agree.	 “So	 have

you	 brought	 a	 lot	 of	 your	 dates	 here?”

“Why	 do	 keep	 bringing	 up	 my	 dating	 life?”

Carson	 looks	 flustered	 by	 where	 I’m	 going	 with	 this.

“You	 implied	 that	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 were

making	 up	 stories.	 They	 said	 you’ve	 never	 brought

women	 here,	 meaning	 the	 women	 you	 were	 or	 are

dating.	 Is	 it	 true?”

Carson	 smiles.	 “You’re	 here.”

“You’re	 not	 dating	 me.	 Then	 there	 are	 Lauren

and	 Imogene,	 they’ve	 seen	 this	 house	 and	 you’re

not	 dating	 them,	 either.”

“I’ve	 never	 brought	 a	 date	 here,”	 he	 admits.

“It’s	 true.	 You’re	 the	 first.”	 He’s	 smiling	 when	 he

says	 this.

“Mmm,	 I	 suppose	 this	 is	 a	 date,”	 I	 say	 as	 I	 walk

around	 the	 fireplace	 to	 the	 dining	 area.	 I	 stop	 and

pause,	 staring	 at	 one	 particular	 framed	 painting.

It’s	 positioned	 on	 a	 narrow	 wall	 between	 two	 large



385

windows,	 a	 special	 exhibition	 space,	 a	 place	 where

guests	 have	 to	 pass	 by	 it	 on	 their	 way	 to	 the	 dining

area	 so	 they	 wil 	 notice	 this	 piece.

It’s	 my	 painting,	 one	 of	 the	 originals	 I	 gave	 to

Tom’s	 gallery	 last	 year.	 It’s	 a	 dark	 image	 of	 a	 man	 in

a	 grubby	 suit	 and	 hat	 grasping	 a	 bottle	 of	 whiskey,

shuffling	 through	 Bryant	 Park	 with	 his	 head	 hung

low,	 surrounded	 by	 neon	 explosions	 of	 splattered

paint	 and	 dancing	 girls.

“That’s	 one	 of	 my	 favorites,”	 Carson	 says	 from

behind	 me.

“Did	 you	 buy	 my	 painting	 at	 Tom’s	 gallery	 or

did	 Ginnie	 buy	 it	 and	 give	 it	 to	 you?”

“I	 bought	 it.	 I	 was	 visiting	 one	 of	 our	 stores	 and

stopped	 in	 at	 the	 gallery.”

I’m	 stil 	 staring	 at	 my	 painting.	 “This	 was	 one	 of

the	 first	 pieces	 that	 sold.	 I	 remember	 Tom	 calling

me.”

“‘ Searching	 for	 Hope’,”	 Carson	 says.

It	 dawns	 on	 me	 that	 he’s	 tel ing	 me	 the	 title	 of

my	 own	 painting.

“That’s	 right.	 It’s	 ‘ Searching	 for	 Hope’,	 but	 I

thought	 it	 sold	 with	 two	 other	 pieces.”



386

“It	 did.	 I	 purchased	 those,	 too.”

I	 turn	 around	 and	 stare	 at	 him	 in	 disbelief.	 He’s

ful 	 of	 surprises	 and	 I	 want	 to	 kiss	 him.	 Not	 a	 thank

you	 kiss,	 but	 a	 ful 	 on,	 passionate	 I’m-‐crazy-‐about-‐

you	 kiss.

“You	 don’t	 believe	 me?”	 he	 asks.	 “Let’s	 finish

the	 tour	 and	 you’l 	 see	 the	 other	 paintings.”

“I	 believe	 you.	 I’m	 surprised,	 that’s	 all.	 Dylan

thinks	 my	 paintings	 are	 strange.”

“Consider	 the	 source.”	 Carson	 reaches	 out	 and

brushes	 a	 lock	 of	 my	 long	 hair	 back,	 his	 hand

resting	 lightly	 on	 my	 shoulder	 as	 though	 he’s

contemplating	 what	 to	 do	 next.	 “I	 like	 strange.	 I	 like

different.	 I	 like	 intel igent,	 beautiful,	 smart-‐alecky

and	 funny.	 I	 like	 it	 all.”

I	 presume	 he’s	 describing	 me,	 yet	 I’m	 so

muddled	 with	 opposing	 thoughts	 that	 suddenly	 the

autumn	 chil 	 forces	 me	 to	 pul 	 my	 baby-‐doll

cardigan	 across	 my	 chest.	 The	 thin	 material	 does

nothing	 to	 warm	 me	 or	 hide	 the	 fact	 that	 I	 am

nervous,	 though.

Carson	 doesn’t	 miss	 a	 beat	 on	 reading	 my

anxiety.	 He	 moves	 his	 hand	 back	 to	 my	 shoulder



387

blade	 and	 propels	 me	 through	 the	 kitchen,

highlighting	 every	 component	 that	 is	 made	 of

recycled	 or	 sustainable	 materials.	 Sleek,	 modern

appliances,	 bare	 counters	 and	 more	 poured

concrete	 flooring.

“The	 house	 is	 so	 modern,	 but	 it’s	 rustic	 at	 the

same	 time.	 It’s	 really	 you,”	 I	 say.

“I	 hired	 a	 good	 design	 team.	 A	 friend	 of	 mine

does	 this.	 He	 knows	 me	 wel ,	 so	 I	 didn’t	 have	 to	 tel

him	 to	 avoid	 anything	 with	 flowers	 and	 patterns.”

“The	 kitchen	 is	 immaculate.	 Do	 you	 even	 eat

meals	 here?”

Carson	 laughs.	 “I	 can’t	 cook	 like	 Dylan,	 but	 I

make	 a	 mean	 peanut	 butter	 and	 jel y	 sandwich	 and

sloppy	 Joes.	 Mostly,	 though,	 I	 depend	 on	 my

housekeeper	 to	 take	 care	 of	 everything.”

“You	 have	 a	 housekeeper?	 I	 don’t	 know	 any

guys	 your	 age	 who	 have	 a	 maid.	 Unless	 they’re	 rich,

I	 suppose,	 like	 my	 boss,	 Nathan.”	 I	 chuckle	 at	 the

image	 of	 a	 housekeeper	 bossing	 Carson	 around	 in

his	 own	 home.



388

“Is	 she	 a	 stout,	 little,	 old,	 gray-‐haired	 woman

who	 makes	 her	 own	 bread	 and	 cleans	 everything

with	 white	 vinegar?”

“No,	 she’s	 fairly	 young	 and	 strong.	 She’s	 Polish

and	 blond.	 Her	 name	 is	 Talia.	 She’s	 here	 three

times	 a	 week,	 cleans,	 does	 the	 laundry	 and	 leaves

me	 dinners	 in	 the	 fridge.	 She’s	 great.	 And,	 yes,	 I	 can

afford	 her.”

I	 hate	 her.

“You	 should	 hire	 her.”

First	 he’s	 tel ing	 me	 how	 awesome	 this	 young

woman	 is	 and	 then	 he’s	 suggesting	 I	 hire	 her?	 “You

think	 I’m	 a	 slob?”

“No,	 not	 at	 all,	 but	 you	 inherited	 a	 very	 big

house	 and	 you	 have	 to	 admit	 you	 have	 some	 dust

going	 on	 there.	 Gin’s	 housecleaner	 moved	 away	 a

few	 months	 ago	 and	 she	 was	 going	 to	 hire	 Talia,

but	 things	 happened.	 Gin	 died	 and	 I	 got	 caught	 up

in	 finishing	 the	 work	 around	 the	 house;	 I	 forgot	 to

mention	 the	 housecleaner	 to	 you.”

“I	 can’t	 afford	 her	 anyway.”	 I	 sound	 a	 little

miffed,	 not	 about	 hiring	 a	 maid,	 but	 about	 this

fabulous	 woman	 in	 Carson’s	 home.



389

“Yes,	 you	 can.	 Gin	 included	 it	 in	 the	 house

maintenance	 money	 going	 into	 the	 checking

account	 every	 month.	 You	 haven’t	 really	 used	 that

account	 have	 you?”

“Archie	 has	 been	 going	 over	 the	 accounts	 with

me.”

“Yeah,	 but	 you	 haven’t	 used	 the	 checking

account	 Gin	 provided.”

“I’ve	 been	 using	 my	 own.	 I	 have	 enough

money	 and	 I	 am	 using	 some	 of	 the	 money	 that

came	 from	 the	 checks	 Archie	 gave	 me	 when	 some

assets	 were	 liquidated.	 Besides,	 my	 paintings	 are

sel ing,	 in	 case	 you	 didn’t	 hear.”

“Don’t	 do	 that.	 Save	 your	 money	 and	 use	 the

money	 Gin	 left	 you.	 You’re	 making	 it	 harder	 on

yourself.”

“How	 do	 you	 know	 so	 much	 about	 Ginnie’s

accounts?”

“She	 trusted	 me.	 She	 had	 me	 sit	 in	 on	 the

meetings	 with	 her	 and	 Archie	 when	 she	 was

deciding	 how	 to	 set	 everything	 up	 for	 you.	 Let	 me

talk	 to	 Talia	 about	 coming	 to	 your	 house	 at	 least

once	 a	 week.	 Cleaning	 only.	 You	 can	 trust	 her	 and



390

you	 can	 concentrate	 on	 your	 job	 and	 your	 painting.

That’s	 why	 I’m	 suggesting	 her.	 You	 can	 focus	 on

work	 instead	 of	 managing	 that	 big	 house.	 I	 need

her	 to	 do	 so	 much	 here	 because	 I	 work	 long	 hours

at	 the	 shop	 and,	 honestly,	 I	 hate	 doing	 laundry	 and

house	 cleaning.”

“Wel ,	 Carson,	 who	 doesn’t?”	 I	 lean	 against	 the

cool	 concrete	 counter	 and	 admire	 the	 spectacular

view	 of	 fall	 foliage	 behind	 him.

“The	 view	 is	 something,	 isn’t	 it?”	 He	 grins.

“You	 have	 to	 see	 the	 rest.”

He	 nudges	 me	 and	 I	 fol ow	 him	 back	 to	 the

hallway	 where	 we	 head	 up	 a	 suspension	 staircase

with	 wires	 and	 clear	 glass	 panels	 so	 no	 views	 are

obstructed.	 The	 second	 floor	 is	 really	 an	 extension

of	 the	 first	 level	 with	 an	 open	 hallway	 that

overlooks	 the	 living	 room,	 four	 bedrooms	 and	 a

sun	 fil ed	 room	 that	 Carson	 calls	 the	 office,

although	 it’s	 practically	 bare.

I	 walk	 right	 up	 to	 my	 painting,	 “Laundry”,	 a

scene	 of	 neighborhood	 residents	 at	 the	 local

Laundromat	 and	 all	 the	 activities	 that	 go	 on	 while

they	 wait	 for	 their	 clothes	 to	 wash	 and	 tumble	 dry.



391

The	 clothes	 are	 emblazoned	 in	 more	 neon	 splatters,

including	 some	 underwear	 with	 a	 super	 hero	 logo.

Al 	 the	 people	 in	 the	 painting	 are	 drawn	 in	 black	 ink

down	 to	 the	 tiniest	 detail.	 I	 smile	 nervously

revisiting	 that	 one.

“You	 don’t	 really	 work	 here.”	 I	 look	 at	 the

Blackard	 desk	 and	 chair	 set	 with	 a	 lamp	 made	 out

of	 some	 vintage	 mechanical	 equipment.	 Except	 for

a	 few	 papers	 on	 the	 desk	 and	 a	 stack	 of	 books,	 the

room	 is	 bare.	 One	 wall	 is	 another	 retractable

window	 that	 opens	 the	 whole	 wall	 onto	 a	 large

terrace.	 The	 terrace	 has	 bamboo	 flooring	 and	 glass

panels	 as	 wel 	 as	 a	 set	 of	 chairs	 outside.	 The	 scenic

view	 of	 the	 valley	 with	 its	 palette	 of	 red,	 orange

and	 yel ow	 colors	 is	 lovely	 and	 uplifting.	 “If	 I	 lived

here	 I	 would	 drink	 my	 coffee	 out	 here	 every

morning	 and	 my	 easel	 and	 paints	 would	 be	 all	 over

this	 room,”	 I	 ramble	 it	 off	 so	 quickly	 before	 I	 realize

that	 I	 have	 embarrassed	 myself.

Carson’s	 smile	 is	 kind.	 He	 regards	 me	 with	 a

thoughtful	 expression	 and	 my	 instincts	 tel 	 me	 that

he’d	 like	 to	 say	 something,	 but	 for	 now	 he’l 	 keep	 it

to	 himself.



392

“Yeah.	 I	 should	 use	 this	 room	 more	 often.”

I	 shrug	 and	 walk	 past	 him	 to	 look	 at	 the

bedrooms.	 There	 are	 no	 feminine	 touches

anywhere.	 It’s	 minimalism	 to	 the	 extreme;

however,	 the	 rustic	 wood	 tones	 of	 the	 Blackard

furniture	 and	 a	 few	 area	 rugs	 make	 the	 rooms

warm	 and	 inviting.	 Carson	 also	 has	 some	 very	 fine

paintings	 and	 sculptures	 displayed	 so	 they	 stand

out.	 He	 walks	 quietly	 behind	 me,	 listening	 to	 my

compliments.	 I	 start	 to	 wonder	 if	 everyone	 says	 the

same	 things	 when	 they	 tour	 his	 house	 and	 if	 he	 is

bored	 with	 the	 same	 reactions.

I’m	 not	 paying	 attention	 when	 I	 walk	 into	 the

last	 room	 and	 take	 notice	 that	 it’s	 Carson’s

personal	 space,	 the	 master	 bedroom.	 The	 first

thing	 I	 notice,	 other	 than	 one	 of	 his	 T-‐shirts	 tossed

on	 the	 rumpled	 bed —Talia	 must	 not	 have	 cleaned

today— is	 my	 other	 painting,	 my	 self-‐portrait	 titled,

“Girl”. I	 painted	 it	 when	 I	 turned	 nineteen.

The	 girl’s	 hair	 is	 a	 fire	 engine-‐red,	 the	 eyes,	 a

little	 sad,	 are	 an	 unnatural	 brown	 with	 gold	 bolts,

like	 lightening.	 The	 mouth	 is	 questionable;	 it’s	 hard

to	 tel 	 if	 the	 girl	 is	 about	 to	 smile	 or	 closer	 to	 crying.



393

It	 was	 one	 of	 those	 pieces	 I	 almost	 didn’t	 let	 Tom

have,	 but	 he	 insisted.	 And	 now	 it’s	 in	 Carson’s

possession.	 In	 his	 bedroom,	 three	 feet	 from	 his	 bed.

“In	 case	 you	 weren’t	 aware,	 that’s	 supposed	 to

be	 me,”	 I	 say.

“I	 figured.	 That’s	 why	 I	 bought	 it.”	 He	 shoves

his	 hands	 in	 his	 back	 pockets	 and	 looks	 perfectly	 at

ease.

“You	 don’t	 think	 it’s	 kind	 of	 strange	 that	 I	 was

seeing	 your	 brother	 and	 during	 that	 whole	 time

you	 had	 this	 painting	 of	 me	 in	 your	 bedroom?”

Carson	 shakes	 his	 head	 slowly.	 “Nope.”

“Wel ,	 I	 feel	 weird.	 Actually,	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 I

feel.	 This	 situation	 is	 strange.”

“I	 like	 strange,	 remember?”	 he	 says,	 smiling.

“Okay,	 now	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 you’re	 talking

about,	 I—”

“Relax.	 Jesus.	 I	 didn’t	 put	 this	 up	 when	 you

were	 dating	 Dylan.	 I	 bought	 this	 painting	 long

before	 you	 moved	 here.	 Besides,	 I’m	 the	 one	 who

tried	 to	 stop	 you	 from	 going	 out	 with	 Dylan,

remember	 that	 part?	 I	 knew	 that	 would	 be	 a

disaster.”



394

“Dylan	 and	 I	 would	 be	 a	 disaster,	 or	 you	 trying

to	 stop	 me,	 would	 be	 a	 disaster?”

“Both.	 Shit.”	 He	 laughs.	 “You’re	 so	 fucking

analytical.	 I	 really	 do	 love	 that	 about	 you.”

Goosebumps	 pop	 up	 across	 my	 lower	 arms,

sending	 shivers	 through	 my	 whole	 body.	 I

desperately	 want	 to	 whisper	 a	 very	 large	 number,

but	 Carson	 is	 observing	 me,	 thoroughly.

“I	 guess	 we’re	 done	 with	 the	 tour.	 I	 should	 go

and	 get	 back	 to	 work.”	 I’m	 not	 very	 convincing

since	 my	 feet	 haven’t	 moved	 an	 inch.	 I	 suck	 at	 first

dates.

“Don’t	 go.	 Not	 yet.”	 He	 steps	 forward,	 closing

the	 small	 space	 between	 us	 so	 our	 bodies	 are

touching.	 His	 arms	 circle	 around	 my	 back	 and,

although	 Carson	 looks	 nothing	 like	 Dylan,	 the

familiarity	 of	 the	 move	 and	 what	 fol ows,	 send	 a

surge	 of	 remorse	 through	 me.

“Carson,	 I	 only	 stopped	 seeing	 your	 brother	 a

couple	 of	 months	 ago.	 This	 seems	 like	 a	 bad	 déjà

vu.”

“I’m.	 Not.	 Dylan.”	 It’s	 the	 uncompromising

Carson	 again,	 the	 one	 that	 is	 intimidating	 and	 sexy



395

at	 the	 same	 time.	 It’s	 the	 one	 I’ve	 had	 a	 crush	 on

since	 my	 first	 day	 in	 Hera	 when	 I	 decided	 to	 settle

for	 a	 more	 eager	 and	 attainable	 Dylan.

“Why	 did	 you	 want	 me	 to	 see	 your	 house?”

“Because	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 were	 tel ing	 you

the	 truth.	 I’ve	 never	 brought	 any	 women	 here	 that

I	 dated.	 The	 only	 women	 who	 have	 been	 here	 are

my	 housekeeper	 and	 friends.”

“So	 you’re	 trying	 to	 tel 	 me	 that	 we’re	 friends?”

Please	 don’t	 say	 yes.	 Tel 	 me	 this	 is	 real y	 a	 first

date.

“Ha!	 No.	 Obviously,	 I’m	 not	 good	 at	 this.	 I’m

trying	 to	 tel 	 you	 that	 I	 couldn’t	 bear	 it	 if	 you

moved	 back	 to	 the	 city.	 Because…	 I’m	 in	 love	 with

you.”

I	 stare	 at	 his	 mouth,	 hanging	 on	 those	 words.

“Uh-‐huh,”	 I	 mumble.

“That’s	 why	 I	 tried	 to	 talk	 you	 out	 of	 going	 out

with	 Dylan	 and	 why	 I	 had	 it	 out	 with	 you	 a	 few

times	 at	 your	 house.	 Those	 weren’t	 my	 best

moments.	 Not	 wel -‐played	 in	 the	 least.”

The	 heat	 from	 his	 body	 and	 the	 firm	 grip	 of	 his

hands	 on	 my	 lower	 back	 makes	 me	 want	 to	 melt



396

into	 his	 arms,	 to	 have	 the	 kiss	 I	 have	 imagined	 over

and	 over,	 but	 it’s	 all	 a	 little	 too	 good	 to	 be	 true.

“You	 didn’t	 try	 to	 stop	 me	 from	 dating	 Dylan

because	 you	 were	 in	 love	 with	 me.	 You’d	 only

known	 me	 for	 like	 a	 day	 or	 two.	 I	 thought	 you	 tried

to	 stop	 me	 and	 Dylan	 because	 he	 was	 in	 a	 very

precarious	 emotional	 state	 and	 you	 knew	 I	 could

be	 the	 tipping	 point	 that	 threw	 him	 off	 edge	 again.”

I	 pul 	 my	 hands	 off	 his	 warm,	 hard	 chest	 and	 try	 to

push	 back,	 but	 Carson	 doesn’t	 loosen	 his	 grip.

“Jess,	 I	 was	 already	 in	 love	 with	 you	 then.

When	 Gin	 talked	 about	 you,	 when	 I	 bought	 your

paintings,	 I	 knew	 I	 was	 concocting	 a	 plan	 to	 be	 with

you.	 That’s	 why	 I	 didn’t	 want	 my	 brother	 going	 out

with	 you.	 Yes,	 he’s	 a	 fuck	 up	 when	 it	 comes	 to

relationships	 and	 I	 didn’t	 want	 him	 doing	 that	 to

you	 or	 himself,	 but	 I	 really	 wanted	 you	 for	 myself.”

“That’s	 a	 very	 good	 answer.”	 My	 heart	 is	 racing

as	 I	 relax	 my	 palms	 on	 his	 chest	 again,	 letting

Carson	 come	 in	 for	 a	 crushing	 kiss.	 He	 pul s	 me	 in

fiercely	 with	 his	 powerful	 hands	 and	 his	 mouth

devours	 mine.	 His	 lips	 are	 everything	 I’ve	 imagined;

soft	 and	 relentless.	 His	 tongue	 caresses	 my	 lips	 and



397

sweeps	 around	 my	 mouth	 before	 plunging,	 dueling

with	 me.	 My	 heart	 is	 beating	 so	 fast	 that	 I	 fear	 it

must	 be	 audible	 to	 Carson.

“I	 have	 wanted	 to	 kiss	 you	 for	 three	 hundred

and	 sixty	 days,”	 he	 says	 between	 kisses.	 “How’s

that	 number	 for	 you?”

“I’m	 not	 sure	 it’s	 accurate,”	 I	 say	 through

breathless	 pants.

“It’s	 probably	 closer	 to	 three	 hundred	 and

ninety-‐two	 days,	 which	 is	 when	 I	 bought	 your

paintings.”

He	 kisses	 me	 between	 my	 neck	 and	 col arbone.

I	 let	 out	 a	 sharp	 breath	 from	 the	 electrifying

sensation	 taking	 over	 my	 body.

“Stay	 with	 me.	 Here,”	 Carson	 says,	 coming	 up

for	 breath.	 “In	 my	 bed.	 Now.”

“Uh-‐huh,”	 I	 mumble,	 being	 reduced	 to	 the

same	 cave	 man	 dialect	 as	 him.

Carson	 slips	 off	 my	 cardigan,	 then	 I	 fumble

with	 removing	 my	 tank	 top	 and	 jeans	 as	 quickly	 as

possible.	 He	 removes	 his	 shirt	 and	 I	 can’t	 take	 my

eyes	 away	 from	 his	 spectacularly	 muscular	 arms

and	 chest.	 I	 study	 his	 scars	 up	 close,	 which	 only	 add



398

to	 his	 sexiness.	 His	 legs	 are	 not	 sinewy	 like	 a

runner's;	 they	 are	 thicker,	 more	 powerful,	 like

someone	 who	 does	 a	 lot	 of	 bench	 squats	 or	 tosses

tree	 trunks	 for	 fun.

I	 scramble	 backwards	 onto	 the	 bed	 with	 my

panties	 and	 lace	 bra	 stil 	 on.	 Carson	 climbs	 over	 me,

corralling	 me	 onto	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 bed.	 He	 is

naked	 except	 for	 his	 briefs,	 which	 are	 bulging

against	 me.

“Let	 me	 be	 perfectly	 clear	 here,”	 he	 says	 with

bated	 breath.

My	 hands	 are	 all	 over	 his	 body,	 feeling	 his	 hard

muscles	 as	 I	 listen	 to	 him.

“We	 wil 	 not	 mention	 his	 name	 in	 this	 room

again,”	 he	 demands.	 “This	 room	 is	 about	 you	 and

me.	 Understood?”

I	 nod	 eagerly	 and	 then	 a	 look	 of	 alarm	 must

have	 passed	 over	 my	 face	 as	 he	 reaches	 into	 his

nightstand	 and	 removes	 an	 entire	 box	 of	 condoms.

“You	 must	 be	 very	 good	 at	 this	 if	 you	 think	 we

need	 a	 whole	 box	 of	 condoms.”

Carson	 laughs.	 “It’s	 never	 been	 opened.	 I	 hope

they’re	 not	 expired.”



399

I	 laugh	 as	 he	 struggles	 to	 be	 suave	 while	 he

tries	 to	 open	 the	 condom	 with	 one	 hand	 and	 then

his	 teeth	 since	 he’s	 stil 	 perched	 over	 me	 on	 his

other	 hand.	 I	 grab	 the	 condom	 from	 him	 and	 open

it.	 “Let	 me.”

Carson’s	 expression	 darkens.	 Without	 taking

his	 eyes	 off	 me,	 he	 pul s	 his	 underwear	 off.	 I	 look

down	 and,	 once	 again,	 my	 inexperience	 shows.	 I

blanch	 at	 the	 size	 of	 his	 erection,	 but	 not	 wanting

to	 ruin	 the	 moment,	 I	 reach	 for	 him	 and	 begin	 to

slide	 the	 condom	 on.	 He	 moans	 as	 I	 slide	 my	 hands

down	 between	 his	 legs	 and	 stroke	 him	 then	 trail

my	 fingers	 slowly	 up	 his	 sides	 and	 back	 down

around	 his	 firm	 ass.	 He’s	 looking	 at	 me	 with

unabashed	 lust.

He	 fol ows	 my	 hands	 as	 I	 slide	 my	 panties	 off

and	 wriggle	 out	 of	 them.	 Then	 his	 eyes	 move	 slowly

up	 my	 body	 as	 my	 fingers	 unfasten	 the	 front	 clasp

of	 my	 bra.	 My	 breasts	 are	 already	 perky,	 waiting

for	 him.	 Carson	 takes	 in	 one	 ragged	 breath	 before

running	 his	 tongue	 across	 my	 nipples.

I	 open	 my	 legs	 and	 hold	 his	 cock,	 rubbing	 it

against	 me,	 getting	 more	 wet	 with	 each	 stroke.



400

Carson	 moans,	 yet	 doesn’t	 rush	 me.	 As	 he	 sucks	 on

my	 breasts	 and	 circles	 my	 nipples	 with	 his	 tongue,	 I

move	 his	 hardness	 in	 small	 circles	 against	 me,

prodding	 a	 little	 inside	 and	 then	 pul ing	 him	 back.

We’re	 both	 losing	 control.

He’s	 on	 my	 mouth	 again,	 kissing,	 using	 his

other	 hand	 to	 pinch	 my	 hard	 nipples,	 which	 are

straining	 along	 with	 my	 lower	 body	 that	 is	 dripping

and	 trembling.	 I	 pul 	 my	 legs	 up	 and	 wrap	 them

around	 Carson’s	 waist	 to	 urge	 him	 into	 me.

“Wait,”	 he	 says,	 gently	 pushing	 my	 hand	 away

from	 the	 appendage	 I’m	 desperate	 to	 have	 inside

of	 me.	 “I	 want	 you	 to	 be	 ready	 for	 me.”

“Carson,	 I	 can’t	 get	 any	 more	 ready,”	 I	 moan.

He	 begins	 rubbing	 my	 clit	 with	 the	 pad	 of	 his

thumb	 and	 my	 eyes	 rol 	 back	 into	 my	 head.	 It	 feels

too	 good	 with	 him	 touching	 me.	 His	 tongue	 is

sweeping	 through	 my	 mouth	 again	 and	 I	 feel	 his

fingers	 go	 inside	 of	 me,	 swirling	 gently	 and	 then

rubbing	 my	 clit	 over	 and	 over.	 I	 reach	 underneath

him	 and	 stroke	 the	 soft	 skin	 under	 his	 balls.

“Ah,	 fuck,	 yes,”	 he	 hisses	 into	 my	 ear.	 “I	 need

you.”



401

I	 grab	 his	 ass	 and	 arch	 towards	 him,	 pushing

him	 inside	 of	 me.	 There’s	 no	 more	 desire	 to	 keep	 it

slow	 when	 he	 enters	 me	 in	 one	 powerful	 thrust.	 I

yelp	 with	 pleasure,	 but	 then	 he	 gets	 control	 of

himself	 and	 thrusts	 in	 and	 out	 at	 a	 slower	 pace	 to

make	 it	 last.

“Carson,”	 I	 whimper.

“I	 knew	 you’d	 feel	 like	 this.	 So	 good.	 So

perfect.”	 He	 struggles	 to	 talk	 and	 I	 like	 that	 I’m

causing	 this.

I	 run	 my	 hands	 across	 all	 his	 hard	 lines.	 I	 can’t

get	 enough	 of	 him	 and	 it	 feels	 as	 if	 he	 can’t	 push

into	 me	 all	 the	 way.	 Either	 I’m	 too	 small	 or	 he’s	 too

big.	 He	 doesn’t	 seem	 to	 notice.	 His	 eyes	 are	 half

closed	 and	 it	 seems	 he	 can’t	 decide	 whether	 to

keep	 his	 mouth	 on	 my	 breasts	 or	 keep	 kissing	 me.	 I

love	 that	 his	 smooth	 composure	 has	 col apsed	 and

he’s	 as	 frazzled	 as	 I	 am.

He	 does	 a	 grind,	 circle,	 thrust	 move	 that	 begins

the	 aching	 momentum	 in	 me.	 I	 look	 up	 at	 Carson’s

intense	 face	 and	 blue	 eyes	 as	 I	 run	 my	 hands

through	 his	 hair.	 At	 that	 point,	 he	 thrusts	 harder

and	 faster,	 never	 taking	 his	 eyes	 off	 mine.	 I	 only



402

close	 my	 eyes	 the	 moment	 he	 rubs	 against	 me	 in

that	 perfect	 way	 that	 sets	 off	 a	 completely

shuddering	 climax.

I’m	 stil 	 coming	 when	 I	 hear	 him	 utter	 a	 curse.

His	 long	 thrusts	 slow	 down	 and	 then	 he	 pounds

into	 me	 with	 deep	 grunts	 of	 enjoyment.	 When	 the

last	 wave	 of	 gratification	 subsides,	 I	 open	 my	 eyes.

Carson	 regards	 me	 with	 what	 I	 can	 only	 describe	 as

complete	 satisfaction.	 He	 closes	 his	 large	 frame

around	 my	 body	 and	 kisses	 me	 tenderly.

“I	 do	 love	 you,”	 he	 says	 into	 my	 hair	 so	 I	 can’t

see	 his	 face.	 “But	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 say	 anything.

Just	 think	 about	 it.”

“Of	 course,	 I’m	 thinking	 about	 it.”

His	 lips	 hover	 above	 mine,	 brushing	 against	 me.

He	 pul s	 off	 the	 condom	 and	 wraps	 it	 in	 a	 tissue

before	 returning	 to	 lie	 by	 my	 side.	 I	 turn	 to	 face

him	 and	 want	 to	 tel 	 him	 that	 I’m	 falling	 in	 love

with	 him,	 too.	 That	 I’ve	 been	 crushing	 on	 him	 for

months,	 however,	 the	 mood	 is	 perfect	 as	 it	 is.

It’s	 late	 afternoon,	 our	 bodies	 entwined	 as	 we

hold	 each	 other	 and	 offer	 tender	 kisses	 when	 it



403

occurs	 to	 me	 that	 I	 missed	 a	 conference	 call	 for

work.

“Oh,	 shoot.	 The	 team	 meeting.	 I	 missed	 it.	 I

have	 to	 go,”	 I	 say,	 looking	 around	 the	 bed	 for	 my

underwear.

“No,	 not	 so	 fast,”	 he	 says.	 “You	 already	 missed

the	 meeting	 and	 we’re	 not	 done	 here.”

He	 pul s	 me	 back	 down	 on	 my	 right	 side,

pinning	 me	 in	 place	 with	 my	 back	 set	 against	 his

chest.	 I	 hear	 him	 opening	 a	 condom	 and	 rol ing	 it

on.	 He	 doesn’t	 get	 any	 protest	 from	 me. Yeah,	 I’m

real y	 dedicated	 to	 my	 job.

His	 hand	 comes	 over	 my	 hip	 and	 he	 forces	 his

fingers	 between	 my	 legs,	 rubbing	 and	 probing	 as	 he

brings	 my	 senses	 back	 to	 the	 brink.	 His	 bottom

hand	 pul s	 my	 lower	 hip	 back	 just	 as	 he	 enters	 me

from	 behind.	 I	 can’t	 move,	 but	 he	 manages	 to	 pul

my	 leg	 over	 his	 and	 thrust	 deeply	 back	 and	 forth

with	 enough	 strength	 to	 move	 both	 of	 us	 together.

I	 put	 my	 arms	 in	 front	 of	 our	 bodies	 to	 brace	 myself

as	 Carson	 plunges	 in	 and	 out	 of	 me,	 rocking	 the

mattress	 across	 the	 platform	 bed.



404

Between	 his	 thrusts	 and	 his	 fingers	 rubbing	 me,

I’m	 going	 wild	 with	 excitement.	 I	 push	 my	 rear	 end

back	 harder	 to	 meet	 his	 driving	 cock,	 waiting	 for	 it

to	 be	 my	 undoing.	 Carson’s	 breathing	 becomes

heavier	 and	 louder	 and	 I	 know	 he	 wants	 to	 come,

although	 he	 is	 doing	 everything	 he	 can	 to	 make	 me

climax	 first.	 His	 fingers	 are	 wet	 from	 stroking	 my

slick	 center	 and	 he	 slides	 himself	 easily	 back	 and

forth	 when	 I	 come.	 I	 tighten	 all	 my	 muscles	 around

him	 as	 it	 takes	 me	 over.

“Oh	 damn,	 that	 feels	 good,”	 Carson	 groans

through	 heavy	 breaths	 as	 his	 body	 erupts.

I’m	 facing	 the	 wall	 and	 the	 portrait	 of	 me.	 I

close	 my	 eyes	 and	 enjoy	 this	 moment	 of	 being	 in

Carson’s	 bed.

“Don’t	 move,”	 he	 commands	 from	 behind	 me.

I	 hear	 him	 peel	 the	 condom	 off	 and	 then	 he	 gets	 up

from	 the	 bed.	 He’s	 in	 the	 bathroom	 and	 then	 back,

hugging	 me.

“I	 really	 have	 to	 get	 home	 and	 call	 my	 boss,”	 I

say,	 yet	 my	 voice	 is	 as	 tired	 as	 I	 feel.

“If	 you’re	 going	 to	 blow	 your	 work	 day—which

you	 already	 did,	 by	 the	 way—you	 might	 as	 wel 	 go



405

big,”	 he	 suggests.	 I	 haven’t	 turned	 around	 to	 face

him,	 but	 I	 can	 hear	 the	 smile	 in	 his	 tone.	 “Take	 a

shower	 with	 me.”

I	 feign	 a	 small	 protest,	 but	 I	 walk	 into	 the	 spa

shower	 with	 its	 three	 shower	 heads	 and	 the	 naked

man	 whose	 presence	 makes	 me	 never	 want	 to

leave.	 The	 man	 I’m	 pretty	 sure	 I’m	 in	 love	 with.





406





Twenty-‐Six



It’s	 stil 	 light	 out	 when	 I	 leave	 Carson’s	 home.

He	 threatens	 to	 drag	 me	 back	 inside,	 but	 I	 manage

to	 give	 a	 convincing	 case	 that	 work	 really	 does

beckon	 me.	 Nathan	 has	 left	 three	 messages	 on	 my

cell	 phone.

I	 drive	 down	 the	 narrow	 road	 through	 the

woods,	 but	 I’m	 not	 worried	 about	 finding	 my	 way

back	 home.	 It’s	 stil 	 fairly	 light	 out	 and	 there’s	 only

one	 way	 in	 and	 out.	 The	 wooded	 drive	 opens	 onto

the	 narrow	 road	 that	 eventually	 merges	 onto	 the

larger	 county	 road.	 I	 keep	 my	 eyes	 on	 the	 lookout

for	 the	 old,	 wooden	 bridge	 that	 crosses	 over	 a

stream	 with	 at	 least	 a	 fifteen-‐foot	 drop.	 It	 must	 be

a	 scary	 road	 to	 navigate	 if	 you	 drive	 too	 fast	 or	 it’s

covered	 in	 snow.

Just	 as	 I	 cross	 the	 bumpy	 little	 bridge	 I	 see	 a

vehicle	 up	 ahead	 coming	 from	 the	 direction	 of

town.	 As	 I’m	 about	 to	 pass	 it,	 I	 recognize	 the



407

Blackard	 delivery	 truck	 with	 Dylan	 at	 the	 wheel.

Our	 eyes	 lock	 for	 a	 moment	 before	 he	 turns	 his

gaze	 back	 to	 the	 road	 ahead	 of	 him.	 Something	 in

my	 gut	 is	 crawling	 out	 of	 me,	 a	 sickening	 feeling

that	 Dylan	 is	 headed	 to	 Carson’s	 home	 and	 he

knows	 that	 I’ve	 just	 come	 from	 there.

Before	 I	 can	 put	 the	 thought	 of	 him	 out	 of	 my

head,	 I	 hear	 a	 deafening	 crash.	 I	 pul 	 to	 the	 side	 of

the	 road	 and	 slam	 on	 the	 brakes.	 My	 car	 is	 at	 an

angle,	 so	 I	 can	 see	 back	 far	 enough	 to	 the	 bridge

where	 one	 side	 of	 the	 wooden	 rail	 is	 gone.

“Dylan,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 myself.

I	 get	 out	 of	 my	 car	 and	 start	 running	 back	 to

the	 bridge.	 As	 I	 get	 closer,	 I	 know	 it’s	 Dylan’s	 truck

that	 went	 through	 that	 railing.	 He	 saw	 me,	 his	 eyes

were	 glazed	 over	 with	 indifference.	 The	 tracks	 from

the	 truck	 are	 prominent	 where	 they	 left	 the	 dirt

road	 and	 drove	 onto	 the	 wooden	 bridge.	 He	 must

have	 stepped	 on	 the	 gas	 and	 then	 drove	 right

through	 the	 railing	 instead	 of	 straightening	 out	 his

wheels.

I	 run	 to	 the	 edge	 of	 the	 bridge	 where	 broken

beams	 are	 hanging.	 The	 Blackard	 truck	 is	 lying	 on



408

the	 driver’s	 side	 almost	 flipped	 over.	 The	 bile	 rises

in	 my	 throat,	 but	 I	 can’t	 scream,	 there’s	 no	 sound

in	 me	 and	 no	 one	 around	 to	 hear	 me	 if	 I	 could

scream	 for	 help.	 I	 take	 my	 cel 	 phone	 out	 of	 my

cardigan	 pocket	 and	 call	 Carson.

“Get	 in	 your	 truck	 and	 drive	 to	 the	 bridge	 now!

It’s	 Dylan!”	 I	 shout	 when	 Carson	 answers.

Next	 I	 call	 Archie	 and	 tel 	 him	 to	 call	 for

emergency	 help	 because	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 to

explain	 my	 location	 or	 the	 names	 of	 the	 crossroads.

I	 tel 	 Archie	 I’m	 at	 the	 bridge	 that	 enters	 onto

Carson’s	 property	 and	 he	 immediately	 hangs	 up	 to

call	 others	 for	 help.	 I’m	 no	 help.	 I’m	 the	 problem,

not	 the	 solution.

Maybe	 it’s	 five	 minutes	 or	 longer,	 I	 don’t	 know.

I’m	 crying	 too	 hard	 to	 even	 see.	 Someone	 leads	 me

out	 of	 the	 way	 when	 a	 state	 patrol	 vehicle	 and	 an

ambulance	 arrive.	 I	 see	 Carson	 down	 by	 the

crashed	 truck	 with	 a	 team	 of	 men	 and	 then,

through	 my	 blurry	 vision,	 I	 see	 people	 in	 uniforms

carrying	 a	 stretcher	 up	 the	 gul y	 to	 the	 waiting

ambulance.	 I	 can’t	 see	 his	 face,	 but	 I	 know	 it’s



409

Dylan	 strapped	 to	 the	 board,	 his	 body	 motionless.	 I

don’t	 know	 if	 he’s	 alive.

I	 drop	 my	 head	 in	 my	 hands.	 It	 hurts	 and	 feels

heavy	 with	 visual	 overload.	 The	 tears	 stop,	 I’m

dried	 up.	 Then	 I	 feel	 a	 gentle	 hand	 on	 my	 back.	 It’s

Archie	 who	 holds	 me	 tightly	 and	 walks	 my	 feeble

body	 back	 to	 his	 car.	 I	 wait	 in	 his	 ancient	 Lincoln

Town	 Car	 as	 he	 goes	 back	 to	 confer	 with	 Carson

who	 looks	 back	 at	 Archie’s	 car	 before	 he	 quickly

climbs	 into	 the	 ambulance	 after	 his	 brother.	 The

ambulance	 speeds	 off	 ahead	 of	 Archie’s	 parked	 car,

lights	 and	 sirens	 blaring.	 I	 watch	 it	 disappear	 down

the	 road,	 hoping	 they	 can	 save	 Dylan.

Archie	 speaks	 to	 the	 officers	 for	 a	 while	 before

returning	 to	 the	 car.	 My	 car	 is	 stil 	 on	 the	 side	 of

the	 road,	 but	 I	 know	 I’m	 too	 shaky	 to	 drive	 it	 so	 I

stay	 in	 Archie’s.

“We’l 	 meet	 Carson	 at	 the	 hospital,”	 Archie

says	 to	 me	 as	 he	 gets	 in	 and	 buckles	 up.	 He	 is	 very

calm	 and,	 in	 his	 three-‐piece	 suit	 and	 bowtie,	 he’s	 a

pil ar	 of	 comfort	 for	 me.

“Is	 Dylan	 alive?”



410

“Yes,	 but	 he’s	 unconscious.	 Carson	 said	 he	 was

mumbling	 something	 when	 they	 pried	 him	 out	 of

the	 truck.	 That’s	 a	 good	 sign.	 We’re	 heading	 to	 St.

Francis.”

I	 nod	 without	 any	 idea	 where	 we’re	 going.	 I

look	 out	 the	 window	 to	 watch	 the	 trees	 and	 houses

pass	 by	 as	 if	 I’m	 stationery	 and	 everything	 else	 is

moving.	 Archie	 pats	 my	 hand,	 yet	 is	 silent	 on	 our

journey	 to	 the	 emergency	 room.

When	 we	 arrive,	 I	 jump	 out	 and	 run	 inside	 to

find	 Imogene,	 Lauren,	 Bonnie,	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor

along	 with	 the	 whole	 Blackard	 staff	 already	 there.

We	 are	 relegated	 to	 a	 waiting	 room	 since	 none	 of

us	 are	 blood	 relatives.	 Only	 Carson	 is	 allowed	 inside

with	 Dylan.

“Is	 it	 true	 you	 were	 with	 Carson?”	 Lauren	 says

in	 an	 angry	 low	 voice	 so	 others	 can’t	 hear.

“Yes,	 I	 was	 at	 his	 house.	 I	 was	 driving	 home

when	 I	 saw…	 when	 I	 heard	 Dylan’s	 truck	 crash.”

Imogene	 approaches	 and	 puts	 an	 arm	 around

me.	 “Carson	 is	 with	 him.	 I	 think	 Dylan	 wil 	 be	 okay.	 I

do,”	 she	 says	 as	 if	 she’s	 trying	 to	 convince	 herself.



411

“Jess,	 everyone	 is	 saying	 that	 Dylan	 walked	 in

on	 you	 and	 Carson…	 you	 know…	 and	 then	 he

intentionally	 drove	 the	 truck	 into	 a	 tree	 or

something.”	 Lauren	 is	 visibly	 upset	 and	 believes	 I

have	 something	 to	 do	 with	 Dylan’s	 accident.

“That’s	 not	 what	 happened	 at	 all.	 Dylan	 saw

me	 in	 my	 car,	 not	 in	 Carson’s	 home.	 Then	 Dylan

drove	 the	 truck—or	 he	 lost	 control	 of	 the	 truck	 on

the	 bridge.	 It	 went	 off	 the	 bridge.	 He	 didn’t	 drive	 it

into	 a	 tree.	 I	 called	 for	 help.”	 I	 can’t	 believe

everyone	 already	 has	 a	 manufactured	 story	 to	 go

along	 with	 the	 incident	 where	 I’m	 the	 vil ain.

“But	 Dylan	 did	 see	 you	 driving,	 coming	 from

the	 direction	 of	 Carson’s	 house?”	 Lauren	 pushes.

“Yes,”	 I	 admit.

“Lauren,	 enough	 with	 the	 questions.	 It	 doesn’t

matter	 what	 happened.	 We	 need	 Dylan	 to	 be	 okay.”

Imogene	 is	 protective	 of	 me	 and	 keeps	 her	 arm

firmly	 across	 my	 shoulders.

“But	 it	 does	 matter,”	 I	 say	 softly.	 “How	 it

happens,	 matters	 greatly.	 Was	 it	 an	 accident	 or	 did

Dylan	 intend	 to	 hurt	 himself,	 or	 worse.”



412

Imogene	 hushes	 me	 as	 Lauren	 looks	 warily	 at

me	 and	 then	 spends	 the	 next	 hour	 while	 we	 wait

cautiously	 avoiding	 me.	 I	 feel	 ashamed.	 It’s	 an	 easy

emotion	 to	 trap	 yourself	 into,	 especially	 if	 you

deserve	 it.

While	 everyone	 is	 quietly	 waiting,	 drinking	 bad

coffee	 and	 murmuring	 hopeful	 thoughts	 to	 one

another,	 I	 consider	 what	 I	 have	 done	 to	 these	 two

brothers	 who	 have	 depended	 solely	 on	 each	 other

for	 the	 last	 twenty	 years.	 I	 think	 of	 how	 cavalier	 I

was	 with	 Dylan’s	 affections	 and	 then	 how	 I	 moved

on	 to	 Carson,	 accepting	 his	 love	 like	 it’s	 a	 lol ipop.

I’ve	 used	 them	 up	 and	 neglected	 to	 accept	 the

consequences.

After	 another	 hour,	 Carson	 comes	 down	 the

hall;	 his	 tall	 figure	 stands	 out	 among	 the	 doctors

and	 nurses	 in	 scrubs.	 Everyone	 jumps	 up	 to	 meet

him	 and	 hear	 the	 news.	 I	 linger	 in	 back,	 not	 really

sure	 of	 my	 place	 in	 this	 close-‐knit	 group.

“Dylan	 is	 going	 to	 be	 fine.”	 Carson’s	 voice	 is

solid,	 no	 wavering.	 He	 looks	 over	 the	 group	 at	 me

as	 he	 talks.	 “It’s	 hard	 to	 believe,	 but	 his	 big	 fat	 head

may	 have	 saved	 him.	 He	 wasn’t	 wearing	 the	 belt



413

and	 took	 a	 good	 beating	 when	 the	 truck	 rol ed

down	 the	 ravine,	 but	 all	 he	 has	 are	 some	 superficial

lacerations	 on	 his	 head.	 They’re	 stitching	 him	 up

now.”

Archie	 asks	 Carson	 about	 the	 scans	 on	 Dylan’s

head.	 Everyone	 is	 huddled	 around	 Carson,	 so	 I	 miss

the	 rest	 of	 the	 story,	 but	 what	 I	 keep	 hearing	 in	 my

head	 is	 “when	 the	 truck	 rol ed	 down	 the	 ravine”.

I	 hope	 that	 means	 Dylan	 didn’t	 attempt	 to

drive	 off	 the	 bridge,	 which	 would	 have	 been	 a

straight	 drop	 down	 and	 could	 have	 been	 a	 more

fatal	 prospect	 for	 him.	 I	 hope	 Carson	 is	 going	 to	 tel

us	 that	 Dylan	 misjudged	 the	 turning	 circumference

on	 the	 truck	 and	 ended	 up	 with	 one	 wheel	 off	 the

bridge,	 causing	 it	 to	 rol .	 These	 scenarios	 play	 out	 in

my	 head,	 different	 versions	 with	 different

implications,	 however,	 I	 can’t	 bother	 Carson	 with

this	 when	 the	 only	 thing	 that	 matters	 at	 this	 point

is	 whether	 Dylan	 is	 alive	 or	 not.

At	 least	 thirty	 of	 the	 people	 in	 the	 waiting

room	 are	 there	 for	 Dylan	 and	 they	 all	 wait	 their

turn	 to	 hug	 Carson	 and	 give	 him	 some	 cheery

words.	 Then	 he	 looks	 through	 the	 crowd	 again	 until



414

his	 eyes	 settle	 on	 mine.	 He	 moves	 through	 the	 tight

space	 towards	 me.	 Imogene	 gives	 me	 a	 little	 smile

and	 pushes	 me	 towards	 Carson.	 His	 face	 breaks

into	 a	 strained	 smile	 of	 relief	 before	 he	 embraces

me.	 I	 hold	 on	 to	 him	 and	 col apse	 against	 his	 body.

“My	 brother	 is	 okay,”	 he	 whispers.	 I	 look	 up	 at

him.	 A	 few	 feet	 away,	 I	 see	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor

watching	 us.

“When	 can	 the	 rest	 of	 us	 see	 him?”	 I	 ask.

“Probably	 not	 until	 tomorrow.	 They	 shot	 him

up	 with	 a	 lot	 of	 painkil ers	 and	 they’l 	 have	 to	 do

some	 more	 tests,	 but	 I’m	 guessing	 tomorrow

they’l 	 move	 him	 to	 a	 regular	 room.”

“Good	 and	 wil 	 they	 let	 you	 stay	 here	 tonight

with	 him?”

“Yeah.	 He’l 	 go	 to	 ICU	 for	 tonight,	 but	 they’l 	 let

me	 stay	 as	 long	 as	 I	 stay	 out	 of	 the	 way	 and	 don’t

fall	 asleep.	 Apparently,	 you’re	 not	 allowed	 to	 sleep

in	 a	 hospital.”	 Carson	 attempts	 to	 lighten	 the

stressful	 mood	 and	 tension.	 I	 try	 to	 smile	 along

with	 him,	 yet	 it’s	 difficult	 to	 pretend	 that	 this	 is	 a

normal	 trip	 to	 the	 emergency	 room.



415

“Hey,”	 he	 whispers	 to	 me.	 “You	 saved	 him.	 You

called	 for	 help.	 It	 would	 have	 been	 much	 worse	 if

you	 hadn’t	 been	 there.”	 Carson	 leans	 over	 to	 kiss

me.	 Our	 lips	 linger	 together	 and	 I	 can	 sense	 others

watching	 us.

“You	 go	 be	 with	 Dylan.	 I’l 	 see	 you	 tomorrow.”

I	 want	 to	 get	 out	 of	 here	 now,	 but	 I	 also	 don’t	 want

Carson	 to	 think	 I’m	 hurrying	 to	 leave.

“I	 wil .	 I’m	 going	 to	 have	 Archie	 drive	 you	 back

home.	 Leo	 told	 me	 he	 picked	 up	 your	 car.	 You	 left

the	 keys	 in	 it,	 so	 he	 drove	 it	 back	 to	 your	 place.”	 He

hugs	 me	 tighter	 and	 kisses	 my	 cheek.	 “Stop

worrying,	 Jess.	 This	 could	 have	 been	 worse,	 but	 it

wasn’t.	 Dylan	 got	 lucky.”

I	 just	 keep	 nodding	 along	 because	 I	 can’t	 put

two	 intel igent	 words	 together.

“I’l 	 call	 you	 in	 the	 morning,”	 Carson	 says.

After	 Carson	 goes	 back	 to	 be	 with	 Dylan,	 the

others	 have	 a	 group	 hug	 as	 if	 we	 all	 survived	 some

terrible	 tragedy	 together.	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 pul

me	 into	 the	 cathartic	 hug	 along	 with	 Lois	 and

Eleanor.	 Even	 Leo	 and	 the	 other	 odd	 friends	 of	 the

Blackard	 boys	 embrace	 me	 as	 though	 we’re	 all	 part



416

of	 a	 whole.	 It’s	 meant	 to	 make	 us	 feel	 safer	 and	 we

do.

Archie	 drives	 me	 home	 and	 I	 have	 trouble

keeping	 up	 with	 his	 perky	 conversation	 because	 I

am	 as	 gloomy	 as	 ever.	 In	 front	 of	 my	 house,	 he

turns	 off	 the	 car	 engine.	 “This	 is	 a	 time	 to	 count

your	 blessings,	 Jessica.”

“I	 don’t	 think	 this	 would	 have	 happened	 if

Dylan	 hadn’t	 seen	 me	 coming	 across	 that	 bridge.

We	 stil 	 don’t	 know	 for	 sure	 if	 Dylan	 did	 this	 on

purpose	 or	 if	 it	 was	 an	 accident,	 but	 I	 inadvertently

had	 a	 hand	 in	 it,	 and	 for	 that,	 I	 am	 ashamed.”

Archie	 leans	 across	 the	 seat	 with	 a	 pinched

face.	 “You	 don’t	 know	 that.	 Let	 me	 tel 	 you,	 life	 is

always	 ful 	 of	 pain	 and	 loss.	 Always,	 but	 this	 isn’t

one	 of	 those	 times.	 Dylan	 is	 young	 and	 strong	 and

he	 wil 	 be	 healthy	 again.	 Besides,	 now	 more	 than

ever,	 Dylan	 needs	 all	 of	 us	 to	 help	 him	 through	 this

dark	 time.	 You	 can	 feel	 however	 you	 want	 about

this	 situation,	 but	 it’s	 a	 waste	 of	 precious	 resources.

This	 is	 no	 time	 for	 self-‐pity,	 my	 dear.”	 His	 words

come	 through	 loud	 and	 clear. Get	 off	 your	 pity

wagon.	 Yet	 that’s	 easier	 said	 than	 done.



417

I	 wil 	 not	 sleep	 wel 	 tonight.





418





Twenty-‐Seven



I’m	 awake	 when	 Carson	 calls	 me	 early	 the	 next

morning	 from	 the	 hospital.

“Are	 you	 stil 	 shaken	 up?”	 he	 asks.	 “I	 didn’t

want	 to	 send	 you	 off	 with	 Archie,	 you	 looked	 so

upset,	 but	 I	 had	 to	 be	 with	 Dylan.”

“Of	 course,	 you	 had	 to	 be	 with	 your	 brother.

I’m	 fine,	 Carson.”	 My	 words	 are	 clipped.	 I’m	 trying

to	 hide	 my	 anger	 and	 sadness	 from	 him.

“Visiting	 hours	 start	 at	 eleven.	 I	 asked	 Lois	 to

bring	 you	 then	 and	 everyone	 else	 wil 	 come	 later	 in

the	 day	 so	 we	 don’t	 overwhelm	 Dylan	 with	 too

many	 visitors,”	 he	 explains.

It	 appears	 that	 he’s	 managing	 Dylan’s	 life	 and

mine,	 too.	 I	 could	 drive	 myself	 to	 the	 hospital,	 but

apparently	 he	 thinks	 he	 needs	 to	 organize	 my	 day.

I’m	 getting	 angrier	 and	 angrier	 thinking	 about	 this.	 I

want	 to	 ask	 him	 why	 he	 watched	 my	 relationship



419

with	 Dylan	 spiral	 out	 the	 way	 it	 did	 while	 he	 did

nothing	 to	 intervene.

If	 Carson	 really	 did	 love	 me	 from	 the	 beginning

as	 he	 says,	 why	 didn’t	 he	 say	 something	 to	 me

earlier	 so	 Dylan	 and	 I	 could	 have	 avoided	 this

whole	 fiasco?	 Archie’s	 words	 ring	 true.	 I	 like	 neat

and	 tidy	 packages,	 like	 the	 numbers	 a	 computer

spits	 out.	 Sometimes	 there’s	 a	 bug,	 but	 I	 can	 find

them	 and	 fix	 the	 problem.	 Unfortunately,	 people

don’t	 fit	 into	 nice	 and	 tidy	 packages	 and	 blaming

Carson	 for	 not	 being	 an	 accurate	 speculator

regarding	 all	 things	 Dylan	 isn’t	 becoming	 on	 me.

Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 are	 working	 at	 the	 diner,

however,	 they	 plan	 to	 come	 to	 the	 house	 later	 with

some	 of	 their	 things	 so	 they	 can	 start	 moving	 in.

I’m	 looking	 forward	 to	 their	 company,	 even	 if	 it’s	 a

bit	 strained	 right	 now	 with	 Lauren	 questioning	 my

antics	 with	 Carson.	 Are	 they	 antics?	 Or	 is	 this	 the

real	 deal?	 He	 hugged	 and	 kissed	 me	 in	 front	 of

everyone	 at	 the	 hospital;	 I	 can’t	 imagine	 what	 kind

of	 gossip	 about	 us	 is	 roaring	 through	 this	 speck	 of	 a

town	 today.



420

I	 feed	 Bert	 and	 then	 shower,	 scrubbing	 myself

with	 the	 coarse	 loofah	 sponge	 until	 my	 skin	 is	 pink

and	 blotchy.	 I	 wear	 a	 black	 sweater	 tunic	 with	 black

tights	 and	 knee-‐length	 boots.	 Lois	 picks	 me	 up	 at

ten	 to	 eleven	 sharp,	 just	 as	 Carson	 said	 she	 would.	 I

buckle	 myself	 inside	 her	 clean,	 little,	 red	 sports	 car.

It	 is	 quite	 a	 hot	 car	 for	 a	 senior	 citizen,	 but	 then	 she

looks	 pretty	 great	 with	 her	 silver	 hair	 in	 loose	 curls

and	 her	 bright	 red	 lipstick	 that	 matches	 the	 color	 of

her	 car	 and	 happens	 to	 make	 her	 eyes	 really	 pop.

“Very	 nice	 outfit,	 Jess,	 but	 for	 the	 love	 of	 Jesus

Christ	 Superstar,	 couldn’t	 you	 put	 on	 some	 make-‐

up?	 And	 pul 	 that	 ponytail	 out!”

Lois	 drives	 like	 Steven	 McQueen,	 so	 I	 grip	 the

Hang-‐On-‐For-‐Dear-‐Life	 hand	 grip	 above	 my	 window

as	 I	 yank	 the	 rubber	 band	 out	 of	 my	 hair	 with	 the

other	 hand.

“That’s	 better,”	 she	 says.	 “Now,	 how	 about	 a

spot	 of	 lipstick?	 It’s	 right	 there	 in	 my	 bag	 on	 the

floor.”

“We’re	 going	 to	 a	 hospital,	 not	 a	 disco.”

“You	 should	 try	 to	 look	 your	 best.”

“For	 whom?”



421

Lois	 races	 through	 the	 town	 of	 Woodstock

disregarding	 the	 speed	 limit.	 “Don’t	 be	 so	 pouty.

You’re	 not	 five	 anymore.	 You	 should	 know	 that

playing	 that	 pouty	 girl	 doesn’t	 help	 at	 this	 age.”

“I	 have	 no	 idea	 what	 you	 are	 talking	 about.	 I’m

not	 pouty,”	 I	 say.	 “And	 you	 need	 to	 slow	 down

before	 we	 end	 up	 in	 the	 room	 next	 door	 to	 Dylan.”

“Dylan	 and	 Carson	 should	 see	 you	 at	 your	 best.

You	 need	 to	 put	 up	 a	 good	 front	 despite	 what	 is

going	 on	 inside	 of	 that	 mixed	 up	 heart	 of	 yours.”

I	 pinch	 my	 mouth	 into	 a	 frown.

“Dylan	 needs	 to	 know	 you’re	 there	 for	 him	 as	 a

friend,	 as	 we	 all	 are.	 While	 Carson	 needs	 to	 know

you’re	 there	 for	 him.	 You	 have	 his	 heart.	 You	 know

that,	 don’t	 you?	 That	 young	 man	 has	 been	 pining

for	 you	 for	 a	 long	 time.”

I	 must	 have	 misunderstood	 her	 comment

about	 Carson	 pining	 for	 me,	 or	 she’s	 a	 confused	 old

woman.	 “We	 don’t	 need	 to	 talk	 about	 my	 love	 life

right	 now,	 do	 we?	 Don’t	 you	 need	 to	 focus	 on

breaking	 more	 speed	 laws	 and	 endangering

innocent	 pedestrians	 and	 drivers?”



422

“You	 can’t	 avoid	 this.	 It’s	 your	 love	 life	 that’s

sitting	 in	 that	 hospital.”

“I	 knew	 it.	 Everyone	 thinks	 I’m	 responsible	 for

Dylan	 crashing	 the	 truck.	 Wel ,	 that’s	 just	 great

because	 I’ve	 been	 thinking	 the	 same	 thing.	 I’m	 to

blame,”	 I	 practically	 shout	 at	 Lois,	 who	 parks	 the

car	 in	 the	 hospital	 lot	 and	 kil s	 the	 engine	 before

putting	 her	 hand	 over	 mine.

“What	 are	 you	 talking	 about,	 Jess?	 No	 one

blames	 you.”

“If	 I	 hadn’t	 gotten	 involved	 with	 Dylan,	 he

wouldn’t	 have	 been	 so	 depressed	 that	 he’d	 drive

his	 truck	 off	 a	 bridge.	 Yes,	 I	 think	 he	 did	 it	 on

purpose.”	 I’m	 hysterical,	 yet	 also	 relieved	 to	 get

that	 out.

“Oh,	 sweet	 mother	 of	 hash,	 you	 are	 very

pretty.	 You’re	 a	 real	 beauty,	 but	 don’t	 think	 you’re

so	 special	 that	 men	 wil 	 drive	 off	 bridges	 because	 of

you.	 No	 one	 thinks	 you’re	 to	 blame.	 Dylan	 may

have	 been	 surprised	 to	 see	 you	 coming	 from

Carson’s	 place,	 but	 it	 was	 an	 accident.	 Even	 if	 he

was	 upset,	 it	 caused	 him	 to	 have	 poor	 judgment

when	 he	 tried	 to	 turn	 that	 monster	 truck	 onto	 that



423

little	 bridge.	 He	 rol ed	 down	 the	 ravine	 by	 accident.

He	 didn’t	 want	 to	 kil 	 himself.”

I	 want	 to	 believe	 her.	 Her	 version	 sounds	 more

reasonable	 and	 it	 doesn’t	 incriminate	 me	 or	 make

Dylan	 out	 to	 be	 suicidal.	 She	 sounds	 so

grandmotherly.	 Of	 course,	 she’s	 the	 kind	 of

grandmother	 that	 smokes	 pot	 and	 swears	 like	 a

drunken	 sailor.

“I’m	 stil 	 not	 sure	 what	 to	 believe,”	 I	 say.

“I	 had	 my	 doubts	 about	 you	 being	 with	 Dylan.

See,	 I	 knew	 how	 Carson	 felt	 about	 you	 even	 if	 he

didn’t	 admit	 it	 to	 the	 rest	 of	 us.	 I	 have	 always	 been

worried	 about	 Dylan;	 however,	 he	 seemed	 to	 go

after	 you	 with	 gusto	 and	 I	 was	 surprised	 that

Carson	 sat	 back	 and	 let	 it	 happen.	 But	 who	 was	 I	 to

get	 involved?	 Then	 I	 saw	 Dylan	 getting	 worse	 and

Carson	 was	 suffering	 right	 along	 with	 him.	 He

wanted	 to	 help	 Dylan,	 but	 he	 was	 also	 miserable

watching	 you	 two,	 knowing	 he	 couldn’t	 go	 near

you.	 I	 could	 see	 those	 tortured	 looks	 on	 his	 face.	 It

was	 awful	 when	 you	 and	 Dylan	 left	 my	 party

together.”





424

“Wel ,	 why	 the	 hel 	 didn’t	 Carson	 stop	 me?	 If

he’s	 in	 love	 with	 me,	 why	 did	 he	 let	 me	 go	 off	 with

his	 brother?”	 I	 whine	 in	 the	 most	 awful,	 shril 	 tone.

“Never	 mind.	 I	 know	 it	 was	 all	 about	 Carson

protecting	 Dylan.	 I’ve	 heard	 it	 before.”

“If	 it	 had	 been	 any	 other	 man,	 Carson	 would

have	 stepped	 in.	 He	 would	 have	 been	 jealous,	 but

it	 was	 Dylan.	 You	 have	 to	 understand	 how	 hard

Carson	 has	 worked	 at	 protecting	 that	 boy.	 I	 don’t

think	 he	 felt	 right	 about	 yanking	 you	 away	 from

Dylan.”

“I	 had	 no	 idea	 Carson	 cared	 about	 me	 in	 that

way	 until	 yesterday.	 At	 least	 Dylan	 was	 very

upfront.	 Carson	 has	 been	 hiding	 this	 whole	 time.”

“I	 know.	 It’s	 been	 a	 confusing	 mess.	 Love	 can

be	 like	 that,	 but	 Carson	 is	 the	 right	 man	 for	 you	 and

it	 can	 be	 fixed	 now.	 That	 is,	 if	 you	 want	 to	 fix	 it.”

“I	 don’t	 know	 what	 I’m	 doing,”	 I	 say,	 getting

out	 of	 the	 car.

“Wel ,	 it’s	 show	 time,	 so	 put	 on	 a	 good	 face,	 at

least	 during	 visiting	 hours.”





425

Lois	 goes	 in	 first	 and	 I	 wait	 in	 the	 hallway

because	 only	 two	 people	 are	 allowed	 at	 a	 time.	 I

hear	 Carson’s	 deep	 voice	 and	 then	 Lois’s	 loud	 barks

of	 laughter.	 She	 makes	 no	 attempt	 to	 be	 quiet	 for

the	 sake	 of	 all	 the	 sleeping	 patients.

After	 ten	 minutes	 she	 comes	 out	 into	 the	 hall

with	 a	 big	 grin	 on	 her	 face.	 “They’re	 all	 yours,	 dol .”

Dylan’s	 head	 is	 shaved,	 buzzed	 to	 the	 scalp,

and	 he	 has	 two	 ghastly	 curves	 around	 the	 base	 of

his	 head	 and	 over	 one	 ear	 where	 the	 black	 stitches

are	 prominent.	 He	 has	 one	 black	 eye	 and	 half	 his

face	 is	 swol en	 and	 covered	 in	 ugly	 bruises.	 The

purple	 and	 black	 hues	 run	 down	 the	 sides	 of	 his

arms	 and	 his	 torso.	 He’s	 propped	 up	 in	 the	 hospital

bed	 with	 the	 top	 of	 his	 gown	 turned	 down	 where

he’s	 hooked	 up	 to	 monitors	 and	 extra	 tubes	 that

travel	 down	 his	 arm	 to	 an	 I.V.	 bandage.	 Carson	 is

leaning	 on	 the	 ledge	 of	 the	 window	 talking	 to	 him

when	 Dylan	 sees	 me	 and	 turns	 his	 head	 slowly

towards	 the	 door	 to	 take	 me	 in	 with	 a	 big	 smile.

It’s	 that	 big,	 baby-‐face	 Dylan,	 cute	 and

adorable,	 but	 his	 eyes	 have	 a	 stoned	 look	 to	 them.



426

“The	 nurse	 was	 in	 here	 and	 gave	 him	 his	 meds

so	 he’s	 pretty	 doped	 up,”	 Carson	 tel s	 me.

“I’m	 not	 so	 bad	 that	 I	 can’t	 see	 Jess,”	 Dylan

says.	 “But	 I’m	 loving	 the	 drugs.	 At	 least	 I	 can	 smile

at	 you	 without	 it	 feeling	 like	 a	 knife	 in	 my	 face.”

“Hi.”	 I	 come	 around	 to	 the	 side	 of	 the	 bed	 near

Carson.

“Hi,	 there,	 yourself,”	 Dylan	 says.	 His	 voice	 is	 a

little	 woozy	 from	 the	 painkil ers,	 but	 it’s	 my	 old

Dylan.	 “I	 heard	 I	 scared	 the	 hel 	 out	 of	 you.	 Come

here.”

I	 hesitate.	 Carson	 has	 his	 arms	 folded	 and	 is

smiling	 at	 me.	 He	 nods	 in	 the	 direction	 of	 Dylan,

giving	 me	 the	 go	 ahead.	 I	 appreciate	 that	 Carson

doesn’t	 attempt	 to	 kiss	 me	 or	 touch	 me	 in	 any	 way

in	 front	 of	 Dylan.	 I	 move	 to	 the	 side	 of	 Dylan’s	 bed

where	 he	 has	 one	 free	 arm	 without	 needles	 and

tubes.

He	 grabs	 my	 hand	 and	 rubs	 it	 on	 his	 head.

“Feel	 this,”	 he	 says	 groggily.	 “It’s	 like	 when	 I	 was	 a

kid.	 Remember	 my	 buzz?”	 I	 laugh	 because	 I	 think	 I

do	 remember	 him	 having	 a	 buzz	 cut	 as	 a	 little	 boy;



427

his	 dark	 blond	 hair	 was	 soft	 against	 his	 scalp	 like	 it

is	 now.

“I’m	 amazed	 at	 your	 body’s	 resiliency.”

“You	 should	 have	 seen	 the	 truck.	 The	 trooper

came	 by	 with	 the	 photos	 they	 took	 at	 the	 scene.

The	 truck	 did	 a	 complete	 rol 	 over	 and	 I	 bounced	 all

over	 the	 inside	 of	 that	 thing	 like	 a	 bowling	 ball.	 My

head	 pounded	 repeatedly	 against	 the	 steering

wheel	 and	 actually	 dented	 it	 to	 half	 its	 original	 size.

The	 trooper	 said	 anyone	 else	 would	 have	 died.”

Dylan	 slurs	 this	 last	 statement	 and	 closes	 his	 eyes.

I	 look	 over	 at	 Carson	 who	 shakes	 his	 head	 in

disbelief,	 but	 I	 can	 see	 the	 gratitude	 in	 his

expression	 as	 wel .	 “It’s	 true.	 I	 saw	 the	 photos.

They	 think	 Dylan	 survived	 because	 he’s	 young	 and

packed	 with	 enough	 weight	 and	 muscle	 that	 it

protected	 him.”

“He	 was	 driving	 so	 fast…”	 I	 let	 my	 words	 trail

off.	 This	 is	 a	 conversation	 I	 need	 to	 have	 with

Carson	 at	 another	 time	 and	 place.

“Jess.”	 Dylan’s	 eyes	 are	 open	 again.



428

“Yes,	 I’m	 stil 	 here.”	 I	 reach	 for	 his	 free	 hand

again,	 which	 is	 now	 limp	 on	 his	 leg.	 His	 eyes	 flutter

closed	 and	 then	 open	 again.

“I	 can’t	 say	 what	 I’m	 trying	 to	 say,	 the	 words

are	 coming	 out	 funny,”	 he	 says.

“The	 morphine	 is	 kicking	 in,”	 Carson	 explains.

“He’s	 going	 to	 fall	 asleep.	 We	 can	 leave	 him	 alone

for	 a	 while.	 His	 nurse	 wil 	 be	 back	 to	 check	 on	 him.”

I	 get	 up	 and	 fol ow	 Carson	 out	 into	 the	 hall.

Lois	 is	 gone,	 so	 I	 figure	 she	 must	 have	 headed	 off

for	 the	 waiting	 room.

“I	 need	 to	 go	 home	 and	 shower	 and	 shave,”

Carson	 says.	 I	 admit	 he	 is	 handsome	 with	 his	 one-‐

day	 beard	 and	 his	 tussled	 hair,	 however,	 he	 looks

completely	 beat.

“Did	 you	 get	 any	 sleep?”

“Maybe	 a	 total	 of	 twenty	 minutes.	 I	 would

start	 to	 doze	 off,	 but	 there	 are	 too	 many	 beeping

machines	 and	 the	 nurses	 were	 in	 his	 room	 doing

checks	 and	 tests	 every	 half	 hour.	 I	 want	 to	 run

home.”	 He	 takes	 my	 hand.	 “I	 thought	 you	 could

come	 with	 me	 and	 wait	 while	 I	 get	 cleaned	 up.



429

Then	 we	 could	 grab	 a	 real	 meal	 some	 place	 and

come	 back	 to	 the	 hospital	 together.”

I	 take	 my	 hand	 away.	 “I	 don’t	 think	 that’s	 a

good	 idea,	 Carson.	 You	 need	 to	 be	 with	 Dylan,	 not

me.”

“What’s	 wrong,	 Jess?”	 His	 smile	 fades	 as	 he

searches	 my	 face	 for	 an	 explanation.

“We	 can’t	 start	 something	 now,	 not	 with	 Dylan

in	 the	 hospital.	 You	 can’t	 flaunt	 this	 in	 front	 of	 him

or	 other	 people.	 I	 shouldn’t	 have	 been	 at	 your

house,	 Carson.	 I	 shouldn’t	 have	 started	 anything

with	 Dylan,	 either.	 This	 is	 messed	 up.	 I’m	 going	 to

find	 Lois	 and	 have	 her	 take	 me	 home.”

“We’re	 not	 flaunting	 anything.	 You’ve	 got	 this

wrong.”

“We’re	 not	 going	 to	 argue	 about	 it	 here.	 I’m

going	 home	 with	 Lois,”	 I	 say,	 moving	 away.

“This	 isn’t	 messed	 up.	 You	 and	 I	 are	 good

together.”

I	 shake	 my	 head	 and	 start	 walking	 away.

Carson	 looks	 back	 at	 Dylan’s	 room	 and	 then	 at	 me.

“Don’t	 walk	 away	 from	 me,”	 he	 says	 too	 loudly

for	 a	 hospital.	 “When	 I	 knock	 on	 your	 door	 later



430

tonight,	 I	 expect	 you	 to	 answer	 it.	 Don’t	 hide	 from

this,	 Jess.”





431





Twenty-‐Eight



Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 choose	 the	 two

bedrooms	 that	 belonged	 to	 Carson	 and	 Dylan	 that

one	 summer	 long	 ago.	 Lauren	 borrows	 her	 father’s

truck	 to	 bring	 all	 of	 their	 boxes	 to	 my	 house.	 They

begin	 unpacking	 their	 clothes,	 toiletries	 and

worldly	 possessions	 of	 junk.	 It	 takes	 all	 three	 of	 us

to	 carry	 their	 jewelry	 supply	 boxes	 up	 to	 the

playroom	 that	 belonged	 to	 the	 young	 Blackard

boys	 and	 me.	 They	 are	 eager	 to	 get	 settled	 in	 so	 we

eat	 Pop	 Tarts	 for	 dinner	 instead	 of	 taking	 a	 break	 to

prepare	 an	 actual	 meal.

I	 keep	 checking	 the	 clock,	 noticing	 as	 the	 hour

approaches	 the	 time	 of	 the	 end	 of	 visiting	 hours	 at

the	 hospital;	 the	 moment	 when	 Carson	 wil 	 leave

for	 home.	 I	 am	 on	 my	 knees,	 helping	 Lauren	 fil

dozens	 of	 shallow	 trays	 with	 jewelry	 findings	 when

she	 unexpectedly	 hugs	 me	 tightly.

“I’m	 so	 sorry,”	 she	 says.



432

She	 has	 me	 in	 a	 crushing	 embrace	 and	 I	 am

bewildered	 and	 touched	 at	 the	 same	 time.

“I	 was	 terrible	 to	 you	 yesterday.	 Dylan’s

accident	 was	 not	 your	 fault	 and	 I	 shouldn’t	 have

come	 down	 so	 hard	 on	 you	 about	 Dylan	 and

Carson.”

“Where	 is	 this	 coming	 from	 all	 of	 a	 sudden?”	 I

ask	 as	 she	 lets	 go	 of	 me.

“It’s	 a	 small	 town,	 Jess.	 Archie	 and	 Lois	 are

very	 worried	 about	 you	 and	 I	 know	 you	 worry

enough	 for	 one	 hundred	 people.	 You	 don’t	 need

me	 riding	 your	 ass,	 too.”

“Oh.”	 I	 sigh.	 “Thanks	 for	 being	 so

understanding,	 but	 I’ve	 been	 thinking	 about

everything	 a	 lot.	 Dylan	 and	 Carson.	 Dylan’s

accident	 was	 a	 wake-‐up	 call.	 I	 don’t	 think	 it’s	 as

simple	 as	 everyone	 is	 making	 this	 out	 to	 be.”

Imogene	 comes	 in	 the	 room	 with	 another	 box.

“I	 heard	 that,”	 she	 says.	 “Dating	 Dylan	 is	 one	 thing,

but	 if	 you	 think	 you	 can	 win	 over	 a	 guy	 like	 Carson

and	 then	 just	 walk	 away	 from	 it,	 you’re	 crazy.	 It

doesn’t	 work	 that	 way.”



433

“What	 do	 you	 mean?”	 I	 ask.	 Then	 there	 is	 a

loud	 pounding	 on	 the	 front	 door,	 which	 could	 only

mean	 that	 Carson	 is	 making	 good	 on	 his	 promise	 to

bash	 my	 medieval	 doorknocker	 continuously	 until	 I

respond.

“Hark!	 But	 what	 is	 that	 obscene	 pounding	 and

which	 caveman	 could	 it	 be?”	 Imogene	 sings.	 “I

know	 it’s	 not	 Jeremy	 or	 Leo	 because	 they	 haven’t

grown	 big	 enough	 balls	 to	 ask	 us	 out.”

Lauren	 starts	 laughing.

“I’l 	 get	 it,”	 I	 say.

“Damn	 straight	 you	 wil .	 You	 have	 the	 makings

of	 a	 perfect	 life	 and	 this	 is	 the	 guy	 you	 have	 been

infatuated	 with	 all	 along.	 So	 you	 are	 going	 to	 talk	 to

him	 and	 you	 are	 not	 going	 to	 blow	 it.”

“I	 never	 said	 I	 was	 infatuated	 with	 Carson.

How	 could	 I?	 I	 was	 dating	 Dylan.”

“Sometimes	 we	 have	 stand-‐ins	 until	 the	 real

deal	 comes	 along,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “Some	 of	 us

realized	 that	 Dylan	 was	 your	 stand-‐in.”

“Oh.”	 It’s	 obvious	 I	 don’t	 have	 a	 good

comeback.



434

Carson	 doesn’t	 stop	 knocking,	 so	 I	 take	 the

stairs	 two	 at	 a	 time	 as	 fast	 as	 I	 can	 without

breaking	 my	 neck	 on	 the	 way	 down.

I	 swing	 the	 door	 wide	 open.	 “It	 was	 unlocked,”

I	 say	 to	 Carson	 who’s	 walking	 through	 the	 door

before	 I	 finish	 the	 sentence.

“You	 told	 me	 to	 stop	 letting	 myself	 in.	 I’m	 not

here	 to	 bul y	 you	 into	 doing	 what	 I	 think	 is	 right.

I’m	 here	 because	 we	 had	 the	 best	 day	 with	 each

other	 yesterday,”	 he	 says	 passionately,	 wild-‐eyed.

“Until	 it	 stopped	 being	 the	 best	 day,”	 I	 say.

“Then,	 I	 guess	 I	 am	 here	 to	 bul y	 you.	 Jess,	 I

don’t	 play	 games	 of	 any	 kind,	 especially	 guessing

games.	 I’ve	 been	 completely	 honest	 with	 you,	 so

you	 know	 where	 I	 stand.	 I	 want	 to	 know	 why

you’re	 angry	 at	 me	 and	 what	 you	 were	 thinking

back	 the	 hospital	 earlier	 today.	 Something	 set	 you

off	 and	 you	 left.”

“You	 do	 play	 games,	 whether	 you	 realize	 it	 or

not.	 You	 were	 interested	 in	 me	 from	 the

beginning—that’s	 what	 you	 said—but	 you	 let	 Dylan

and	 I	 carry	 on,	 knowing	 ful 	 wel 	 that	 Dylan	 couldn’t

handle	 it	 and	 I	 wasn’t	 serious	 enough	 for	 him.	 You



435

knew	 this	 would	 blow	 up.	 If	 you	 had	 asked	 me	 out

first,	 this	 wouldn’t	 have	 happened.”

Carson	 stares	 at	 me	 and	 then	 laughs.	 “Do	 you

hear	 yourself?”

“Yes,	 I	 sound	 really	 stupid	 and	 it’s	 not	 coming

out	 the	 way	 I	 want,”	 I	 snap	 at	 him.

“Do	 you	 think	 I’m	 the	 Dating	 Czar	 in	 this	 town?

That	 I	 have	 the	 authority	 to	 control	 who	 everyone

dates	 or	 doesn’t	 date?”

“We	 could	 have	 prevented	 Dylan’s	 accident,	 if

it	 was	 really	 an	 accident,”	 I	 retort.

“Maybe	 you	 haven’t	 noticed,	 but	 I’m	 not	 like

Dylan.	 I	 don’t	 flirt,	 I	 don’t	 remember	 to	 buy	 flowers

and	 I	 don’t	 keep	 track	 of	 birthdays,	 unless	 Archie

reminds	 me.	 If	 I	 was	 the	 Dating	 Czar,	 then	 my	 two

stupid,	 yet	 lovable	 employees	 would	 be	 dating	 the

two	 unattached	 women	 you	 have	 upstairs,”	 he

shouts	 to	 the	 upstairs	 floors.

“Thank	 you,	 Carson!”	 Imogene	 interjects	 from

the	 second	 floor.

“You’re	 welcome,”	 he	 shouts	 back.

“You’re	 not	 listening	 to	 me,”	 I	 say.



436

“No,	 you’re	 the	 one	 who	 doesn’t	 get	 it.	 I’m	 not

known	 as	 Mr.	 Romance	 in	 this	 town.	 Dylan	 won

you	 over	 the	 minute	 you	 saw	 him.	 I	 didn’t	 have	 a

chance.	 The	 one	 thing	 I	 don’t	 do	 is	 date.	 I	 don’t	 do

the	 small	 talk	 and	 ask	 random	 women	 out.”

“He	 doesn’t	 date!”	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 both

shout	 from	 upstairs.

“Hey!	 Greek	 Chorus,	 shut	 up!”	 I	 yel 	 to	 the

invisible	 pair	 upstairs.

“Thank	 you!”	 Carson	 responds	 to	 them	 again,

but	 he	 glares	 at	 me.	 “Did	 you	 hear	 that?	 I	 don’t

date,	 not	 in	 ages,	 because	 I	 don’t	 do	 it	 wel .	 I	 don’t

take	 chances	 with	 women.	 I	 do	 it	 once.	 I	 waited

because	 I	 wanted	 the	 time	 to	 be	 right	 to	 tel 	 you

how	 I	 felt.”

“That	 is	 a	 stupid	 policy.	 You	 do	 it	 once,	 huh?

You	 did	 have	 a	 chance	 with	 me.	 In	 fact,	 you	 had

two	 chances;	 day	 one	 and	 then	 the	 two	 week

period	 when	 I	 wasn’t	 talking	 to	 Dylan	 before	 we

actually	 got	 together,”	 I	 say	 softly.	 “But	 you	 didn’t

take	 them.	 Dylan	 did.	 After	 the	 fight	 you	 had	 with

Dylan	 in	 my	 kitchen,	 you	 could	 have	 stepped	 in

then.”



437

“I	 almost	 did.	 I	 wanted	 to	 tel 	 you	 when	 we

were	 on	 the	 bridge	 and	 again	 when	 we	 were

making	 those	 crappy	 pies.”	 Carson	 is	 hovering	 over

me,	 his	 face	 fallen,	 his	 hands	 out	 while	 he	 figures

out	 how	 to	 touch	 me.

“But	 you	 didn’t	 take	 a	 chance	 on	 me	 and	 by

not	 taking	 a	 chance	 and	 tel ing	 me	 the	 truth,	 I

ended	 up	 with	 the	 wrong	 guy	 and	 I	 hurt	 him.	 Badly.

It’s	 a	 mess.	 Dylan’s	 alive;	 however,	 we	 haven’t

addressed	 the	 bigger	 problem.”

“We	 wil ,”	 Carson	 says,	 trying	 to	 be	 reassuring.

“As	 soon	 as	 he’s	 out	 of	 the	 hospital.	 I	 finally	 got

space	 for	 him	 in	 that	 really	 good	 residential

treatment	 program	 that	 wil 	 help	 him.”

“That’s	 great,”	 I	 say.	 “Then	 that’s	 what	 you

should	 do.”

“We’l 	 do	 it	 together.	 You	 saw	 Dylan,	 he	 was

happy	 to	 see	 you	 and	 his	 world	 didn’t	 fall	 apart

when	 you	 walked	 in	 the	 room.”

“He	 was	 heavily	 sedated.	 I	 have	 no	 idea	 how	 I

can	 be	 any	 help.	 Dylan’s	 problems	 get	 progressively

worse	 when	 I’m	 around	 him.”



438

“Not	 true.”	 Carson	 comes	 back	 at	 me	 with

both	 arms	 open,	 but	 I	 push	 his	 hands	 away.

“Did	 you	 ask	 Dylan	 why	 he	 went	 over	 the

bridge	 or	 are	 you	 and	 everyone	 else	 going	 to

assume	 that	 Dylan	 couldn’t	 handle	 the	 curve	 onto

it?	 Dylan,	 who	 can	 drive	 any	 vehicle	 off-‐road,	 the

same	 guy	 who’s	 driven	 to	 your	 house	 a	 mil ion

times	 before	 without	 incident?	 Did	 you	 ask	 him?”

“He	 remembers	 parts—the	 tumbling	 truck—

but	 as	 far	 as	 where	 his	 mind	 was	 at,	 we’l 	 have	 to

discuss	 that	 when	 he’s	 healed.”	 Carson	 looks	 down

and	 then	 rubs	 his	 hand	 down	 his	 tired	 face.	 “I’m

not	 trying	 to	 pretend	 that	 this	 wasn’t	 a	 big	 deal.	 I

know	 it’s	 serious	 and	 I	 have	 to	 help	 Dylan,	 but	 the

state	 police	 said	 the	 markings	 on	 the	 road	 showed

the	 truck	 overshot	 the	 turn	 and	 hit	 the	 bridge	 from

the	 side	 and	 that’s	 why	 the	 truck	 rol ed	 down

instead	 of	 being	 projected	 in	 the	 air	 through	 the

middle	 of	 the	 railing.	 They	 didn’t	 see	 evidence	 that

Dylan	 drove	 straight	 through	 the	 railing.	 They

seemed	 satisfied	 with	 the	 responses	 they	 were

able	 to	 get	 from	 him	 when	 he	 was	 semi-‐conscious.

I	 can’t	 interrogate	 Dylan	 while	 he’s	 stil 	 recovering.”



439

“I	 understand.	 You	 have	 to	 let	 him	 heal.	 You

need	 to	 take	 care	 of	 him.	 You	 are	 a	 really	 great

brother.”	 I	 want	 to	 cry,	 although	 not	 in	 front	 of

Carson.

“Jess,”	 he	 says,	 his	 hands	 out	 again	 as	 though

I’l 	 take	 safety	 in	 them	 this	 time,	 but	 I	 put	 my	 hands

up	 to	 stop	 him.

“Carson,	 we	 can’t	 do	 this.	 I	 can’t	 do	 this.	 One

fuck	 up	 was	 enough.”

“We’re	 not	 a	 fuck	 up.	 Believe	 me	 when	 I	 say	 I

love	 you.”

“Right,	 you	 loved	 me	 so	 much	 that	 you	 didn’t

mind	 that	 I	 was	 sleeping	 with	 your	 brother?	 You

were	 taking	 your	 sweet	 time	 because	 Carson

Blackard	 only	 does	 it	 once,”	 I	 say	 mocking	 him.

“Believe	 me	 when	 I	 say	 I	 can’t	 love	 you	 back.”

I	 run	 back	 up	 the	 stairs	 to	 the	 third	 floor.	 I	 can

hear	 Imogene	 on	 the	 second	 floor	 as	 she	 leans	 over

the	 banister	 to	 talk	 to	 Carson.	 “She	 got	 you	 on	 that

one,	 Carson.	 You	 don’t	 let	 other	 guys	 sleep	 with

the	 woman	 you’re	 in	 love	 with.	 You	 didn’t	 fight	 for

her.”



440

“Oh,	 for	 fuck’s	 sake,	 I’m	 not	 Wyatt	 Earp.	 I

wasn’t	 going	 to	 shoot	 his	 balls	 off,”	 he	 says	 before

slamming	 the	 front	 door.





441





Twenty-‐Nine



“Are	 you	 ready	 to	 be	 a	 grownup?”	 Imogene

asks,	 standing	 over	 my	 bed.

“This	 is	 a	 fuckervention,”	 Lauren	 says	 from	 the

other	 side	 of	 the	 bed.	 “Stop	 breaking	 his	 heart.	 And

yours.”

I	 try	 to	 open	 my	 eyes,	 but	 I’m	 stil 	 mostly

asleep.	 Imogene’s	 arms	 are	 crossed	 over	 her	 busty

chest	 as	 she	 stares	 at	 me,	 waiting	 for	 me	 to	 wake

up.

“God,	 what	 time	 is	 it?”	 I	 ask.

“Six	 in	 the	 morning.	 Lauren	 and	 I	 have	 the

breakfast	 shift	 so	 we’re	 leaving	 soon.	 Coffee	 is

done	 and	 there’s	 a	 gorgeous	 man	 sleeping	 out	 in

his	 truck	 waiting	 for	 you.”

“What?”	 Now	 I’m	 ful y	 awake.

“Fuckervention,”	 Lauren	 whispers	 loudly.

“We’re	 intervening	 so	 you	 don’t	 fuck	 this	 up.”



442

“Carson	 never	 left,”	 Imogene	 explains.	 “He

spent	 the	 night	 in	 his	 truck.	 You’re	 going	 to	 go

down	 there	 and	 offer	 him	 a	 cup	 of	 fresh	 coffee	 and

you’re	 going	 to	 talk	 to	 him	 nicely.”

“Why	 is	 he	 here?”

Lauren	 groans.

Imogene	 puts	 up	 her	 palm	 up	 to	 Lauren.	 “Gee,

maybe	 because	 he’s	 in	 love	 with	 you	 and	 wants	 to

work	 through	 your	 sil y	 issues,	 so	 he	 can	 get	 over	 to

the	 hospital	 to	 see	 his	 brother.”

“Me,	 sil y?	 How	 about	 a	 guy	 who	 sleeps	 in	 his

truck?”

Imogene	 yanks	 my	 bed	 covers	 back.	 She	 is

furious.	 “Stop	 it.	 I	 mean	 it.	 Get	 up	 and	 throw	 on

some	 clothes	 and	 get	 down	 there	 this	 minute.”

“What’s	 with	 you?	 What	 happened	 to	 all	 the

hugs	 and	 understanding	 I	 got	 last	 night	 from	 you

two?	 Now	 I’m	 the	 bad	 guy	 again?”

“No,	 you’re	 the	 stupid	 guy,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “You

have	 a	 wonderful	 man	 who	 is	 crazy	 about	 you	 and	 I

don’t	 mean	 crazy	 in	 the	 way	 Dylan	 obsessed	 over

you	 and	 got	 jealous	 over	 every	 person	 who	 looked

your	 way.	 Carson	 is	 a	 once	 in	 a	 lifetime	 deal.	 I



443

would	 give	 whatever	 I	 could	 to	 have	 someone	 care

about	 me	 the	 way	 he	 has	 for	 you.	 It	 takes	 a	 lot	 of

fortitude	 for	 a	 man	 to	 pursue	 a	 challenging	 woman

despite	 the	 fact	 that	 she	 slept	 with	 his	 brother,

don’t	 you	 think?”

I	 get	 out	 of	 bed	 and	 look	 out	 the	 window.

“He’s	 stil 	 asleep,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “I	 saw	 him

when	 I	 let	 out	 Bert.”

Lauren	 hands	 me	 a	 pair	 of	 jeans	 and	 a	 sweater.

“Carson	 is	 no	 saint,”	 I	 say	 as	 I	 get	 dressed.

“No	 one	 is,	 but	 you’re	 not	 going	 to	 find	 a	 man

who’s	 better	 than	 him,”	 Imogene	 replies.

“I’m	 only	 twenty-‐one	 and	 you’re	 trying	 to	 push

me	 into	 marrying	 this	 guy?”

“I’m	 doing	 no	 such	 thing	 and	 he	 didn’t	 propose.

But	 it	 really	 pisses	 me	 off	 when	 people	 I	 love	 act

like	 idiots	 and	 screw	 up	 great	 opportunities.”

“I’m	 the	 idiot?”

Lauren	 nods.	 “Yes.	 Go	 talk	 to	 him.”

“And	 say	 what?”

“I	 can’t	 watch	 this	 train	 wreck	 again.	 God,	 I

wish	 I	 could	 have	 a	 cigarette!”	 Imogene	 says,

storming	 out	 of	 the	 room.



444

I	 turn	 to	 Lauren.	 “Wel ?	 What	 do	 I	 say?”

“The	 truth.	 He’s	 not	 expecting	 miracles.	 He’s

not	 like	 Dylan	 at	 all,	 Jess.	 Carson	 doesn’t	 expect

you	 to	 shit	 rainbows	 and	 look	 like	 a	 goddess	 every

day.	 Unlike	 Dylan,	 Carson	 is	 a	 realist	 and	 he’s

mature	 enough	 to	 know	 that	 relationships	 of	 a

lifetime	 happen	 over	 a	 lifetime,	 not	 over	 a	 four

week	 fuck-‐frenzy.”

“Dylan	 did	 take	 dreamer	 to	 a	 whole	 new	 scary

level,”	 I	 mumble.	 “But	 I	 stil 	 don’t	 know	 what	 you

expect	 me	 to	 say	 to	 Carson?”

“You	 tel 	 him	 what	 matters.	 What’s	 important

to	 him?	 You.	 His	 brother.	 Keeping	 everyone

together.	 He’s	 not	 asking	 for	 promises	 or

guarantees	 from	 you.	 He’s	 only	 hoping	 you’l

consider	 him,	 even	 if	 it	 has	 to	 go	 on	 hold	 for	 a

while.”

I	 deliberate	 over	 her	 words	 and	 realize	 she’s

the	 first	 friend	 who	 has	 spoken	 so	 honestly	 about

my	 own	 fears.	 She’s	 right,	 Carson	 never	 placed

demands	 on	 me	 to	 give	 or	 say	 anything	 that	 didn’t

come	 naturally	 to	 me,	 unlike	 Dylan	 who	 was

practically	 begging	 for	 me	 to	 say	 ‘I	 love	 you’.



445

Lovable,	 adorable	 Dylan	 and	 his	 haywire	 mood

swings.



When	 I	 step	 out	 onto	 the	 porch	 with	 a	 hot

steaming	 mug	 of	 coffee,	 Carson	 is	 standing	 outside

of	 his	 truck	 taking	 in	 a	 long,	 graceful,	 arching

stretch.	 He	 doesn’t	 notice	 me,	 so	 I	 use	 the

opportunity	 to	 admire	 his	 incredible	 body,	 sculpted

in	 all	 the	 right	 places	 with	 those	 strikingly	 serious

eyes	 that	 make	 him	 absurdly	 handsome.

When	 he	 sees	 me,	 he	 smiles.

Ah,	 he	 is	 so	 forgiving.

I	 walk	 towards	 him	 slowly,	 making	 sure	 not	 to

spil 	 the	 coffee.	 He	 leans	 back	 against	 his	 truck	 and

watches	 me	 with	 a	 tender	 expression.

I	 hand	 him	 the	 mug	 and	 he	 takes	 a	 sip,	 keeping

his	 eyes	 on	 me.

“What	 possessed	 you	 to	 sleep	 out	 here	 all

night?”	 I	 wrap	 my	 arms	 around	 myself	 to	 prevent

my	 oversized	 sweater	 from	 letting	 in	 the	 cool	 drafts.

Carson	 is	 in	 a	 short-‐sleeved	 T-‐shirt	 and	 he

looks	 perfectly	 fine	 with	 the	 chil ing	 temperatures.	 I

shiver	 and	 he	 rests	 the	 mug	 on	 the	 roof	 of	 his	 truck



446

while	 he	 reaches	 inside	 the	 cab	 for	 his	 jacket.	 He

drapes	 it	 across	 my	 shoulders	 and	 I	 smel 	 him	 in	 the

wool;	 scents	 of	 pine,	 musk	 and	 sawdust.

“You,”	 he	 answers.	 “I	 stayed	 because	 the

thought	 of	 going	 home	 and	 trying	 to	 sleep	 after	 our

fight	 sounded	 impossible.	 I	 didn’t	 want	 to	 stare	 at

the	 ceiling	 all	 night,	 wondering	 what	 I	 should	 have

said	 or	 done	 differently.	 It	 was	 easier	 to	 stay	 here

and	 sleep	 in	 the	 truck,	 knowing	 that	 you	 were	 only

ten	 feet	 away.”

When	 he	 says	 things	 like	 that,	 it	 makes	 my

heart	 sing	 and	 I	 want	 to	 hug	 him	 as	 I	 revel	 in	 the

safety	 of	 his	 arms.	 Yet	 I	 know	 it	 would	 lead	 to	 sex

and	 that	 seems	 to	 be	 the	 problem.	 These	 proffers

of	 love	 are	 difficult	 for	 me	 to	 accept	 when	 they’re

attached	 to	 sex.

Perhaps	 it’s	 my	 inexperience	 at	 both	 love	 and

sex.	 They	 arrived	 in	 my	 life	 at	 the	 same	 time,	 so	 it’s

next	 to	 impossible	 for	 me	 to	 separate	 the	 two	 and

ascertain	 if	 the	 love	 is	 genuine	 or	 if	 it’s	 merely	 a

side	 effect	 to	 making	 love.	 Besides,	 I	 never	 refer	 to

what	 I	 did	 with	 Dylan	 as	 making	 love.	 To	 me	 it	 was

sex,	 getting	 it	 on,	 or	 fucking.	 Then	 I	 reflect	 on	 that



447

day	 in	 Carson’s	 bed.	 I	 never	 once	 felt	 like	 we	 were

fucking	 in	 the	 impersonal	 sense	 of	 the	 word.	 I	 could

almost	 touch	 the	 joy	 that	 was	 surrounding	 me	 like

a	 bubble	 when	 I	 was	 in	 Carson’s	 orbit;	 whether	 it

was	 at	 Barron’s	 Creek,	 in	 my	 kitchen,	 or	 in	 his	 bed.

I	 look	 around,	 avoiding	 eye	 contact	 with	 him

because	 I	 have	 to	 craft	 my	 words	 careful y.	 How	 do

you	 tel 	 a	 man	 that	 you	 want	 to	 be	 with	 him,	 but

not	 yet?	 That	 you	 like	 him,	 although	 you’re	 not

sure	 you	 can	 return	 his	 love?	 How	 do	 say	 this

delicately	 enough	 so	 that	 he	 waits	 for	 you?

I	 can’t	 ask	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 since	 they	 have

already	 left	 for	 the	 diner.	 Besides,	 they	 would	 give

me	 a	 scathing	 speech	 about	 stringing	 Carson	 along.

First	 Dylan	 then	 Carson,	 as	 though	 I’m	 one	 of	 the

popular,	 bitchy	 girls	 in	 school.	 That’s	 what	 this

seems	 like.	 I’ve	 finally	 made	 it	 to	 the	 high	 school

ranks	 of	 popularity.

Imogene’s	 question	 is	 appropriate.	 Am	 I	 ready

to	 be	 a	 grownup?

“Thank	 you,”	 I	 say	 at	 a	 loss	 for	 a	 better

response.



448

“Why	 are	 you	 thanking	 me?”	 He	 crosses	 his

arms	 and	 stays	 in	 his	 relaxed	 position	 against	 the

truck	 as	 if	 he’s	 trying	 really	 hard	 not	 to	 touch	 me,

not	 to	 set	 me	 off.	 It	 makes	 me	 feel	 like	 I’m	 a	 bomb.

“Because	 you	 have	 been	 very	 forgiving	 and

kind	 through	 all	 of	 this	 and	 I	 made	 some	 very	 harsh

statements.	 I’m	 not	 saying	 what	 I	 said	 last	 night	 is

wrong,	 but	 the	 way	 I	 said	 it	 was	 distasteful.	 I	 am

not	 proud	 of	 myself.”

Carson	 looks	 down	 at	 the	 ground.	 I	 watch	 his

jaw	 clench	 and	 flex.	 “So	 sleeping	 on	 it	 didn’t	 help.

We’re	 stil 	 stuck	 where	 we	 were	 last	 night.	 You

want	 to	 blame	 yourself	 for	 being	 with	 Dylan	 and

me	 for	 not	 asking	 you	 out	 sooner?”

I	 don’t	 say	 anything.	 I	 have	 nothing	 wise	 to	 add

to	 my	 original	 argument.

“Tel 	 me	 what	 you	 want,	 Jess.	 Do	 you	 want	 me

to	 go	 away	 for	 good?”

“No.”	 I	 definitely	 don’t	 want	 him	 to	 go	 away.	 It

might	 be	 a	 good	 test	 to	 see	 if	 my	 heart	 breaks,	 or

to	 see	 if	 I	 actually	 have	 a	 heart,	 however,	 I	 don’t

think	 I	 could	 survive	 that	 test.	 “I	 want	 to…	 I’m	 going

to	 use	 one	 of	 Lois’s	 terms,	 so	 don’t	 laugh,	 but	 I



449

want	 to	 find	 my	 center.	 I	 want	 to	 figure	 out	 what

I’m	 doing.	 I’m	 not	 a	 care-‐free	 spirit	 like	 my	 Aunt

Virginia	 was.	 I’m	 very	 much	 a	 product	 of	 my

upbringing	 and	 my	 parents	 taught	 me	 to	 figure	 out

what	 I	 need	 to	 do.	 I’m	 good	 at	 that.	 But	 now	 I	 want

to	 figure	 out	 what	 I	 want	 to	 do,	 too.

“My	 parents	 used	 to	 direct	 my	 life.	 It’s	 my	 turn

to	 take	 the	 reins.	 So	 I’m	 going	 to	 say	 those	 dreaded

words	 and	 I	 don’t	 want	 you	 to	 correct	 me.	 I	 need	 a

break	 from	 romantic	 entanglements	 and

relationships.	 I	 want	 to	 see	 Dylan	 get	 better,	 I	 want

to	 know	 you	 the	 way	 everyone	 else	 in	 this	 town

knows	 and	 trusts	 you,	 but	 I’m	 not	 going	 to	 be

sharing	 anyone’s	 bed	 for	 now.	 That’s	 what	 I	 think	 I

should	 do.”

Carson	 studies	 me	 for	 a	 moment	 and	 then	 lets

out	 a	 deep	 sigh.	 “Fuck.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 I	 was	 an

entanglement.”

“You’re	 not.	 It	 was	 a	 bad	 choice	 of	 words.	 I

need	 to	 be	 on	 my	 own	 for	 a	 while.”

“You’ve	 been	 on	 your	 own	 for	 years,”	 he	 says.

“Your	 parents	 sent	 you	 out	 into	 the	 world	 when



450

you	 were	 fourteen.	 A	 kid	 making	 adult	 decisions	 is

never	 easy.”

“You	 did	 it,	 too,	 but	 you’ve	 also	 had	 a	 few

years	 to	 be	 your	 own	 boss.	 I	 need	 to	 process

everything	 in	 my	 own	 way	 and	 I	 can’t	 keep

accepting	 everyone	 else’s	 opinions	 because	 it	 only

confuses	 me	 at	 this	 point.”

“How	 much	 time	 do	 you	 need?”

“This	 isn’t	 something	 I	 can	 schedule	 onto	 the

calendar	 like	 one	 of	 your	 renovation	 projects.	 I

need	 time	 for	 myself	 and	 it	 wil 	 take	 as	 long	 as	 it

takes.	 Is	 that	 okay	 with	 you?”

Carson	 gives	 me	 a	 hesitant	 smile	 and	 relaxes

his	 arms.	 He	 looks	 positively	 gorgeous	 with	 his

messy	 hair	 and	 unshaven	 face.	 “I’m	 fine	 with	 that.

There’s	 no	 statute	 of	 limitations	 on	 my	 feelings	 for

you.”

I	 wish	 he’d	 stop	 being	 so	 accommodating.	 It

only	 makes	 me	 want	 to	 jump	 in	 his	 arms	 and	 have

reckless	 sex	 with	 him.

“Ah…”	 I	 stammer,	 contemplating	 how	 to	 end

this	 conversation	 without	 blowing	 it	 forever.



451

“Do	 you	 know	 why	 I	 could	 sleep	 out	 here	 all

night?”	 he	 asks.

“Because	 you’re	 made	 of	 steel?”

He	 smiles	 at	 my	 attempts	 to	 delicately	 diffuse

the	 tension.

“Because	 you	 never	 fel 	 in	 love	 with	 my

brother.”

“What?”	 I	 look	 at	 him	 with	 confusion.

“You	 didn’t	 fall	 in	 love	 with	 my	 brother	 or	 any

other	 guy	 for	 that	 matter.	 That	 gives	 me	 hope	 that

I’l 	 be	 the	 one	 and	 only.”

I	 am	 floored	 and	 quite	 pleased	 that	 he	 would

confess	 that	 to	 me.

“I	 don’t	 care	 who	 you’ve	 slept	 with	 in	 the	 past.

Okay,	 that’s	 bul shit,	 but	 I	 can’t	 change	 that.	 What	 I

do	 want,	 however,	 is	 to	 be	 the	 first	 and	 last	 guy

you	 fall	 in	 love	 with.”	 He	 delivers	 this	 declaration

with	 a	 confident	 inflection	 like	 an	 ambitious

colonial	 statesman,	 except	 I	 doubt	 references	 to

sex	 would	 ever	 be	 uttered	 in	 a	 John	 Adams	 speech.

It’s	 Carson’s	 old-‐fashioned	 perspective	 on	 how

people	 should	 behave	 that	 makes	 me	 fall	 harder

for	 him.



452

Abandoning	 my	 earlier	 remarks	 about	 needing

more	 time,	 I	 reach	 up	 and	 kiss	 him,	 putting	 my

arms	 around	 his	 neck.	 He	 doesn’t	 hesitate	 to	 seize

the	 opportunity	 I’ve	 given	 him.	 He	 kisses	 me

savagely.	 One	 of	 his	 hands	 holds	 my	 head	 while	 the

other	 grabs	 my	 ass	 and	 pul s	 me	 in	 closer.	 I	 press

into	 his	 hard	 body	 and	 it	 feels	 right.	 It	 would	 be	 so

easy	 to	 think	 with	 my	 urges	 and	 the	 raging

hormones	 that	 are	 begging	 me	 to	 give	 into	 Carson;

to	 hold	 him,	 to	 make	 love	 to	 him,	 to	 love	 him.	 I

don’t	 trust	 anything	 that	 comes	 so	 easily.

The	 kiss	 ends	 slowly,	 neither	 of	 us	 wanting	 to

stop	 since	 it	 means	 we’l 	 have	 to	 get	 on	 with	 the

business	 of	 real	 life.

“Everyone	 tel s	 me	 that	 you	 are	 exceptional	 as

a	 person.	 It’s	 true.	 But	 I	 stil 	 need	 more	 time,

Carson.”

His	 façade	 is	 solemn.

“I	 owe	 you	 a	 huge	 apology	 for	 acting	 like	 a

brute,	 at	 least	 that’s	 how	 Imogene	 put	 it.	 I’m	 sorry.”

He	 hands	 the	 coffee	 mug	 back	 to	 me.

“I’m	 kind	 of	 getting	 used	 to	 you	 busting	 down

my	 doors,	 but	 I	 really	 do	 need	 some	 more	 time.”



453

“Okay,”	 Carson	 says.





454





Thirty



Three	 weeks	 have	 passed	 since	 the	 accident

and	 we’re	 already	 being	 threatened	 with	 an	 early

winter,	 a	 dusting	 of	 snow	 in	 October.

Dylan’s	 bruising	 has	 faded	 completely	 and	 his

follow-‐up	 medical	 exams	 have	 been	 clear.	 He

started	 seeing	 a	 new	 psychiatrist	 two	 weeks	 ago

when	 he	 went	 back	 to	 work.	 The	 new	 anti-‐

depressant	 he’s	 trying	 needs	 another	 week	 or	 so

before	 its	 ful 	 effect	 kicks	 in,	 but	 Dylan	 thinks

they’re	 working	 and	 his	 spirits	 are	 up.	 He’s	 hopeful.

I	 know	 this	 because,	 when	 I’m	 not	 bogged

down	 in	 5	 Alpha	 work	 or	 attempting	 a	 yoga	 class,

we	 meet	 for	 lunch	 at	 least	 twice	 a	 week	 at	 Bonnie’s

and	 talk	 like	 we’re	 old	 friends.	 He	 sometimes	 brings

Leo	 and	 Jeremy	 along	 so	 we	 can	 hang	 out	 with

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 while	 they	 work.

During	 those	 times	 our	 conversations	 are	 light,

mostly	 about	 life	 in	 general,	 but	 when	 Dylan	 and	 I



455

are	 alone,	 our	 conversations	 turn	 to	 our	 personal,

yet	 separate,	 struggles.	 There’s	 nothing	 sexual	 or

romantic	 about	 it.	 Dylan	 is	 stil 	 beautiful	 in	 that

angelic	 way,	 yet	 we	 have	 evolved	 into	 friends	 with

a	 shared	 past	 and	 my	 affections	 for	 him	 have

become	 more	 of	 a	 sisterly	 fondness.	 He	 seems

more	 serene	 in	 general	 and	 is	 looking	 forward	 to

moving	 into	 the	 residential	 treatment	 center	 in

Massachusetts	 next	 week	 after	 the	 annual	 Blackard

Designs	 party	 that	 Carson	 hosts	 in	 his	 home	 every

year.

I	 have	 been	 invited	 to	 the	 party,	 too,	 along

with	 three	 hundred	 other	 people.	 Although	 I	 see

Carson	 periodically,	 at	 this	 point,	 I	 don’t	 trust

myself	 and	 I’m	 stil 	 uneasy	 about	 spending	 any	 time

alone	 with	 him.	 Dylan	 and	 I	 have	 been	 officially

over	 for	 a	 couple	 of	 months	 and	 it	 makes	 it	 easier

for	 me	 to	 talk	 to	 him	 since	 I’m	 not	 worried	 about

how	 he	 perceives	 me	 sexually	 or	 romantically.

That’s	 what	 makes	 it	 tough,	 too.	 Dylan	 is	 my	 past,

and	 Carson	 is	 my	 present	 and	 future;	 if	 I	 have	 a

future	 with	 him.



456

We’re	 sitting	 in	 a	 window	 booth,	 the	 last

diners	 at	 the	 end	 of	 the	 lunch	 rush.	 The	 staff	 is	 in

the	 kitchen	 eating	 their	 own	 meal	 and	 cleaning

while	 I	 watch	 Dylan	 wolf	 down	 a	 burger	 and	 fries.

He	 keeps	 his	 head	 shaved	 and	 it	 shows	 off	 the	 scars

that	 have	 gone	 from	 a	 fleshy-‐neon	 pink	 to	 an

opaque	 whitish-‐rose	 color.	 I	 want	 to	 reach	 over

and	 rub	 his	 head,	 which	 I	 and	 the	 other	 women	 do

often.	 His	 fuzzy	 scalp	 is	 irresistible.

“Keep	 your	 hair	 like	 that	 and	 the	 women	 are

going	 to	 fawn	 over	 you,	 touching	 your	 head.	 And

the	 scars	 make	 you	 look	 a	 little	 dangerous,”	 I	 say	 as

he	 grins	 at	 me.

“Just	 what	 I	 need,	 more	 women.”

“They	 are	 going	 to	 be	 all	 over	 you	 at	 Carson’s

shindig.	 You	 wait	 and	 see.	 They’l 	 come	 out	 of	 the

woodwork.”

“I	 have	 no	 doubt.	 I	 expect	 to	 get	 laid	 before	 I

go	 off	 to	 the	 crazy	 house.”

“Don’t	 say	 that.	 I’m	 really	 proud	 of	 you.	 So	 is

Carson.”

“Did	 he	 tel 	 you	 that?”



457

“No,	 we	 haven’t	 spoken.	 Other	 than	 ‘hel o’

when	 we	 bump	 into	 each	 other	 at	 the	 store.”

“That’s	 the	 problem.	 You	 have	 to	 talk	 to	 him,

the	 same	 way	 you’re	 talking	 to	 me.	 Wel ,	 except

we’re	 not	 together	 anymore,	 so	 maybe	 you	 want

to	 talk	 to	 him	 in	 a	 guy-‐getting	 way.	 Whatever	 spel s

or	 Jedi	 mind	 tricks	 chicks	 do	 to	 get	 our	 attention.

Does	 that	 make	 sense?”

“No,	 not	 at	 all,	 but	 I’m	 really	 relieved	 you	 and	 I

are	 on	 speaking	 terms.	 We’re	 better	 friends	 now,

don’t	 you	 think?”

“Yes.”	 He	 finishes	 gulping	 his	 water	 and	 puts

the	 glass	 down.	 “My	 new	 medication	 makes	 me

really	 thirsty,	 or	 maybe	 I’m	 imagining	 it.	 Anyway,

you	 should	 be	 with	 Carson.”	 He	 blurts	 that	 last	 part

out.	 I	 assume	 the	 medication	 makes	 him	 a	 little

incoherent,	 except	 I	 understand	 him	 perfectly.

I	 sigh	 and	 avert	 my	 gaze	 to	 the	 empty	 diner.

“I’m	 serious.	 Carson	 is	 the	 best	 human	 being

on	 the	 whole	 planet.”

“That’s	 quite	 an	 endorsement,”	 I	 say	 dryly.

“It’s	 true.	 You’l 	 never	 regret	 being	 with	 Carson.

He’s	 been	 in	 love	 with	 you	 this	 whole	 time.	 I	 was	 so



458

persistent	 with	 you	 because	 I	 wanted	 something

that	 belonged	 to	 Carson.”

“Gee,	 thanks.	 I	 don’t	 belong	 to	 anyone.”

Dylan	 leans	 across	 the	 table	 and	 takes	 my

hands	 in	 his.	 “And	 you	 don’t	 get	 to	 decide	 who

Carson	 loves.	 He	 loves	 me	 and	 you.	 Maybe	 you’re

not	 ready	 to	 love	 him	 back,	 but	 Carson	 doesn’t

change	 his	 plans.	 He’s	 like	 you.	 He	 thinks	 about

something	 a	 long	 time	 and	 fol ows	 through	 on	 it.	 I

wouldn’t	 be	 here	 today	 if	 Carson	 hadn’t	 picked	 up

where	 my	 parents	 left	 off.	 He	 raised	 me	 and

planned	 a	 future	 for	 me.	 I	 fucked	 up	 a	 lot	 of	 times,

but	 here	 I	 am.	 Carson	 saved	 me	 again	 and	 again,

and	 this	 time	 I’m	 going	 to	 fol ow	 through	 on	 the

plan.	 I’m	 going	 to	 live	 and	 breathe	 that	 therapy

program	 for	 however	 long	 it	 takes.	 Six	 weeks,	 three

months.	 I’m	 going	 to	 succeed	 and	 then	 I’m	 coming

back	 to	 make	 Blackard	 Designs	 even	 better.”

“Good.”	 I	 smile	 and	 squeeze	 his	 hand.

“Good?	 Did	 you	 not	 hear	 the	 part	 where	 I	 said

you	 and	 Carson	 are	 alike?	 Stop	 putting	 me	 in	 this

position	 where	 I	 have	 to	 talk	 about	 you	 and	 some



459

other	 guy.	 Seriously.”	 He’s	 trying	 to	 be	 jokey,	 yet

it’s	 not	 an	 easy	 topic	 for	 either	 of	 us.

“I	 didn’t	 ask	 you	 to	 talk	 about	 Carson.”

“Yeah,	 but	 if	 you	 won’t	 talk	 about	 him,	 then

I’m	 sort	 of	 obligated	 to	 push	 this	 along.	 He’s	 my

brother	 and	 I	 screwed	 things	 up	 for	 him.	 Plus,

you’re	 my	 friend	 and	 I	 owe	 you	 some	 truths.	 I’m

trying	 to	 point	 out	 how	 perfect	 you	 two	 are	 for

each	 other.”

“You	 don’t	 have	 to.”	 I	 don’t	 think	 I	 can	 hear

another	 lecture	 nor	 have	 someone	 sing	 Carson’s

praises	 to	 me.

“See,	 you	 sound	 just	 like	 Carson.”

“Wel ,	 there	 you	 go.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 date

myself.”

“Ha.	 Funny.	 Listen,	 you	 spent	 years	 fol owing

through	 on	 your	 academic	 goals	 and	 your	 painting.

He	 did	 the	 same	 with	 his	 furniture	 company	 and

me.	 I	 have	 been	 Carson’s	 biggest	 project.	 You	 and

Carson	 are	 both	 very	 strong,	 persistent	 people.	 You

take	 your	 time	 and	 you	 do	 the	 right	 thing.”

“You	 don’t	 think	 I’ve	 made	 some	 hasty

decisions	 since	 you’ve	 known	 me?”



460

Dylan	 laughs	 loudly.	 “You	 mean	 me?”

“Yes,	 you.”

“In	 your	 defense,	 I	 got	 you	 when	 you	 were

very	 vulnerable.	 I	 was	 like	 an	 eagle	 diving	 in	 on	 its

defenseless	 prey.”

I	 scoff	 and	 laugh	 with	 him.

“A	 lot	 has	 changed	 in	 the	 last	 five	 months,

hasn’t	 it?”	 He’s	 serious	 again.

“Yes.”	 I	 put	 my	 hands	 back	 in	 my	 lap.	 “I	 feel

like	 a	 different	 person,	 too.	 Don’t	 you?”

“Yeah,”	 Dylan	 says	 quietly.	 “But	 not	 Carson.

He’s	 the	 same.	 You	 can	 always	 count	 on	 him.”

“You	 could	 sel 	 used	 cars.	 You	 can	 count	 on

this	 one!”	 I	 mock.

Dylan	 chuckles.	 “You	 should	 call	 your	 parents

more	 often.”

“What	 made	 you	 think	 of	 them?”	 I	 ask.

“You’ve	 been	 here	 long	 enough.	 I	 don’t	 know

why	 you	 haven’t	 asked	 them	 to	 come	 visit.	 It’s	 nice

that	 you	 have	 parents.	 I	 wish	 I	 did.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to

sound	 preachy.	 I	 know	 you	 haven’t	 seen	 eye	 to	 eye

with	 them	 over	 the	 last	 couple	 of	 years,	 or	 ever,

but	 they	 did	 push	 you	 in	 the	 right	 direction,	 getting



461

an	 education.	 They	 raised	 a	 great	 daughter.	 You

should	 give	 them	 some	 credit	 and	 throw	 them	 a

bone	 sometime.	 I	 bet	 they’d	 love	 to	 hear	 from	 you.”

“Huh.	 Wel ,	 I’m	 stil 	 a	 little	 miffed	 about	 them

keeping	 me	 away	 from	 my	 aunt	 all	 these	 years	 and

they	 have	 never	 cared	 much	 about	 my	 art.”

“Big	 deal.	 I	 used	 to	 complain	 about	 Carson

being	 too	 bossy	 and	 control ing,	 but	 he	 was	 there

for	 me.	 I’l 	 give	 him	 credit	 for	 that.	 You	 need	 to

stop	 acting	 like	 you’re	 all	 alone,	 that	 you	 have	 to

make	 every	 decision	 by	 yourself.	 You	 have	 parents

and	 friends.	 Did	 you	 even	 notice	 I’m	 using	 the

speech	 you	 gave	 me	 about	 not	 doing	 it	 alone?”

“Yeah.	 Clever.”

We	 sit	 in	 silence	 for	 a	 moment.	 It’s	 strange	 to

be	 receiving	 advice	 about	 life	 from	 someone	 who	 is

about	 to	 go	 into	 a	 therapy	 program	 for	 his

emotional	 instability.

“I	 never	 got	 to	 apologize	 for	 being	 such	 a	 shitty

girlfriend	 to	 you.”

“You	 were	 perfect.”	 He	 gives	 another	 devilish

grin.

“Hardly.”	 I	 laugh.



462

“I’m	 serious.	 You	 never	 promised	 anything

more	 than	 what	 was	 offered.	 You	 were	 honest	 with

me	 and	 I	 appreciate	 that.	 I’l 	 never	 regret	 the	 time	 I

spent	 with	 you.”

I	 lean	 across	 the	 table	 and	 Dylan	 leans	 in	 to

listen.	 “You	 were	 my	 first,	 so	 I’l 	 never	 regret	 my

time	 with	 you	 either.”

“I	 know	 and	 I	 think	 everyone	 already	 knows

your	 secret,”	 he	 whispers	 loudly.

“Very	 funny.”

“Jess,	 I	 have	 made	 some	 bad	 decisions	 in	 my

life,	 but	 you	 were	 not	 one	 of	 them.	 I	 hope	 you

listen	 or	 at	 least	 try	 to	 believe	 what	 I’ve	 been

tel ing	 you.	 Stop	 thinking	 you	 could	 have	 prevented

any	 of	 this	 from	 happening.	 I	 really	 didn’t	 want	 to

get	 married	 and	 moving	 in	 on	 you	 was	 a	 mistake.	 I

dragged	 you	 into	 my	 screwed	 up	 brain;	 that’s	 what

happened.”

“Okay.	 I	 believe	 you	 and	 now	 I	 want	 you	 to

listen	 to	 me.	 I	 know	 you	 idolize	 Carson.	 That’s

understandable.	 But	 you’re	 also	 a	 very	 good	 person.

He’s	 not	 better	 than	 you.”

“Huh.	 Yeah,	 wel 	 thanks.”



463

“Huh,	 yeah,	 you’re	 welcome.”

“Smarty	 pants,	 I	 want	 you	 to	 come	 visit	 the

shop	 and	 see	 what	 we’re	 doing.	 Carson’s	 business

deal	 came	 through	 a	 while	 ago	 and	 he’s	 expanded

the	 place.	 We’re	 doing	 these	 weathered	 pieces	 of

furniture—aged	 wood—and	 I	 helped	 get	 the

operation	 going.	 Carson	 has	 a	 great	 appreciation

for	 your	 art,	 so	 you	 need	 to	 see	 his.”

“Maybe	 so.

“You	 see	 me	 moving	 forward,	 you	 don’t	 have

to	 tip-‐toe	 around	 me	 or	 feel	 responsible	 anymore.

You	 are	 free	 to	 date	 Carson	 without	 feeling	 any

guilt.”

“Ah.	 It’s	 not	 that	 simple,	 Dylan.”

“It’s	 also	 not	 as	 difficult	 as	 you	 make	 it	 out	 to

be,”	 he	 says.





464





Thirty-‐One



The	 Friday	 before	 Carson’s	 party,	 the	 snow

comes	 down	 like	 a	 thick,	 white,	 fluffy	 blanket.	 As	 I

watch	 the	 peaceful	 flakes	 float	 down	 from	 my

library	 window,	 Lauren	 is	 busy	 in	 the	 next	 room

working	 on	 some	 new	 necklaces	 that	 she	 and

Imogene	 want	 to	 post	 on	 their	 new	 website	 soon.

She	 listens	 to	 classical	 music	 while	 she	 strings

beads	 and	 crimps	 wire.

Imogene	 is	 cleaning	 the	 house.	 She’s	 decided	 I

am	 a	 slob	 and	 she	 wil 	 clean	 once	 a	 week	 in	 return

for	 a	 hefty	 rent	 reduction.	 I	 don’t	 argue	 with	 her,

especially	 since	 I’m	 not	 sure	 I’m	 brave	 enough	 to

hire	 Talia	 just	 yet.	 She’s	 too	 close	 to	 Carson	 and	 it

would	 put	 me	 in	 another	 very	 awkward	 position	 if	 I

drag	 Carson	 down	 into	 the	 black	 hole	 where	 all	 my

dates	 go	 to	 die.

Since	 Imogene	 and	 Lauren	 are	 both	 occupied

with	 tasks,	 I	 convince	 myself	 to	 make	 a	 trek	 into



465

town.	 I	 need	 the	 exercise	 and	 I	 want	 to	 take	 Dylan

up	 on	 his	 offer.

Jogging	 through	 the	 snow	 along	 the	 main

route	 to	 town	 requires	 more	 stamina	 than	 I

expected.	 By	 the	 time	 I	 arrive	 at	 Blackard	 Designs,

my	 wool	 cap	 and	 running	 shoes	 are	 soaked.

“Hi,	 Jess!”	 Daisy	 greets	 as	 I	 walk	 through	 the

door	 of	 the	 shop.	 I	 tel 	 her	 I’m	 just	 visiting,	 no	 need

to	 buzz	 anyone.

I	 peel	 off	 my	 soggy	 watch	 cap	 and	 run	 my

hands	 through	 my	 damp	 hair,	 trying	 to	 fluff	 it	 up.	 I

hang	 my	 down	 vest	 on	 the	 front	 coat	 rack	 and	 wipe

off	 any	 remaining	 snowflakes	 on	 my	 black	 running

tights.

On	 the	 left	 side	 of	 the	 building,	 in	 the

showroom,	 I	 can	 see	 Dylan	 talking	 to	 some	 men

and	 women	 in	 business	 suits.	 He	 must	 be	 giving	 his

pitch	 to	 some	 sales	 reps.	 I	 watch	 him	 for	 a	 moment,

admiring	 how	 he’s	 at	 ease	 talking	 with	 such

authority	 on	 the	 subject	 of	 their	 craft.

I	 turn	 and	 walk	 back	 by	 Daisy’s	 counter	 and

through	 the	 right	 side	 to	 the	 actual	 workshop.	 I

spot	 Leo	 and	 Daniel	 right	 away,	 both	 are	 wearing



466

goggles	 and	 gloves,	 painting	 or	 staining	 furniture.

They	 wave	 and	 give	 me	 silent	 hel os	 as	 I	 walk	 by.

There	 are	 projects	 everywhere,	 most	 in	 the

finishing	 stages,	 but	 the	 crew	 is	 unusually	 sparse	 in

this	 part	 of	 the	 shop.

In	 the	 back	 I	 see	 where	 the	 extension	 has	 been

added,	 the	 new	 addition	 Dylan	 mentioned.	 The

back	 wall	 has	 been	 knocked	 out	 and	 a	 glass	 wall

has	 been	 installed	 in	 its	 place	 that	 allows	 me	 to	 see

the	 whole	 new	 addition	 without	 going	 in.	 It’s	 very

industrial	 looking	 with	 concrete	 flooring,	 a	 high

ceiling,	 metal	 doors	 with	 rivets,	 metal	 skylights	 and

tall	 windows,	 machinery	 that	 looks	 like	 ovens	 and

lots	 of	 timber.	 It	 has	 an	 artisanal	 ambiance,	 a	 place

for	 real	 craftsman	 who	 work	 with	 basic	 elements	 of

earth,	 fire	 and	 wood.	 It	 reminds	 me	 of	 Carson’s

home.	 Every	 bit	 of	 this	 workshop	 has	 Carson	 in	 it.	 It

even	 smells	 like	 him.

There	 are	 more	 people	 working	 here,	 even	 a

few	 women,	 so	 Carson	 must	 have	 used	 the

investment	 loan	 to	 increase	 production	 as	 wel 	 as

number	 of	 staff.	 I’m	 watching	 the	 activity	 without

really	 understanding	 their	 process	 when	 I	 see



467

Carson.	 He	 is	 speaking	 to	 a	 man	 by	 the	 enormous

oven	 with	 a	 tool	 that	 resembles	 a	 pizza	 paddle.

Carson	 looks	 up	 and	 sees	 me	 then	 says

something	 to	 the	 man	 and	 walks	 towards	 the

partition	 door.	 In	 that	 instant	 I	 realize	 how	 much	 I

have	 missed	 seeing	 him.	 His	 dark	 hair	 hangs	 loose

down	 to	 his	 chin	 and	 frames	 his	 handsome	 face.

His	 stride	 is	 long	 and	 shows	 off	 the	 hard	 lines

through	 his	 arms	 and	 legs.	 He	 runs	 his	 hand

through	 his	 hair	 to	 push	 it	 back.	 I	 love	 that	 move.

When	 he	 opens	 the	 heavy,	 metal	 door,	 the	 sounds

of	 machinery	 and	 crackling	 wood	 carry	 into	 the

workshop	 area.

“Jess,”	 Carson	 says.	 He	 offers	 a	 conservative

smile,	 a	 pleasant	 version	 for	 greeting	 business

people.

“Dylan	 said	 I	 should	 come	 by	 and	 visit.”

“He’s	 in	 the	 showroom	 if	 you	 want	 to	 see	 him,”

Carson	 tel s	 me.	 His	 jeans	 and	 boots	 are	 dusty	 with

wood	 chips	 and	 he	 smel s	 like	 a	 campfire.	 He	 holds

his	 heavy	 work	 gloves	 in	 one	 hand	 and	 keeps	 the

partition	 door	 open	 with	 the	 other.



468

“I	 saw	 him.	 He’s	 with	 customers	 or	 reps.	 I

wanted	 to	 see	 the	 new	 addition.”

“Oh.	 Great,”	 he	 says,	 genuinely	 surprised.

“Come	 in,	 I’l 	 give	 you	 the	 tour.”

I	 walk	 by	 him	 through	 the	 door	 and	 feel	 like	 a

panther	 in	 my	 body-‐hugging	 black	 attire.

“Did	 you	 run	 here?”	 he	 asks.

“No,	 I	 jogged	 and	 it	 turned	 into	 more	 of	 a	 brisk

walk	 before	 the	 final	 half	 mile	 changed	 into	 a	 limp.”

He	 smirks.	 “Wel ,	 you’re	 here.	 I’m	 glad.”

“Me,	 too.	 This	 looks	 impressive.	 You	 never	 told

me	 about	 any	 of	 your	 plans	 to	 expand.”

“I’l 	 tel 	 you	 whatever	 you	 want	 to	 know.	 Come

here.”

I	 fol ow	 him	 to	 the	 big	 oven	 where	 the	 man

with	 the	 paddle	 is	 shoving	 wood	 inside	 the	 high

flames.

“We’re	 doing	 a	 new	 line	 of	 furniture.	 It’s	 all

aged	 wood.	 It	 looks	 similar	 to	 our	 recycled	 barn

wood	 furniture,	 but	 waiting	 for	 wood	 to	 age

naturally	 is	 slowing	 things	 down	 so	 we	 came	 up

with	 our	 own	 process.	 This	 is	 a	 boiler	 where	 we

cook	 the	 wood	 at	 high	 temperatures.	 Then	 we	 put



469

it	 in	 the	 season	 chamber	 for	 drying.”	 He	 points	 to	 a

set	 of	 ominous,	 black	 metal,	 double	 doors.	 “After

that,	 those	 guys	 over	 there	 use	 steel	 brushes	 on

the	 cooked	 wood	 to	 give	 it	 a	 more	 weathered	 look.”

“What	 about	 all	 the	 cracks	 and	 imperfections?”

“They	 add	 to	 the	 individuality	 of	 each	 piece	 of

furniture,”	 he	 says,	 walking	 me	 towards	 two

women.

“Noelle	 and	 Gemma.	 This	 is	 Jessica.”	 They

smile	 and	 shake	 my	 hand.	 I’m	 struck	 by	 their

attractiveness.

Gemma	 is	 a	 redhead	 like	 me,	 yet	 her	 hair	 is

smooth	 and	 perfectly	 straight	 down	 to	 her

shoulders.	 She	 is	 very	 pretty	 with	 a	 nice,	 slender

figure.	 We	 study	 each	 other	 as	 if	 we’re	 competitors.

I	 doubt	 Carson	 picks	 up	 on	 this,	 but	 I	 sense	 Gemma

is	 having	 the	 same	 thoughts	 as	 me	 about	 Carson.

“Very	 pretty	 hair,”	 Gemma	 says	 with	 a	 lovely

English	 accent.	 “I	 wish	 mine	 was	 thick	 and	 wavy

like	 yours.”

I	 smile,	 however,	 I’m	 no	 match	 for	 this	 woman

who	 is	 closer	 to	 Carson’s	 age	 and	 has	 much	 more



470

experience	 and	 confidence.	 She	 is	 polished	 and

beautiful.

“Noelle	 and	 Gemma	 are	 designers,	 too,”

Carson	 says.	 “They	 are	 creating	 the	 new	 line	 with

me,	 but	 they	 also	 do	 some	 of	 the	 heavy	 lifting.”

I	 notice	 the	 women	 wear	 the	 same	 heavy

gloves;	 they	 look	 cool	 and	 trendy	 in	 their	 jeans	 and

work	 boots.	 I	 envy	 them	 for	 getting	 to	 work	 here

with	 Carson.	 Actually,	 maybe	 I	 even	 hate	 Gemma

for	 being	 here	 where	 Carson	 can	 see	 her	 every	 day.

Jealousy	 really	 does	 make	 us	 feel	 ugly	 inside.

Carson	 continues	 and	 there’s	 excitement	 in	 his

tone.	 “The	 business	 is	 changing	 since	 I	 started.	 It

used	 to	 be	 guys	 who	 were	 good	 at	 carving	 and

tinkering	 in	 their	 woodshops.	 Some	 of	 our	 new

staff,	 like	 Gemma	 and	 Noel e,	 have	 col ege	 degrees

in	 design	 and	 actual	 work	 experience	 in	 the	 craft.”

His	 reserve	 is	 breaking	 down	 and	 the	 real

Carson	 is	 coming	 through	 as	 he	 gets	 more

animated	 describing	 his	 business	 to	 me.	 I	 admit	 I

like	 having	 his	 hand	 on	 my	 lower	 back	 in	 a

possessive	 way,	 which	 is	 noticeable	 to	 Gemma.	 I’m

also	 relieved	 when	 he	 propels	 me	 away	 from	 the



471

pretty	 women	 to	 introduce	 me	 to	 others.	 Everyone

is	 looking	 at	 me	 with	 wonderment	 as	 though	 it’s	 a

novelty	 to	 see	 Carson	 with	 a	 woman	 who	 isn’t	 a

part	 of	 the	 business	 or	 trade.

I	 get	 caught	 up	 in	 his	 attention	 and	 relax	 a	 bit.

It’s	 being	 next	 to	 Carson	 that	 makes	 me	 heady.

There’s	 something	 intense	 about	 the	 room	 with	 its

crackling	 fire	 and	 the	 dry	 air	 that	 leaves	 my	 cheeks

rosy	 and	 my	 hair	 curly	 and	 voluminous	 rather	 than

limp.	 Aside	 from	 my	 paintings,	 I	 never	 have

mystical	 experiences	 like	 this.	 I	 am	 Cinderel a,

transformed	 from	 a	 sooty	 cinder	 girl	 into	 a	 wild

haired	 redhead.	 Maybe	 it’s	 my	 active	 imagination,

which	 is	 fine.	 What’s	 wrong	 with	 finding	 happiness

in	 my	 own	 world	 in	 my	 own	 way?

By	 the	 end	 of	 the	 tour,	 Carson	 and	 I	 have

changed	 our	 demeanor.	 His	 hand	 is	 on	 my	 shoulder

and	 I	 find	 myself	 standing	 closer	 to	 him,	 especially

when	 I	 laugh.

“Can	 I	 take	 you	 out	 for	 lunch?”	 he	 asks.

“I	 can’t	 go	 anywhere	 dressed	 like	 this.”	 I	 sound

like	 I’m	 fishing	 for	 compliments.	 I	 could	 see	 how

Carson	 looked	 at	 me	 when	 Gemma	 remarked	 on



472

my	 pretty	 hair;	 he	 had	 that	 glazed,	 lovelorn	 look	 of

admiration	 that	 every	 woman	 enjoys.	 I	 have	 no

shame	 and	 milk	 it	 for	 all	 I	 can	 to	 feed	 my	 sagging

ego.

“You	 can	 absolutely	 go	 anywhere	 you	 want	 like

this,”	 Carson	 says.

“You	 came!”	 Dylan	 exclaims	 as	 he	 bursts

through	 the	 partition	 door.	 Damn	 these	 Blackard

boys	 and	 doors.

“Carson	 gave	 me	 the	 complete	 tour.	 I	 love	 it.

It’s	 amazing,”	 I	 reply,	 thinking	 I	 may	 be	 overdoing	 it.

“Good.”	 Dylan	 grins	 at	 us.

“Am	 I	 missing	 something?”	 Carson	 directs	 at

Dylan.

“Your	 lunatic	 brother	 made	 you	 a	 very	 big	 sale.”

“How	 big?”	 Carson	 asks	 skeptically.	 Dylan

hands	 him	 a	 stack	 of	 papers	 I	 assume	 are	 wholesale

orders.

“Wow.	 Cool,	 Dylan,”	 Carson	 compliments	 as	 he

flips	 through	 the	 pages.

“More	 importantly,	 are	 you	 going	 to	 the	 party

tomorrow	 night?”	 Dylan	 asks	 me.



473

I	 look	 at	 Carson	 and	 then	 Dylan	 scoffs	 at	 his	 big

brother.	 “Seriously,	 you	 didn’t	 even	 ask	 her

yourself?”

Carson’s	 face	 blanches	 with	 embarrassment.

We’re	 both	 uncomfortable	 being	 directed	 by	 Dylan.

“I	 wouldn’t	 miss	 your	 hil bil y	 hoedown	 for

anything,”	 I	 say	 in	 my	 best	 honky-‐tonk	 accent.

“Ha!	 We’re	 not	 that	 backwards.	 Don’t	 be

surprised	 if	 you	 see	 some	 women	 in	 Prada,”	 Dylan

says.	 “But	 you	 can	 come	 in	 a	 burlap	 sack	 and	 you’l

stil 	 be	 the	 prettiest	 girl	 there.”

It’s	 an	 awkward	 moment	 for	 all	 three	 of	 us,

Dylan	 innocently	 flirting	 as	 comes	 naturally	 to	 him.

I	 rub	 his	 head	 as	 a	 show	 of	 his	 impromptu	 jest.

“I’m	 more	 interested	 in	 your	 hoedown	 outfit

than	 anything	 from	 Prada,”	 Carson	 says,	 eyeing	 my

hand	 that	 was	 touching	 Dylan.	 “Does	 it	 come	 with

clogs?”

I	 laugh	 and	 slap	 my	 hand	 playful y	 against	 his

arm.	 Dylan	 fol ows	 the	 move	 in	 slow	 motion,	 not	 as

a	 jealous	 former	 lover,	 rather	 as	 a	 man	 who	 wants

to	 bow	 out	 of	 this	 threesome.



474

“I	 have	 to	 give	 Daisy	 these	 orders.”	 He	 takes

the	 papers	 from	 Carson’s	 hands	 and	 heads	 quickly

to	 the	 front	 counter.

“It’s	 too	 weird	 having	 me	 here,”	 I	 say.	 “I’m

going	 to	 go.”

“No.	 I’m	 glad	 you’re	 here.”	 Carson	 takes	 hold

of	 my	 arm	 to	 stop	 me	 from	 moving	 away.	 “Don’t

misread	 this.	 That	 was	 Dylan	 being	 generous	 to

both	 of	 us.”

“He	 is	 different,”	 I	 say,	 searching	 for	 a	 better

word	 to	 describe	 Dylan’s	 small	 transformation.

“He	 has	 committed	 to	 going	 through	 with	 the

program	 this	 time.	 He	 can	 do	 it.”	 Carson	 releases

my	 arm,	 but	 closes	 the	 space	 between	 us	 to	 make

this	 more	 personal.

“I	 think	 he’l 	 be	 very	 successful.	 There’s	 an

eagerness	 in	 him,	 he	 seems	 renewed,”	 I	 say.	 As

much	 as	 I	 care	 about	 Dylan	 and	 want	 to	 help	 him,

I’m	 wondering	 if	 Dylan	 is	 the	 main	 thing	 Carson	 and

I	 have	 in	 common.

“You’ve	 been	 a	 good	 friend	 to	 him	 over	 the

last	 few	 weeks;	 I	 was	 wrong	 when	 I	 told	 you	 to	 stay

away	 from	 him.	 He	 stil 	 talks	 about	 you	 a	 lot,	 but	 in



475

a	 new	 way;	 he	 says	 his	 conversations	 with	 you	 help.

Thank	 you	 for	 that.”

Carson	 struggles	 to	 think	 of	 something	 else	 to

talk	 about,	 but	 either	 we	 have	 nothing	 other	 than

our	 shared	 concern	 for	 Dylan	 and	 our	 afternoon	 of

sex,	 or	 we’re	 both	 too	 afraid	 to	 go	 beyond	 small

talk.	 That	 is	 my	 fault,	 of	 course.	 I	 wanted	 to	 slow

my	 dating	 life	 down.	 Unfortunately,	 I’ve	 essentially

put	 it	 in	 a	 coma	 and	 Carson	 is	 being	 too	 careful

around	 me,	 or	 maybe	 he	 has	 lost	 interest.

Regardless	 of	 his	 quest	 to	 push	 me	 and	 Carson

together,	 Dylan’s	 no	 prophet	 and	 I’m	 not	 very	 good

at	 reading	 men.

“Sure,”	 I	 say.

We’re	 stalled	 for	 more	 dialogue.	 Moments	 ago,

I	 thought	 I	 was	 in	 a	 magical	 realm	 and	 I	 thought	 the

man	 I’ve	 been	 attracted	 to	 for	 months	 was

experiencing	 the	 same	 desire	 for	 me;	 suddenly,	 I’m

a	 nervous,	 doubtful	 ninny	 again.	 I	 hate	 that	 nag

inside	 of	 me,	 however,	 she’s	 very	 persuasive	 and	 I

feel	 the	 need	 to	 leave	 immediately.



476

“I	 have	 to	 get	 going.”	 I	 back	 away	 and	 then

walk	 quickly	 through	 the	 work	 area	 to	 gather	 my

clothing	 by	 the	 front	 door.





477





Thirty-‐Two



I’m	 out	 the	 door	 of	 Blackard	 Designs	 and

running	 back	 up	 home,	 sliding	 and	 stumbling	 on

the	 shoulder	 of	 the	 road,	 yet	 determined	 to	 keep

moving	 away	 from	 the	 shop	 and	 Carson	 as	 fast	 as	 I

can.

“Hey!”	 Carson	 yel s	 through	 his	 window	 as	 he

drives	 his	 truck	 alongside	 me.	 “Get	 in.”

When	 I	 shake	 my	 head	 and	 keep	 running,	 he

guns	 the	 engine	 and	 drives	 the	 truck	 farther	 ahead.

He	 blocks	 my	 path	 by	 parking	 the	 truck	 at	 an	 angle

across	 the	 shoulder	 so	 the	 only	 way	 I	 can	 pass	 is	 to

climb	 down	 in	 the	 ravine	 off	 the	 shoulder	 or	 go	 left

into	 oncoming	 traffic.	 There	 are	 very	 few	 vehicles,

but	 intentionally	 running	 around	 his	 truck	 to	 the

other	 side	 of	 the	 road	 would	 look	 juvenile,	 even	 for

me.

I	 climb	 into	 the	 truck,	 out	 of	 breath	 and

panting.



478

“You	 can’t	 run	 along	 the	 side	 of	 the	 road	 in	 this

weather.	 I’l 	 take	 you	 home,”	 Carson	 says.

“No,	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 go	 home.”	 I	 look	 out	 the

window,	 pul 	 my	 wet	 cap	 off	 again	 and	 ruffle	 my

hair.	 I	 am	 too	 anxious,	 sad	 and	 scared.	 “Take	 me

anywhere	 else.”

Carson	 starts	 driving.	 “What	 happened?”	 He

looks	 upset.	 I	 turn	 away,	 keeping	 my	 gaze	 on	 the

scenery.

“Nothing.	 Everything	 is	 great	 at	 the	 house.	 I

just	 need	 a	 break	 from	 work	 and	 staring	 at	 the

same	 walls	 and	 my	 sleeping	 dog.”

“Okay,”	 he	 says,	 however,	 he	 keeps	 glancing	 at

me	 warily.

“Take	 me	 to	 the	 Ridge,	 the	 place	 where	 people

hike	 and	 have	 picnics.”

“Sure.	 I	 know	 the	 Ridge.	 I’l 	 take	 you	 there.”

Carson	 cranks	 up	 the	 heater	 and	 I	 take	 off	 my

wet	 vest	 and	 my	 shoes,	 which	 are	 pretty	 much

demolished.	 The	 heater	 gets	 my	 skin	 good	 and

toasty,	 especially	 when	 I	 put	 my	 bare	 feet	 on	 the

dashboard.	 “Do	 you	 mind?”	 I	 ask.



479

“Not	 at	 all,”	 Carson	 replies,	 looking	 at	 my	 feet

as	 I	 rub	 them.

He’s	 not	 wearing	 a	 jacket	 so	 he	 must	 have	 left

in	 a	 hurry	 to	 chase	 after	 me.	 I	 like	 the	 idea	 of	 that,

but	 I’m	 not	 kidding	 myself	 with	 unrealistic	 fantasies

anymore.

We	 drive	 in	 silence	 while	 I	 keep	 my	 focus	 on

the	 passing	 houses	 and	 farms.	 After	 a	 few	 miles,

Carson	 takes	 the	 truck	 off	 the	 main	 road	 onto	 a

steep	 dirt	 road,	 which	 takes	 us	 to	 another	 smaller,

inconspicuous,	 makeshift	 road.	 He	 shifts	 down	 into

a	 lower	 gear	 and	 we	 begin	 crawling	 over	 the

uneven	 ground.	 I	 could	 not	 have	 driven	 here	 on	 my

own.	 Carson	 is	 obviously	 very	 experienced	 with	 the

terrain	 and	 handling	 a	 vehicle	 that	 requires	 some

clever	 uphil 	 maneuvering.

“Goodness,”	 I	 say	 when	 we	 reach	 the	 top	 and

drive	 onto	 a	 flat	 area.

The	 Ridge	 overlooks	 a	 valley	 of	 smaller	 towns

and	 hil s	 buried	 in	 snow.	 There’s	 no	 one	 up	 here

since	 it’s	 really	 only	 used	 by	 locals	 in	 the	 summer

and	 fall	 months.



480

My	 initial	 anxiety	 dissipates	 as	 I	 ponder	 the

fact	 that	 we	 are	 alone	 up	 here	 in	 our	 private	 snow

tower.	 He	 parks	 the	 truck,	 although	 he	 keeps	 the

engine	 and	 heat	 running.

“Do	 you	 want	 to	 tel 	 me	 what’s	 going	 on?”	 he

asks.

My	 feet	 are	 hot,	 so	 I	 remove	 them	 from	 the

console	 and	 pul 	 my	 knees	 up	 to	 my	 chest.	 I	 rest	 my

head	 back	 against	 the	 seat	 and	 sigh.

“Is	 it	 all	 about	 sex?”	 I	 ask.	 “Us?”

Carson	 looks	 confused	 for	 a	 moment	 before	 he

then	 shakes	 his	 head.	 “No.	 If	 it	 were	 about	 sex,

then	 I	 would	 have	 spent	 the	 last	 five	 months

getting	 laid	 every	 day.	 With	 you,	 by	 the	 way.”

I	 laugh	 nervously.

“We	 spent	 one	 afternoon	 together,	 Jess.”

“And	 now?”

“Now	 I’m	 waiting.	 I’ve	 been	 waiting	 for	 you.”

I	 unbuckle	 my	 seat	 belt	 and	 climb	 over	 to	 his

seat.	 Straddling	 him,	 I	 kiss	 him	 before	 he	 can	 say

anything.	 It	 takes	 him	 two	 seconds	 to	 register	 what

is	 happening	 before	 his	 hands	 are	 buried	 in	 my	 hair

and	 he’s	 dragging	 a	 long,	 hungry	 kiss	 across	 my	 lips.



481

My	 heart	 is	 racing	 along	 with	 my	 voracious	 desire

to	 have	 him	 inside	 of	 me.	 The	 need	 is	 blinding	 and

doesn’t	 allow	 for	 any	 slow	 tenderness.	 We’ve	 been

at	 a	 distance	 from	 one	 another	 for	 so	 long—too

long—we’re	 both	 fireballs	 of	 energy;	 grabbing	 one

another,	 kissing	 and	 pul ing	 clothing	 off.

My	 fleece	 top	 is	 off	 and	 thankful y,	 I	 wore	 a

regular	 bra	 and	 not	 my	 running	 bra,	 which	 is	 more

cumbersome	 to	 remove.	 This	 bra	 snaps	 off	 with	 a

flick	 of	 the	 fingers.	 I	 remove	 my	 tights	 like	 an

acrobat,	 my	 tongue	 probing	 Carson’s	 mouth	 while

my	 hands	 pul 	 the	 clingy	 fabric	 from	 my	 limbs.	 I’m

completely	 naked	 on	 top	 of	 him;	 Carson	 is

unhinged,	 his	 hands	 roaming	 up	 and	 down	 my

body.	 He	 undoes	 his	 jeans	 and	 yanks	 them	 down

enough	 so	 I	 can	 pul 	 his	 cock	 out.

“There.”	 He	 points	 to	 the	 glove	 compartment.

“I	 think	 there	 are	 condoms	 in	 there.”

“Oh	 really?”	 I	 laugh.	 “You	 keep	 condoms	 in

your	 truck?”

“From	 a	 while	 ago,”	 he	 says,	 watching	 me

handle	 his	 cock.	 “It’s	 been	 a	 long	 time.	 Really.	 See

if—”	 He	 groans.



482

I	 arch	 over	 and	 open	 the	 box	 to	 dig	 through

papers	 until	 I	 find	 two	 condom	 packages.

“I	 wonder	 if	 they’re	 stil 	 good,”	 I	 say,

examining	 the	 packages	 and	 torturing	 him	 with	 my

stall.	 He	 grabs	 one	 from	 me	 and	 rips	 it	 open,

sheathing	 himself	 before	 I	 can	 continue	 teasing	 him.

Then	 he	 gasps	 when	 I	 impale	 myself	 on	 him

with	 one	 quick	 lunge.

“Oh,	 damn,”	 he	 groans.	 “I	 would	 like	 to	 have

this	 everyday	 with	 you.	 Every	 single	 damn	 day.”

I	 smile	 down	 at	 him	 and	 keep	 lunging	 and

thrusting	 against	 him	 with	 my	 knees	 planted	 on

either	 side	 of	 his	 seat.	 I	 hold	 his	 headrest	 to	 steady

myself	 as	 I	 move	 faster	 and	 let	 my	 head	 fall	 back.

Carson	 is	 holding	 my	 ass	 and	 thrusting	 into	 me

while	 his	 hands	 and	 mouth	 are	 on	 my	 breasts.	 I

focus	 on	 one	 thing	 only,	 pumping	 and	 thrusting,

building	 up	 to	 my	 release.	 I	 can	 sense	 Carson

holding	 back	 so	 he	 doesn’t	 come	 too	 soon,	 but	 he’s

in	 overdrive,	 too.	 He	 trembles	 beneath	 me,	 trying

to	 maintain	 control,	 yet	 his	 quiet	 grunts	 give	 him

away.



483

He	 begins	 rubbing	 two	 fingers	 against	 me

where	 our	 flesh	 keeps	 slamming	 together.	 The

sensation	 he	 creates	 with	 those	 two	 fingers	 and	 his

lusty	 expression	 is	 enough	 to	 drive	 me	 over	 the

edge.

“Come,”	 he	 commands,	 but	 it	 is	 really	 a	 plea.

The	 delicious	 spasms	 come	 in	 robust	 waves

and	 grow	 more	 intense	 as	 I	 look	 down	 at	 Carson

and	 my	 naked	 body	 against	 him.	 I	 buck	 harder

against	 him	 until	 the	 pleasure	 is	 pouring	 out	 of	 me

like	 a	 sieve.	 Carson	 wraps	 one	 hand	 around	 my	 ass

and	 the	 other	 behind	 my	 head	 so	 I	 don’t	 slam	 into

the	 steering	 wheel.	 Then	 he	 pounds	 into	 me,

ramming	 quick	 thrusts	 until	 he	 shouts	 my	 name

with	 his	 release.

We’re	 both	 breathing	 hard	 as	 he	 wrenches	 me

back	 into	 his	 lap	 with	 a	 ful 	 embrace.	 I	 wrap	 my

arms	 around	 his	 shoulders	 and	 rest	 my	 head

against	 his	 neck,	 stil 	 panting.	 It’s	 only	 then	 that	 I

feel	 my	 leg	 cramping	 from	 the	 tight	 space,	 but	 I

don’t	 want	 to	 disrupt	 our	 moment	 together.

“You’ve	 lived	 here	 five	 months	 and	 we’ve	 had

sex	 twice,”	 he	 says	 between	 breaths	 into	 my	 hair.



484

“So,	 this	 should	 be	 enough	 evidence	 for	 your

question.	 No,	 we’re	 not	 about	 sex,	 but	 I	 sure	 like

when	 we	 are.”

I	 reluctantly	 climb	 off	 him	 and	 get	 dressed.

“You’re	 so	 quiet,”	 he	 observes	 as	 he	 fastens	 his

jeans.

I	 lean	 against	 my	 seat	 and	 study	 his	 beautiful

features.	 He	 plays	 with	 a	 few	 tendrils	 of	 my	 hair

and	 caresses	 my	 face.

“I	 think	 I	 always	 wanted	 you.	 After	 a	 while,

when	 I	 slept	 with…”	 I	 decide	 not	 to	 mention

Dylan’s	 name.

“What	 were	 you	 going	 to	 say?”

“I	 always	 imagined	 I	 was	 with	 you	 when	 I

wasn’t.”

He	 smiles.	 “But	 that’s	 a	 good	 thing,	 right?

Lucky	 me.”

“Is	 it	 a	 good	 thing?	 Or	 do	 I	 make	 poor

decisions?”

“I	 don’t	 understand,”	 he	 says,	 his	 hand	 holding

my	 chin.

“Never	 mind.”



485

“Don’t	 never	 mind	 me.	 Who	 do	 you	 think	 of

when	 you’re	 with	 me?”

“You.	 I	 always	 think	 of	 you.”

He	 sighs	 with	 relief.	 “Good.	 Isn’t	 that	 enough?”

“Enough	 what?”

“Enough	 evidence.	 Isn’t	 that	 enough	 proof	 that

we’re	 good	 together?”

“No,	 it’s	 lust	 and	 sex,”	 I	 say	 and	 he	 groans	 with

exasperation.

I	 know	 I’m	 making	 him	 more	 frustrated,	 yet	 we

all	 must	 have	 our	 own	 process	 of	 determining	 what

is	 right	 for	 us.	 Otherwise,	 my	 decision	 process

would	 be	 like	 Carson’s	 black	 and	 white	 version.	 My

process	 on	 relationships	 has	 morphed	 into	 a	 very

convoluted	 system	 of	 self-‐doubt	 and	 denial.	 It

confounds	 me	 as	 wel 	 as	 him.

“My	 point	 is	 that	 I	 have	 made	 some	 poor

decisions.	 Aren’t	 you	 concerned	 that	 maybe	 this	 is

one	 of	 those	 times?	 What	 if	 I’m	 with	 you	 because

of	 the	 sex?”

“Do	 you	 know	 how	 many	 guys	 would	 love	 to

hear	 a	 woman	 say	 that?”	 He	 laughs.

“Except	 I’m	 serious.”



486

“Yeah.	 You’re	 worried	 that,	 if	 you	 choose	 to	 be

with	 me,	 it	 could	 all	 be	 based	 on	 sex.	 Ask	 yourself	 if

you	 wanted	 me	 to	 fuck	 you	 or	 did	 you	 want	 to	 be

with	 me.”

“I	 want	 to	 be	 with	 you,	 but	 Dylan	 thought	 the

same	 thing.	 Hasn’t	 he	 always	 confused	 sex	 with

love?”

“Seriously?	 You	 think	 Dylan’s	 il ness	 has	 spread

to	 you?	 You’re	 not	 related	 by	 blood.	 If	 anyone	 has

a	 genetic	 predisposition	 to	 mental	 il ness,	 it’s	 me,”

Carson	 snaps.	 “Is	 all	 of	 this	 indecision	 you	 have

going	 on	 because	 you	 have	 doubts	 about	 me	 or	 are

they	 doubts	 about	 yourself?”

“It’s	 all	 about	 me,	 Carson.	 You’re…”

“What?”	 He	 searches	 my	 face	 for	 an	 answer.

“Perfect.	 You’re	 perfect.”	 I	 think	 back	 to	 Dylan

saying	 the	 same	 thing	 to	 me	 in	 the	 diner.

He	 shakes	 his	 head	 again	 and	 gives	 me	 a

worrisome	 smile.	 “I	 wish	 you’d	 stop	 doing	 this	 to

yourself.	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 the	 hel 	 your	 parents

did	 to	 let	 you	 torment	 yourself	 like	 this.”

“That’s	 odd	 you’d	 say	 that.	 Dylan	 was	 tel ing

me	 to	 reach	 out	 to	 my	 parents.	 He	 said	 they	 must



487

be	 good	 because	 of	 the	 way	 I	 turned	 out,”	 I	 scoff.

“But	 then,	 you	 and	 Dylan	 are	 very	 different.”

“I	 shouldn’t	 have	 said	 that	 about	 your	 parents.

I	 don’t	 know	 them	 and	 all	 my	 beliefs	 stem	 from	 a

pretty	 erratic	 childhood,	 along	 with	 my	 own	 ideas

of	 what	 makes	 a	 person	 good.”

“What	 makes	 me	 good?”

“You	 have	 sex	 with	 me	 and	 when	 you’re	 not

with	 me	 you	 think	 of	 having	 sex	 with	 me.”	 He	 looks

pretty	 proud	 of	 that	 answer.

I	 give	 him	 the	 thumbs	 up.	 “That	 was	 too	 easy.”

Carson	 laughs,	 but	 he	 is	 guarded	 with	 me.

“You’re	 stil 	 not	 sure	 about	 me.	 About	 us,	 so	 we

don’t	 have	 to	 talk	 about	 it.”

I	 can	 understand	 him	 being	 cautious.	 He	 gave

himself	 ful y	 to	 me	 weeks	 ago	 when	 he	 told	 me	 he

loved	 me	 and	 I	 have	 hoarded	 his	 affections	 for	 me

without	 giving	 him	 anything	 in	 return.	 He	 is	 politely

letting	 me	 go.

“Yeah,	 I’ve	 talked	 in	 circles	 on	 this	 topic	 far	 too

long.	 You	 have	 a	 business	 to	 run	 and	 I	 have	 to	 get

ready	 for	 my	 art	 show,”	 I	 say	 in	 my	 5	 Alpha

business-‐like	 tone.



488

We	 don’t	 speak	 at	 all	 on	 the	 ride	 home	 so

Carson	 turns	 on	 the	 radio	 for	 background	 noise.	 It

is	 dark	 when	 Carson	 drives	 up	 to	 my	 house.

“You’re	 coming	 to	 the	 party	 tomorrow	 night,

right?”	 he	 asks.

“Yes.	 If	 you	 stil 	 want	 me	 there.”

He	 scowls.	 “Shit.	 You’re	 the	 only	 person	 I	 care

about	 seeing	 there.	 If	 you	 don’t	 get	 that	 by	 now,

then	 we	 really	 are	 screwed.	 My	 feelings	 for	 you

haven’t	 changed.”

I	 inhale	 slowly.	 His	 words	 are	 a	 soothing	 balm.





489





Thirty-‐Three



We	 order	 our	 designer	 dresses	 online	 after

searching	 for	 sales	 and	 have	 them	 shipped

overnight.	 They	 arrive	 early	 and	 we	 gleeful y	 pul

them	 from	 their	 shipping	 boxes.	 Lauren	 is	 modeling

her	 very	 skimpy	 dress	 for	 us	 in	 Aunt	 Virginia’s	 room

where	 there’s	 a	 ful -‐length	 mirror.	 We	 squeal,

drunk	 on	 our	 excitement,	 as	 Lauren’s	 lanky	 legs

look	 ridiculously	 long	 in	 her	 platform	 stilettos.	 Her

dress	 is	 made	 of	 a	 gold	 mesh	 fabric	 that	 resembles

a	 snug,	 gauze	 bandage	 wrapped	 around	 her	 and	 it

barely	 covers	 her	 lady	 parts.	 She’s	 rail	 thin,	 but	 the

dress	 gives	 her	 the	 appearance	 of	 a	 ful er	 bosom	 so

she’s	 pleased.	 The	 gold	 also	 complements	 her

blond	 hair.

Imogene’s	 dress	 is	 a	 rich	 burgundy	 velvet	 and,

against	 her	 long,	 dark	 mane	 and	 her	 alabaster	 skin,

she	 looks	 like	 a	 voluptuous,	 over-‐sexed,	 fairy

princess.



490

My	 dress	 is	 simple,	 black,	 short	 and	 sleeveless

with	 a	 plunging	 neckline	 that	 almost	 reaches	 to	 my

bel y	 button.	 The	 back	 scoops	 almost	 as	 much	 as

the	 front.	 I	 wil 	 be	 very	 self-‐conscious	 walking	 into

the	 party	 if	 other	 women	 are	 not	 wearing	 their

sexiest	 dresses,	 too.

“Do	 I	 wear	 my	 hair	 up?”	 I	 ask,	 holding	 my	 hair

in	 a	 twist	 on	 my	 head.

“No,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “If	 you	 were	 accepting	 an

Oscar	 tonight,	 I’d	 say	 wear	 your	 hair	 up.	 We’re

going	 for	 fun	 and	 sexy,	 so	 hair	 stays	 down.”

“Al -‐righty,”	 I	 reply.

“I’m	 going	 to	 do	 your	 hair,”	 Imogene	 says.	 “I

need	 to	 keep	 my	 fingers	 busy	 because	 they	 really

want	 to	 light	 a	 cigarette.”

Imogene	 spends	 an	 hour	 making	 great	 spiral

curls	 with	 the	 curling	 iron	 as	 wel 	 as	 extra	 curls	 with

a	 twist	 of	 her	 fingers.	 She	 is	 meticulous	 and	 only

sprays	 enough	 hair	 product	 on	 to	 hold	 the	 curl

without	 making	 my	 hair	 sticky.	 Then	 she	 does	 my

make-‐up,	 arching	 my	 eyebrows	 and	 fil ing	 out	 my

lashes.	 When	 I	 look	 in	 the	 mirror	 I’m	 surprised	 and



491

exhilarated	 to	 see	 my	 metamorphosis	 from

computer	 geek	 to	 sexy	 maven.

“We	 all	 look	 fantastic,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “We

should	 walk	 around	 town	 like	 this	 every	 day.”

Imogene	 and	 I	 laugh	 hysterically	 as	 we	 practice

walking	 elegantly.

“I	 have	 an	 extra	 surprise,”	 Imogene	 announces.

“You’re	 pregnant?”	 Lauren	 asks	 and	 I	 gawk	 at

her.

“No,”	 Imogene	 snaps.	 “Jeremy	 is	 escorting	 us

to	 the	 ball	 and	 he	 wil 	 be	 our	 designated	 driver.”

She	 grins	 and	 Lauren	 cheers.

“You	 asked	 him	 out?”	 I	 ask.

“No,	 I	 couldn’t	 bring	 myself	 to	 actually	 say	 the

words,	 but	 I	 masterful y	 manipulated	 him	 into

asking	 me	 out,”	 Imogene	 says.

“How?”	 Lauren	 asks.	 “Maybe	 I	 could	 try	 that

on	 Leo.”

“He	 came	 in	 for	 lunch	 at	 the	 diner	 and	 I

mentioned	 that	 we	 really	 want	 to	 go	 to	 Carson’s

party,	 but	 can’t	 risk	 driving	 my	 shit-‐mobile,	 so

Jeremy	 nonchalantly	 said	 he’l 	 swing	 by	 to	 pick	 all

of	 us	 up.”



492

“Was	 Dylan	 there	 when	 you	 said	 that?”	 I	 ask.

“Because	 he	 knows	 my	 car	 runs	 fine.”

“Yes,	 but	 Dylan	 is	 a	 good	 sport	 and	 played

along.	 He	 never	 mentioned	 a	 word	 to	 Jeremy	 about

your	 car.”	 Imogene	 is	 smug	 with	 her	 conniving.

“Jeremy	 offered	 to	 drive	 because	 he	 wants	 to

take	 you,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “He	 wasn’t	 fooled	 by	 your

damsel	 in	 distress	 act.	 Please,	 he’s	 probably

relieved	 you	 gave	 him	 an	 excuse	 to	 take	 you.”

“Wel ,	 but	 that’s	 even	 better,	 right?”	 Imogene

does	 her	 best	 Jessica	 Rabbit	 pose.

“Abso-‐fucking-‐lutley,”	 Lauren	 adds.	 “The	 nice

boy	 likes	 you.”

I	 smile,	 happy	 for	 Imogene,	 yet	 it	 reminds	 me

how	 I	 have	 squandered	 my	 rare	 opportunity	 with	 a

nice	 boy.	 Two	 nice	 boys,	 in	 fact,	 but	 one	 boy	 in

particular.

Imogene	 actually	 waits	 on	 the	 second	 floor

and	 we	 yel 	 to	 signal	 her	 when	 Jeremy’s	 truck

comes	 up	 the	 driveway.	 He	 stands	 in	 the	 front	 hall,

looking	 like	 a	 timid	 businessman	 and	 watches

Imogene	 descend	 the	 stairs	 in	 slow	 motion.	 He	 is

bowled	 over	 when	 he	 sees	 her	 and	 stutters.



493

Lauren	 is	 less	 patient	 with	 Imogene’s	 theatrics.

“Get	 the	 lead	 out,	 Scarlet.	 Tara	 is	 burning	 and

we’ve	 got	 a	 party	 to	 go	 to!”

We	 wear	 sneakers	 and	 carry	 our	 heels	 out	 to

Jeremy’s	 truck	 so	 we	 don’t	 slip	 in	 the	 snow.	 Lauren

brings	 along	 a	 beach	 towel	 to	 dry	 our	 sneakers	 and

an	 emergency	 bag	 of	 who-‐knows-‐what	 for	 any

wardrobe	 crisis	 we	 may	 have.	 These	 country	 girls

have	 every	 angle	 covered.

My	 stomach	 is	 doing	 somersaults	 as	 we

approach	 Carson’s	 home.	 It’s	 lit	 up	 and,	 within	 all

the	 windows	 we	 can	 see	 the	 crowd	 of	 people

already	 gathered	 in	 his	 home.	 Al 	 three	 of	 us	 hold

on	 to	 Jeremy	 as	 we	 walk	 up	 the	 path	 to	 the	 front

door.	 Jeremy	 has	 a	 sheepish	 grin	 as	 we	 enter	 and

all	 these	 faces	 watch	 him	 walk	 in	 with	 three

glammed	 up	 women	 teetering	 alongside	 him.

I	 look	 around	 and	 see	 Archie,	 Lois,	 Eleanor,	 and

Imogene’s	 parents	 taking	 over	 the	 living	 room

couches.	 Bonnie’s	 diner	 is	 closed	 for	 the	 night	 so

everyone	 can	 attend	 the	 party,	 which	 is	 being

catered	 by	 a	 popular	 restaurant	 from	 another	 town.

There	 are	 servers	 everywhere	 in	 black	 outfits	 with



494

white	 aprons,	 holding	 out	 trays	 of	 cocktails	 and

appetizers.	 A	 deejay	 on	 the	 second	 floor	 is	 playing

a	 mix	 of	 loud	 tunes	 and	 the	 dining	 area	 has	 been

turned	 into	 the	 dance	 floor.	 My	 head	 is	 stil

roaming	 around,	 checking	 out	 all	 the	 people	 I	 don’t

know.	 They	 fil 	 every	 room	 upstairs	 and	 downstairs.

Imogene	 stays	 with	 Jeremy	 while	 Lauren	 grabs

my	 arm.	 “Let’s	 find	 the	 bartender.	 That’s	 where	 the

single	 men	 hang	 out.”

She	 steers	 me	 through	 the	 people	 with

incredible	 determination	 and	 I’m	 impressed	 with

her	 tenacity.	 I’ve	 never	 gone	 to	 a	 party	 with	 any

agenda	 in	 place	 like	 Lauren’s	 scheming.	 For	 me,

showing	 up	 at	 a	 party	 at	 all	 is	 a	 success	 in	 itself.

Some	 young,	 attractive	 guy	 recognizes	 Lauren

and	 reaches	 out	 to	 touch	 her	 and	 say	 hel o.	 “Not

now!	 Excuse	 me.”	 She	 brushes	 past	 him.

“Who	 was	 that?”	 I	 ask.

“Who	 cares?”	 She	 continues	 dragging	 me	 into

the	 casual	 dining	 area	 of	 the	 kitchen.	 “Bingo.	 The

bar.	 The	 bartender.	 The	 men.”

“You	 are	 good	 at	 this.”



495

When	 the	 men	 at	 the	 bar	 see	 us,	 a	 path	 to	 the

bar	 instantly	 opens	 up	 like	 the	 parting	 of	 the	 Dead

Sea.

“You’re	 like	 Moses,”	 I	 whisper	 in	 her	 ear.

“Look	 again.	 Am	 I	 an	 ancient	 old	 man	 or	 do	 I

know	 how	 to	 work	 this	 dress?”

“You	 have	 a	 wow	 factor	 that’s	 off	 the	 charts,

but	 I	 hope	 you	 remember	 you	 can’t	 sit	 down	 in	 that

dress	 without	 all	 your	 lady	 parts	 showing,”	 I	 remind

her.

“We’l 	 be	 dancing,	 not	 sitting,”	 she	 replies.

Lauren	 asks	 the	 bartender	 to	 make	 us	 dirty

martinis	 with	 extra	 olives.	 I	 take	 a	 sip	 and	 make	 a

face.

“Oh,	 grow	 up,”	 she	 says.

“Stop	 saying	 that	 or	 I’m	 not	 going	 to	 be	 your

sidekick.”	 My	 roving	 eyes	 are	 searching	 for	 Carson.

“Geez,	 don’t	 look	 so	 worried.	 Of	 course	 he’s

here.	 It’s	 his	 party,”	 Lauren	 says	 wryly.

“Lauren!	 Jess!”	 Dylan	 calls	 from	 across	 the

room.	 He	 pushes	 his	 way	 through	 the	 men	 and

gives	 us	 each	 a	 kiss	 on	 our	 cheeks.	 “You	 two	 look



496

great.”	 He	 looks	 positively	 dashing	 in	 his	 tailored

black	 suit	 with	 a	 grey	 shirt	 and	 tie.

“Yes,	 we	 do,”	 Lauren	 agrees.	 She	 holds	 up	 her

empty	 martini	 glass	 for	 the	 bartender	 to	 refil .

“She’s	 going	 to	 be	 plastered	 at	 this	 rate,”	 I

whisper	 into	 Dylan’s	 ear.	 “You	 have	 to	 get	 Leo	 to

ask	 her	 to	 dance	 and	 keep	 her	 dancing.”

“I’m	 on	 it,”	 he	 whispers	 back.	 “I	 need	 to	 talk	 to

you,	 too.”	 He	 rushes	 off,	 hopeful y	 to	 wrangle	 the

shy	 Leo	 into	 entertaining	 the	 most	 energetic	 girl	 at

the	 party.

Lauren	 begins	 her	 second	 martini	 when	 Dylan

hustles	 Leo	 over	 to	 her	 and	 takes	 her	 drink.

“Lauren,	 Leo	 wants	 to	 dance,”	 he	 says.	 “Have	 at	 it.”

Lauren	 takes	 Leo’s	 arm	 and	 dances	 her	 way

over	 to	 the	 dining	 area	 and	 the	 hopping	 dance	 floor.

Leo	 looks	 back	 at	 Dylan	 with	 an	 indiscernible

expression.

“Is	 that	 fear?”	 I	 ask	 Dylan.

“No,	 that	 expression	 says	 ‘How	 did	 I	 get	 so

fucking	 lucky?’”

“Really?	 You	 got	 all	 that	 from	 his	 bulging	 eyes

and	 clenched	 mouth?”



497

Dylan	 laughs.	 “I	 live	 with	 the	 guy.	 He’s	 gaga	 for

her,	 but	 he’s	 a	 little	 slow	 in	 doing	 something	 about

it.”

“Interesting.”

We	 observe	 Lauren	 taking	 over	 the	 dance	 floor

with	 her	 waving	 arms	 and	 leggy	 kicks.	 She	 could

have	 been	 a	 Rockette.	 Leo	 is	 much	 more	 passive

and	 looks	 like	 he’s	 jogging	 in	 place.	 Dylan	 and	 I

both	 burst	 out	 laughing.

“You’re	 not	 drinking	 this,”	 Dylan	 says,	 taking

my	 martini	 and	 putting	 it	 on	 the	 bar.

“No,	 much	 too	 strong	 for	 me.”

“Come	 over	 here,”	 he	 says,	 leading	 me	 to	 the

small	 passage	 between	 the	 dining	 area	 and	 the

kitchen	 where	 a	 quiet	 reflection	 fountain	 blocks

out	 some	 of	 the	 music	 and	 voices.	 We	 are	 alone	 in

the	 space.

“What	 did	 you	 say	 to	 Carson	 at	 the	 shop

yesterday?”	 Dylan	 demands	 and	 his	 abrupt	 change

from	 party	 guy	 to	 inquisitor	 surprises	 me.

“Not	 much.	 He	 gave	 me	 a	 tour	 of	 the	 new

addition.	 It’s	 very	 impressive—”



498

“Yeah,	 yeah.	 I	 know	 that	 part.	 You	 left	 and	 he

immediately	 left.	 Did	 you	 two	 meet	 up?	 Did

something	 happen?”

I	 gulp	 air	 and	 let	 my	 eyes	 wander	 over	 to	 the

wall	 of	 cascading	 water	 that	 plunges	 down	 the

concrete	 wall	 into	 a	 rectangular	 pool	 of	 stil 	 water

as	 I	 try	 to	 think	 of	 what	 to	 say.	 I’m	 certainly	 not

going	 to	 tel 	 Dylan	 that	 I	 had	 his	 brother	 drive	 me

to	 the	 Ridge	 and	 then	 we	 had	 sex	 in	 the	 truck.

“I’m	 only	 asking	 because	 when	 he	 saw	 you	 at

the	 shop	 he	 was	 happy.	 When	 I	 got	 here	 today	 to

help	 him	 set	 up	 for	 the	 party,	 he	 looked	 like	 a	 guy

who	 really	 didn’t	 give	 a	 shit	 about	 anything	 and

that’s	 not	 like	 Carson.	 Did	 you	 say	 something	 to

him?”

Wasn’t	 I	 in	 this	 same	 conversation	 with	 Carson

when	 he	 interrogated	 me	 about	 Dylan?	 “Carson

has	 been	 very	 nice	 to	 me,	 but	 I’m	 stil 	 a

disappointment	 to	 him.	 Nothing	 has	 changed	 in

that	 area.”

“Something	 has,”	 Dylan	 says.	 Watching	 him

cross	 his	 arms	 to	 contemplate	 the	 issue	 of	 his

brother	 makes	 him	 look	 so	 much	 older,	 as	 if	 he	 has



499

learned	 these	 skil s	 from	 observing	 or	 mimicking	 his

brother.	 “Have	 you	 spoken	 to	 him	 tonight?”

“I	 haven’t	 even	 seen	 him	 yet.”

“Great,”	 Dylan	 mutters.	 “You	 look	 gorgeous	 by

the	 way.	 Carson’s	 going	 to	 have	 his	 heart	 ripped

out	 when	 he	 sees	 you.”

“Stop	 it,	 Dylan.	 May	 I	 remind	 you	 that	 you’re

known	 for	 blowing	 things	 out	 of	 proportion?	 Did	 it

occur	 to	 you	 that	 maybe	 Carson	 is	 too	 busy	 having

fun	 to	 even	 care	 if	 I’m	 here?”

“Yeah,	 right.	 Good	 one,	 Jess,”	 he	 says	 and	 then

looks	 past	 me	 and	 smirks.	 “Wel ,	 wel ,	 wel .	 I’l 	 let

you	 two	 figure	 this	 out.”

I	 turn	 around	 to	 see	 what	 he’s	 looking	 at.

Carson	 is	 striding	 through	 a	 group	 of	 women,

including	 Gemma	 who	 looks	 stunning.	 He	 says	 hel o

to	 them,	 but	 doesn’t	 stop	 to	 chat	 and	 doesn’t	 take

his	 eyes	 off	 me	 the	 whole	 time	 it	 takes	 him	 to	 make

it	 across	 the	 large	 room	 to	 the	 little	 alcove	 where	 I

thought	 Dylan	 and	 I	 were	 perfectly	 hidden.

“Hey,	 brother.”	 Dylan	 smirks	 again	 as	 if	 they

have	 some	 secret	 between	 them.



500

Carson	 glares	 at	 Dylan	 and	 then	 looks	 directly

at	 me.	 “Jessica.”

Is	 it	 ever	 a	 good	 sign	 when	 someone	 uses	 your

ful 	 name	 with	 menacing	 eyes?

“If	 you’l 	 excuse	 me,	 I	 see	 a	 few	 dozen	 women

that	 want	 to	 dance	 with	 me.	 That’s	 how	 popular	 I

am,”	 Dylan	 says,	 making	 me	 giggle	 and	 I	 have	 to

cover	 my	 mouth	 to	 suppress	 them.	 Then	 Dylan

winks	 at	 me	 and	 taps	 Carson	 on	 the	 shoulder.	 “Tel

her	 how	 beautiful	 she	 looks.	 That’s	 always	 a	 good

way	 to	 start	 a	 conversation	 with	 a	 woman.”

Dylan	 leaves	 us,	 laughing	 in	 a	 smug	 way	 now

that	 he’s	 the	 one	 to	 be	 the	 voice	 of	 reason.

There’s	 something	 different	 about	 Carson.	 I’m

so	 used	 to	 his	 tussled	 hair	 and	 beard	 stubble	 paired

with	 his	 work	 jeans	 and	 boots.	 Tonight	 he	 shaved

and	 looks	 very	 debonair	 with	 his	 hair	 slicked	 back

more	 than	 usual.	 I	 can’t	 see	 him	 using	 hair	 gel,

although	 somehow,	 every	 part	 of	 his	 body	 and

wardrobe	 is	 working	 his	 look.	 I	 know	 he	 doesn’t

have	 to	 spend	 any	 time	 on	 grooming	 the	 way	 we

women	 slave	 over	 our	 appearance	 with	 sharp	 tools

and	 dangerous	 appliances.	 It	 takes	 us	 hours	 to



501

work	 those	 razors	 and	 hair	 devices,	 not	 to	 mention

squeezing	 into	 the	 small,	 slinky	 fabrics.	 I	 imagine

Carson	 showering,	 flipping	 his	 hair	 back	 and

throwing	 on	 the	 first	 suit	 he	 sees	 in	 his	 closet.	 He

has	 a	 casual	 elegance;	 dressy,	 cool	 and	 incredible

sexy.	 The	 dusty	 jeans	 and	 tool	 belt	 have	 been

replaced	 with	 a	 black	 suit,	 a	 black	 shirt	 without	 the

tie	 and	 the	 top	 buttons	 undone.	 He’s	 a	 masterpiece,

made	 for	 that	 suit.

“Armani	 or	 Zegna.	 I’m	 guessing	 Armani.”

He	 shrugs.	 “Who	 cares?	 It’s	 a	 suit.”

“You	 sure	 throw	 some	 hoedown.”	 I’m	 trying

mightily	 to	 make	 him	 laugh,	 but	 he’s	 resisting	 my

super	 powers.

“This	 only	 happens	 once	 a	 year.	 The	 other

three	 hundred	 and	 sixty-‐four	 days,	 this	 place	 is	 like

a	 monastery.”

I	 was	 going	 to	 make	 a	 crack	 about	 us	 having

sex	 in	 the	 monastery,	 but	 he	 doesn’t	 seem	 to	 be	 in

a	 joking	 mood.

“Wel ,	 thank	 you	 for	 inviting	 me.	 Your	 house	 is

a	 fabulous	 place	 for	 a	 party	 and	 you’ve	 made	 a	 lot

of	 people	 happy.”



502

Carson	 takes	 in	 my	 dress	 with	 the	 deep

neckline	 that	 slightly	 exposes	 the	 sides	 of	 my

breasts.	 I’ve	 never	 worn	 anything	 so	 revealing	 and

watching	 Carson’s	 eyes	 roam	 slowly	 from	 my	 legs

up	 to	 my	 face	 reminds	 me	 of	 the	 day	 I	 wore	 the	 red

bathing	 suit	 and	 how	 naked	 I	 felt	 in	 front	 of	 him.

That	 may	 have	 been	 the	 beginning	 of	 when	 I

started	 lying	 to	 myself.	 I	 agreed	 to	 a	 date	 with

Dylan,	 but	 I	 was	 already	 thinking	 about	 Carson	 and,

when	 I	 wore	 the	 sexy	 red	 swimsuit,	 it	 was	 Carson’s

attention	 I	 really	 wanted.	 He	 notices	 the	 necklace

he	 gave	 me,	 the	 delicate	 gold	 key	 hanging	 between

my	 breasts.

“Dylan	 called	 it.	 He	 said	 you’d	 be	 the	 prettiest

woman	 here.”

“There	 are	 hoards	 of	 pretty	 women	 here.”	 I

watch	 a	 group	 of	 giggling	 young	 women	 surround

Dylan.

“I	 hadn’t	 noticed,”	 he	 says	 with	 a	 penetrating

gaze	 that	 never	 leaves	 my	 face.

I	 suspect	 every	 woman	 in	 Hera	 jumps	 at	 the

chance	 to	 attend	 a	 Blackard	 event,	 anything	 to	 be

around	 Dylan	 and	 Carson.	 I	 stare	 at	 Carson’s	 lips



503

and	 so	 desperately	 want	 to	 kiss	 him.	 The	 thought

of	 him	 sends	 waves	 of	 heated	 desire	 through	 me.	 I

must	 surely	 be	 an	 awful	 person	 if	 I	 always	 want	 to

jump	 into	 bed	 with	 him	 when	 I	 can’t	 admit	 that	 I

could	 possibly	 have	 strong	 feelings	 for	 him	 as	 wel

as	 possibly	 a	 future.

Guilt	 and	 shame,	 whether	 they	 are	 deserved	 or

self-‐inflicted,	 are	 strong	 opponents	 to	 someone	 like

me.	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 be	 the	 tart	 that	 jerks	 Carson

around.	 I	 know	 many	 already	 believe	 I	 did	 the	 same

thing	 to	 Dylan.	 I	 put	 my	 head	 down	 and	 pretend

something	 is	 in	 my	 eye.

“I	 know	 you	 have	 another	 powder	 room

hidden	 behind	 one	 of	 these	 passageways

somewhere.	 Can	 you	 point	 me	 in	 the	 direction?”	 I

ask,	 putting	 my	 hand	 up	 to	 my	 blinking	 eye.

Wordlessly,	 Carson	 takes	 my	 arm	 and	 drags	 me

down	 the	 hall,	 further	 from	 the	 fountain	 and	 far

away	 from	 the	 party	 guests.	 We	 round	 a	 corner	 by

a	 window	 with	 more	 dramatic	 views	 and	 Carson

pul s	 open	 one	 of	 those	 metal	 doors	 with	 rivets,

similar	 to	 what	 I	 saw	 in	 his	 workshop.	 He	 walks

right	 in	 with	 me,	 closes	 the	 door	 behind	 him	 and	 I



504

hear	 the	 lock	 click.	 He	 flips	 a	 switch	 that	 lights	 the

room	 in	 an	 amber	 glow.

It’s	 more	 than	 a	 simple	 powder	 room,	 it’s	 huge.

It	 has	 a	 large,	 stone	 vanity	 with	 a	 rustic	 mirror

covering	 the	 wall	 above	 it,	 a	 cozy	 chair	 and	 a	 toilet

area	 that	 is	 separated	 by	 a	 bamboo	 wall	 and

private	 door.

“Everyone	 uses	 the	 bathroom	 down	 the	 other

hall.	 They	 forget	 that	 this	 one	 exists,	 so	 the	 room	 is

all	 yours,”	 he	 says,	 but	 doesn’t	 turn	 to	 leave.

I	 forget	 that	 I’m	 supposed	 to	 have	 something

in	 my	 eye	 and,	 instead	 of	 going	 to	 the	 mirror	 and

acting	 out	 my	 fake	 eye	 problem,	 my	 hands	 are	 at

my	 side.	 I’m	 staring	 hopelessly	 at	 Carson.	 In	 the

amber	 lighting,	 his	 dark	 features	 are	 striking	 to	 the

point	 that	 he	 takes	 my	 breath	 away.

There’s	 a	 single	 moment	 where	 we	 must	 be

experiencing	 the	 same	 thought,	 a	 glint	 of	 desire	 or

need	 passes	 between	 us.	 Carson	 rushes	 forward

with	 one	 hand	 cupping	 my	 face,	 the	 other	 under

my	 ass	 and	 he	 backs	 me	 onto	 the	 vanity	 between

the	 two	 sinks,	 kissing	 me.	 I	 wind	 my	 arms	 around

his	 neck	 and	 arch	 into	 him	 as	 I	 return	 the	 kisses,



505

touching	 him	 everywhere	 I	 can.	 His	 hands	 skitter

across	 my	 bare	 back	 and	 one	 reaches	 into	 the

neckline	 and	 palms	 my	 breast.	 Then	 he	 caresses	 my

bare	 thigh	 and	 pushes	 up	 underneath	 the	 dress	 to

cup	 my	 bottom	 flesh.

He	 pushes	 himself	 between	 my	 legs,	 so	 I	 feel

his	 hardness	 between	 us.	 My	 tongue	 duels	 with	 his

while	 he	 squeezes	 my	 nipples	 until	 they	 are	 aching

with	 heat	 and	 sending	 spasms	 down	 between	 my

legs.	 I	 reach	 down	 and	 rub	 Carson’s	 bulge,	 which	 is

straining	 against	 his	 pants.	 His	 hand	 leaves	 my

breast	 and	 holds	 the	 back	 of	 my	 head	 while	 his

other	 hand	 rubs	 against	 my	 bare	 leg	 and	 bottom.	 In

that	 instant	 he	 pul s	 away	 from	 my	 mouth	 and

holds	 my	 head	 firmly.

“Do	 you	 want	 me	 to	 screw	 you	 here	 because

you’re	 in	 the	 mood	 to	 get	 fucked	 by	 any	 guy?”	 He

pauses.	 “Or	 do	 you	 want	 me?”

I’m	 yearning	 for	 him	 and	 the	 tug	 in	 my	 heart	 is

louder	 than	 my	 libido.	 I’m	 afraid	 to	 answer.	 My

silence	 suggests	 the	 worst;	 that	 I’m	 only	 seeking

out	 a	 physical	 relationship.	 I	 am	 a	 coward.



506

He	 lets	 me	 go	 and	 steps	 back	 from	 the	 vanity

to	 adjust	 himself.	 “I	 don’t	 do	 casual	 sex	 with	 you,”

he	 says.	 “You	 can	 be	 platonic	 friends	 with	 Dylan,

but	 I’m	 not	 your	 friend.	 I’m	 something	 more	 and

we	 both	 know	 that.”	 He	 walks	 out,	 slamming	 the

door	 closed.

I	 sit	 for	 a	 moment	 and	 take	 deep	 breaths	 so	 I

won’t	 cry.	 Then	 I	 tidy	 myself	 up	 and	 put	 a	 handful

of	 cold	 water	 up	 to	 my	 mouth	 to	 wash	 away	 the

heat	 from	 his	 lips.	 I	 avoid	 looking	 in	 the	 mirror,

sure	 that	 I’l 	 see	 the	 person	 I	 dislike	 the	 most.





507





Thirty-‐Four



I	 can’t	 go	 home	 yet	 since	 my	 friends	 are	 having

too	 much	 fun	 dancing	 and	 I’m	 counting	 on	 Jeremy

to	 be	 our	 designated	 driver.	 I’l 	 have	 to	 wait	 out	 the

evening,	 bury	 myself	 in	 the	 throngs	 of	 people	 I

don’t	 know	 and	 try	 to	 avoid	 Carson.

Not	 long	 after	 I’ve	 re-‐entered	 the	 party	 area,

Archie	 and	 Eleanor	 flag	 me	 down	 and	 invite	 me	 to

sit	 between	 them	 on	 one	 of	 the	 big	 sofas	 in	 the

living	 room.	 Lois	 is	 propped	 on	 the	 armrest	 next	 to

Archie.	 A	 waitress	 brings	 me	 a	 glass	 of	 champagne

and	 tidbits	 of	 food	 that	 I	 can’t	 identify,	 but	 it’s	 all

so	 scrumptious.	 I	 eat	 as	 much	 as	 I	 can	 while	 trying

to	 remember	 the	 last	 time	 I	 really	 fil ed	 myself	 with

food.	 My	 stomach	 has	 been	 clenched	 and	 nervous

for	 the	 last	 few	 months,	 a	 painful	 reminder	 of	 my

festering	 anxiety.

“Goodness,	 you’re	 one	 hungry	 girl,”	 Eleanor

comments.



508

I	 shrug	 with	 my	 mouth	 ful .

“You	 should	 be	 dancing.”	 Lois	 sighs.

“We	 should	 all	 be	 dancing,	 but	 I’m	 very

comfortable	 sitting	 here	 watching	 everyone	 else,”

Archie	 says.	 He	 is	 in	 a	 tuxedo	 and	 looks	 like	 he

could	 be	 the	 unflappable	 butler	 in	 a	 BBC	 drama.

“That’s	 fine	 for	 you,	 Arch,	 but	 Jess	 and	 Carson

have	 had	 a	 spat	 and	 she	 really	 should	 be	 dancing

with	 him,”	 Lois	 says.

“What’s	 the	 drama	 du	 jour?”	 Eleanor	 asks,

lifting	 an	 eyebrow.

“Now,	 now.	 Leave	 her	 be.	 She’s	 not	 used	 to

this	 small	 town	 life.	 It’s	 like	 one	 big	 family;

sometimes	 happy,	 sometimes	 not.”	 Archie	 pats	 my

leg.

“No	 drama.	 We’re	 not	 fighting,”	 I	 deny.	 “We’re

simply	 not	 speaking.”

Lois	 scoffs.	 “Fudge.	 I	 wish	 Ginnie	 were	 here	 to

deal	 with	 this.	 She	 was	 so	 looking	 forward	 to

knowing	 you	 as	 an	 adult	 and	 now	 you’re	 stuck	 with

us	 instead.”

“Great,	 you	 can	 grow	 old	 with	 us,”	 Eleanor

adds.



509

I	 laugh.	 “I	 may	 do	 that.”

“She’s	 serious,	 Jess.	 At	 the	 rate	 you’re	 going,

you	 wil 	 sadly	 find	 yourself	 on	 the	 sidelines,”	 Lois

says.	 “Look	 at	 your	 friends	 and	 their	 new	 beaus.

Isn’t	 that	 a	 sight	 to	 see?”

Fortunately,	 two	 gentlemen	 I	 recognize	 from

the	 diner	 ask	 Eleanor	 and	 Lois	 to	 dance	 and	 they

sashay	 off	 to	 the	 dance	 floor	 in	 their	 flowing

dresses.

Imogene	 and	 Jeremy	 are	 talking	 and	 smiling	 on

the	 dance	 floor	 at	 the	 same	 time	 that	 Lauren	 is

making	 Leo	 laugh	 with	 her	 moves.	 It	 is	 a	 sweet

sight,	 but	 my	 attention	 is	 drawn	 to	 another	 part	 of

the	 huge	 living	 room	 where	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 are

surrounded	 by	 a	 group	 of	 friends.	 They	 all	 look

about	 the	 same	 age	 and	 some	 story	 with	 a	 famous

punch	 line	 is	 being	 retold.	 I	 can’t	 hear	 the	 words;

however,	 the	 nods,	 shouts	 of	 laughter	 and	 high-‐

fives	 tel 	 me	 that	 these	 must	 be	 their	 childhood

friends,	 the	 kids	 who	 saw	 what	 Carson	 and	 Dylan





went	 through	 and	 how	 they	 survived.

The	 brothers	 are	 laughing	 together	 when

Carson	 puts	 his	 arm	 around	 Dylan’s	 shoulders	 and



510

brings	 him	 in	 for	 a	 headlock	 and	 plants	 a	 kiss	 on	 the

top	 of	 his	 head.	 I’ve	 never	 seen	 them	 so

affectionate	 and	 loving	 with	 one	 another.	 I	 slip	 my

cel 	 phone	 out	 of	 my	 evening	 bag	 and	 watch	 them

through	 the	 screen.	 In	 the	 second	 that	 Carson	 has

his	 head	 against	 Dylan’s	 forehead,	 smiling	 with	 his

arms	 wrapped	 around	 his	 younger	 brother,	 I	 take

the	 photo.	 The	 image	 is	 exquisite.	 I	 bring	 it	 towards

me	 for	 a	 closer	 look.

“What	 is	 it?”	 Archie	 asks.

“It’s	 beautiful,”	 I	 whisper.	 “It’s	 pure	 love.”

Archie	 leans	 in	 to	 study	 the	 photo.	 “That	 it	 is.”

I	 shove	 the	 phone	 back	 in	 my	 purse	 and	 take	 a

deep,	 calming	 breath	 so	 I	 don’t	 get	 emotional	 in

front	 of	 Archie.

“We	 don’t	 always	 get	 do-‐overs.	 Think	 very

careful y	 before	 making	 a	 decision	 about	 love,”	 he

says	 to	 me.	 “Sometimes	 when	 it’s	 offered,	 it	 may

have	 an	 expiration	 date.”

I	 snort.	 “If	 love	 has	 an	 expiration	 date,	 then

love	 really	 does	 not	 last	 forever	 as	 the	 saying	 goes.”

“No,	 it	 means	 that	 love	 isn’t	 always	 available

when	 you	 want	 it.	 When	 it	 comes,	 you	 grab	 on	 to	 it



511

because	 you	 never	 know	 when	 that	 opportunity

may	 disappear	 forever.”

“I’m	 not	 really	 fol owing	 you,”	 I	 say,	 adjusting

the	 hem	 of	 my	 dress	 while	 also	 trying	 not	 to	 allow

my	 gaze	 to	 fol ow	 Carson’s	 every	 move	 around	 the

room.

“Do	 you	 want	 to	 end	 up	 in	 a	 big,	 old,	 empty

farmhouse	 like	 me?	 Al 	 alone?”	 Now	 Archie	 has	 my

ful 	 attention.	 “I	 fel 	 in	 love	 with	 the	 only	 love	 of	 my

life	 fifty	 years	 ago.	 I	 made	 her	 wait,	 though.	 I

wanted	 to	 impress	 her.	 I	 wanted	 to	 make	 more

money,	 buy	 more	 land	 and	 make	 more	 investments

so	 I	 could	 offer	 her	 more.”

“That’s	 what	 we’re	 supposed	 to	 do.	 Wait,	 build

up	 our	 lives	 and	 our	 bank	 accounts	 before	 we	 get

seriously	 involved	 with	 someone.”

“I	 thought	 so,	 too.	 Why	 start	 poor?	 My	 love,

Emily,	 agreed	 as	 wel .	 She	 waited,	 but	 I	 kept

putting	 off	 proposing	 because	 I	 wanted	 her	 to	 have

more	 than	 the	 poverty	 of	 her	 childhood.	 After

three	 years,	 though,	 she	 found	 someone	 else.	 She

said	 she	 loved	 me,	 but	 she	 could	 not	 wait	 a	 lifetime

for	 me	 and	 sacrifice	 her	 chance	 to	 have	 children



512

and	 a	 family	 of	 her	 own.	 She	 lived	 in	 another

county	 and,	 while	 we	 were	 broken	 up,	 I	 thought	 it

was	 temporary;	 I	 did	 not	 know	 that	 another

gentleman	 was	 also	 in	 love	 with	 her.	 He	 had	 no

intention	 of	 making	 her	 wait.

“When	 I	 told	 her	 I	 had	 purchased	 this	 lovely

home	 for	 her	 and	 had	 several	 profitable

investments	 in	 place	 along	 with	 my	 growing	 law

practice,	 she	 said	 ‘Archie,	 it’s	 too	 late.	 You	 made

my	 love	 for	 you	 the	 least	 important	 part	 of	 your	 life.

I’m	 marrying	 George	 Weston	 because	 he	 carries	 my

heart	 around	 like	 it’s	 his	 most	 precious	 possession.’

I	 hated	 George	 Weston	 for	 that,	 and	 I	 thought	 he

must	 be	 a	 real	 sap.	 Wel ,	 George	 had	 the	 last	 laugh.

He	 and	 Emily	 are	 stil 	 happily	 married	 and	 they

have	 six	 children	 as	 wel 	 as	 fifteen	 grandchildren.	 I

never	 fel 	 in	 love	 with	 anyone	 like	 that	 again.	 I

never	 married	 and	 my	 house	 is	 empty.”

There’s	 something	 so	 suspiciously	 sappy	 about

his	 story	 that	 I	 find	 it	 hard	 to	 believe.	 “Archie,	 are

you	 pul ing	 my	 leg?”

Archie	 smiles,	 yet	 there	 is	 a	 distant	 look	 of	 pain

behind	 his	 wrinkled	 eyes.	 “No,	 my	 dear.	 People	 like



513

me	 who	 live	 with	 this	 kind	 of	 regret	 rarely	 talk

about	 it.	 It	 was	 a	 calamity	 of	 my	 own	 making.	 My

point	 is	 that,	 in	 some	 cases,	 time	 is	 never	 on	 your

side.”

“I’m	 sorry	 that	 happened	 to	 you,	 but	 I’m	 not

ready	 to	 get	 married.”

“Oh,	 I	 know	 that.	 It’s	 a	 different	 world,	 but

people,”	 he	 points	 to	 his	 chest,	 “in	 here,	 haven’t

changed.	 There’s	 more	 to	 love	 than	 getting	 married.

It’s	 about	 treating	 someone’s	 gift	 of	 love	 with	 the

utmost	 care	 and	 respect.”

I	 look	 down	 at	 my	 hands	 which	 are	 fidgeting	 in

my	 lap.	 “I	 can	 create	 software	 for	 bil ion	 dol ar

companies…	 I	 can	 solve	 complex	 mathematical

equations	 and	 I	 can	 paint	 everything	 I’m	 feeling

even	 if	 I	 cannot	 express	 it	 verbally.	 Yet,	 being	 in

love	 confounds	 me.”

“I	 gather.	 Are	 you	 in	 love?”

“I	 think	 so.”

“It’s	 the	 most	 glorious	 reason	 to	 live,	 isn’t	 it?”

“Yes.	 I	 believe	 you’re	 right.”

“And	 the	 problem	 is?”



514

“I’m	 afraid	 of	 mirroring	 my	 parents’

relationship.	 It	 works	 for	 them,	 but	 it’s	 not	 what	 I

want;	 I	 fear	 it	 might	 be	 in	 my	 DNA.”

Archie	 smiles.	 “No.	 You’re	 too	 much	 like	 Ginnie.

She	 had	 a	 great	 love.	 He	 died	 two	 years	 ago,	 but

they	 had	 a	 great	 twelve-‐year	 run.”

“Better	 late	 than	 never,	 right?”	 I	 force	 a	 smile.

“Yes,	 I	 wish	 that	 were	 true	 for	 me,	 though.”

“Lois	 thinks	 I’m	 being	 unkind	 to	 Carson	 and	 I

guess,	 in	 her	 own	 bul y	 way,	 she	 believes	 I’m	 not

being	 true	 to	 myself.	 Do	 you	 think	 that,	 too?”

“Jessica,	 the	 only	 opinions	 that	 matter	 are

yours	 and	 Carson’s.	 That	 being	 said,	 I	 think	 Carson

is	 a	 very	 patient	 young	 man	 when	 it	 comes	 to

people	 he	 cares	 about.	 Dylan,	 for	 instance.	 The

door	 is	 open	 for	 you	 at	 this	 moment.	 It	 may	 stil 	 be

open	 next	 month	 or	 even	 next	 year,	 but	 do	 not

assume	 it	 wil 	 always	 be	 so.”

“What	 about	 when	 one	 door	 closes	 another

door	 opens?”

“Bul shit.”	 Archie’s	 final	 word	 on	 the	 matter	 is

probably	 his	 most	 powerful.



515

Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 rejoin	 us,	 plopping	 down	 on

the	 couches	 with	 an	 air	 similar	 to	 Imogene	 and

Lauren,	 making	 both	 Archie	 and	 I	 chuckle.

“Are	 you	 all	 done	 with	 that	 stinkin’	 thinkin’	 of

yours?”	 Lois	 says	 to	 me.	 “Are	 you	 ready	 to	 grab	 the

bul 	 by	 the	 horns?”	 She	 demonstrates	 with	 her	 fists

in	 the	 air.	 Before	 I	 have	 to	 defend	 myself	 again,	 I

beg	 off	 to	 find	 the	 powder	 room.	 I	 really	 just

escape	 to	 stand	 in	 the	 hidden	 hallway	 by	 the	 wall

with	 the	 waterfall.

There	 are	 a	 few	 older	 couples	 mingling	 by	 it,

but	 I	 feel	 alone	 enough	 to	 gather	 my	 thoughts.	 I

wander	 back	 to	 the	 end	 of	 the	 hall	 to	 peer	 out	 into

the	 great	 room	 again.	 I	 see	 Carson	 talking	 to

Gemma	 and	 my	 soul	 drops	 to	 the	 floor.	 Gemma	 is

standing	 close	 enough	 for	 her	 arm	 to	 touch	 Carson

and	 he’s	 smiling	 down	 at	 her	 as	 she	 talks	 to	 him.

They	 aren’t	 in	 a	 group,	 it’s	 just	 the	 two	 of	 them

talking	 and	 it	 looks	 so	 intimate	 I	 want	 to	 retch.

“Hi,”	 a	 nice	 voice	 says	 behind	 me.	 I	 turn

around	 and	 face	 a	 handsome	 man,	 one	 of	 the	 guys

I	 saw	 hanging	 around	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 when	 I

took	 the	 photo.



516

“Hi,”	 I	 say,	 putting	 my	 hands	 behind	 me	 like	 a

five-‐year-‐old.

“Would	 you	 dance	 with	 me?”	 he	 asks.	 A

beautiful	 Van	 Morrison	 song	 starts	 playing.	 “Slow

dance,”	 he	 says,	 holding	 out	 his	 arm	 with	 a	 smile.

“Sure,”	 I	 agree.	 It	 is	 a	 party	 after	 all.	 As	 we

walk	 out	 to	 the	 dance	 floor	 we	 pass	 by	 Lois	 and	 her

geriatric	 gang	 again.	 I	 give	 her	 a	 signal	 and	 toss	 my

purse	 to	 her.	 Like	 a	 pro	 she	 stands	 and	 catches	 it

then	 frowns	 and	 shakes	 her	 head	 in	 disapproval.

She	 wants	 me	 to	 dance	 with	 Carson,	 but	 the

dancing	 gods	 are	 not	 on	 my	 side.

“Jess,	 right?	 I’m	 Matthew,”	 he	 introduces

himself,	 taking	 my	 hands	 in	 his.

“Nice	 to	 meet	 you,”	 I	 say.	 He	 pul s	 me	 in	 closer

as	 Van	 Morrison	 croons	 about	 searching	 the	 world

over	 for	 his	 love.

“No.	 No.	 No.”	 I	 hear	 Carson’s	 voice	 booming

behind	 me.	 “That’s	 enough	 of	 that.	 Move	 over,

Matt,	 this	 is	 my	 dance	 and	 take	 this	 for	 me.”

Carson	 tosses	 his	 suit	 coat	 across	 Matt’s	 empty

arms	 stil 	 in	 their	 dance	 pose.



517

Matt	 looks	 from	 me	 to	 Carson,	 not	 sure	 if	 he

should	 argue	 that	 he	 was	 here	 first.	 Most	 likely,

Carson’s	 sheer	 dominance	 in	 height	 and	 muscle

causes	 Matt	 to	 apologetically	 bow	 out	 and	 allow

Carson	 to	 take	 over.

My	 shocked	 expression	 must	 be	 apparent	 to

everyone	 within	 sight	 of	 Carson’s	 display.

“House	 rules.	 Host	 gets	 first	 dance.”	 He	 yanks

me	 close	 to	 him	 and	 we	 begin	 moving	 with	 the

melody.	 My	 nerve	 endings	 are	 fired	 up	 as	 my	 hands

rest	 on	 his	 hard	 shoulders.	 I	 can	 feel	 his	 heat

through	 his	 shirt. Stud	 in	 the	 house!

“Did	 you	 have	 to	 humiliate	 him	 like	 that?”

“Matt?	 He’l 	 get	 over	 it,”	 Carson	 snaps.	 “I

wasn’t	 going	 to	 let	 this	 be	 your	 song	 with	 him.”

“What	 are	 you	 ranting	 about?”

“Everyone	 has	 a	 song	 for	 their	 first	 dance;

when	 they	 first	 meet	 or	 get	 married.	 I	 wasn’t	 going

to	 let	 this	 song	 belong	 to	 you	 and	 Matt.”

I	 stifle	 a	 laugh.	 “You’re	 jealous.	 I	 thought	 you

never	 get	 jealous.”

“I	 never	 have	 until	 you	 let	 that	 guy	 swing	 you

out	 onto	 the	 dance	 floor	 like…”



518

“Like	 what?”

“Nothing,”	 he	 says	 and	 holds	 me	 tighter.	 “Like

he’s	 your	 lover.	 This	 is	 a	 song	 for	 lovers.”

I	 smile	 up	 at	 him	 and	 he	 begrudgingly	 smiles	 at

me	 and	 then	 looks	 away.	 “I	 didn’t	 think	 you	 were

speaking	 to	 me	 anymore.”	 It	 hurts	 to	 have	 to	 hold

my	 head	 back	 to	 look	 up	 at	 him.	 I’d	 rather	 rest	 my

head	 against	 his	 chest	 while	 we	 sway,	 but	 I	 think	 I

lost	 that	 privilege.

“We’re	 not	 really	 speaking.	 We’re	 dancing.”

“Carson,”	 I	 admonish	 him	 with	 another	 smile.

“You	 think	 I	 give	 up	 that	 easily?	 You’re	 more

interested	 in	 me	 than	 you	 want	 to	 admit.	 You’ve

already	 decided	 to	 live	 in	 Hera,	 you	 let	 the	 girls

move	 in	 and	 you	 gave	 up	 your	 lease	 in	 the	 city.”

“How	 do	 you	 know	 about	 my	 apartment?”

He	 tilts	 his	 head	 to	 the	 side	 as	 if	 I	 asked	 a

stupid	 question.	 He	 smel s	 so	 good;	 I	 really	 don’t

care	 about	 the	 answer	 to	 my	 question.

“I	 hope	 you’re	 doing	 some	 soul-‐searching.”

“What?”

“The	 song.	 Aren’t	 you	 listening	 to	 it?	 This	 is	 our

song,”	 he	 growls.



519

I	 laugh	 so	 hard,	 I	 have	 to	 pul 	 my	 hand	 from	 his

and	 cover	 my	 mouth.	 He	 uses	 the	 opportunity	 to

pul 	 me	 into	 an	 embrace	 and	 keep	 dancing.	 His

head	 is	 resting	 on	 mine.

“Stop	 ruining	 our	 song,”	 Carson	 says.

“Carson,	 I	 think	 you’d	 be	 less	 sure	 of	 me	 if	 you

knew	 my	 parents.”

“What	 do	 they	 have	 to	 do	 with	 us?”	 His	 deep,

rich	 voice	 rumbles	 into	 my	 ear.

“They	 are	 everything	 I	 know	 about	 marriage.

They	 never	 ask	 if	 I’m	 dating	 anyone	 because	 they

don’t	 care.	 They	 taught	 me	 that	 the	 most

important	 parts	 of	 my	 life	 are	 career,	 salary	 and

ambition.”

“They	 are	 just	 trying	 to	 protect	 you.	 Al 	 good

parents	 do	 that.”

“I	 know	 how	 to	 work	 hard	 and	 I	 know	 how	 to

manage	 bank	 accounts.	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 to	 be	 a

couple.	 You	 deserve	 someone	 who	 is	 as	 caring	 as

you	 are	 with	 Dylan	 and	 your	 friends.	 You	 deserve

someone	 who	 appreciates	 family	 the	 way	 you	 do.”

He	 moves	 back	 to	 look	 at	 me.	 “Don’t	 patronize

me	 and	 most	 definitely	 do	 not	 preach	 some	 movie



520

script	 to	 me.	 I	 can	 take	 care	 of	 myself.	 Do	 you

judge	 me	 by	 my	 parents?”

“What?	 I	 didn’t	 know	 your	 parents.”	 I	 have	 a

difficult	 time	 hearing	 him	 over	 the	 music	 and	 can’t

believe	 we’re	 having	 this	 discussion	 on	 the	 dance

floor.

He	 pul s	 me	 back	 in	 and	 speaks	 into	 my	 ear.

“You	 know	 my	 mother	 died	 young	 and	 my	 father

was	 a	 suicidal	 drunk.	 They	 left	 no	 wil ,	 no	 provisions

for	 my	 brother	 and	 me.	 Do	 you	 think	 I	 would	 take

the	 same	 path	 as	 them?”

“No,”	 I	 answer.	 My	 skin	 tingles	 as	 his	 lips	 brush

against	 my	 cheek.	 “I	 think	 you	 have	 faced	 extreme

adversity	 and	 used	 it	 to	 make	 you	 stronger.”

“So,	 you	 don’t	 judge	 me	 by	 what	 my	 parents

did	 or	 did	 not	 do,	 but	 you	 believe	 I	 should	 judge

you	 by	 your	 parents.	 Who	 I	 don’t	 even	 know.	 Christ.

For	 someone	 who	 likes	 logic,	 you	 make	 the	 most

il ogical	 argument	 about	 us.”

“I	 don’t	 want	 anyone	 to	 get	 hurt,”	 I	 say	 softly

with	 my	 eyes	 focused	 on	 his	 chest	 peeking	 through

his	 open	 col ar.



521

“I	 don’t,	 either.	 Shut	 up	 and	 dance.”	 He’s	 angry

and	 disappointed	 that	 I	 would	 have	 to	 mention

sparing	 anyone	 the	 hurt	 of	 loss.	 If	 anyone	 knows

how	 to	 protect	 people,	 it’s	 Carson.

The	 deejay	 announces	 the	 last	 song	 of	 the

evening	 and	 starts	 spinning	 a	 sexy	 dance	 club	 song.

Dylan	 comes	 jumping	 onto	 the	 dance	 floor	 with

three	 young	 women	 fol owing	 him.	 Their	 arms	 and

legs	 are	 flailing	 everywhere.	 I	 decide	 this	 would	 be

a	 good	 time	 to	 exit	 the	 dance	 area	 since	 Carson

isn’t	 a	 showy	 dancer	 like	 Dylan.

“Whoa.	 Where	 do	 you	 think	 you’re	 going?”	 He

grabs	 my	 arm.	 “We’re	 stil 	 dancing,	 Babycakes.”

That	 name	 infuriates	 me	 and	 he	 loves	 it.	 I	 put

my	 hands	 back	 up	 for	 a	 traditional	 waltz	 hold,	 but

Carson	 rests	 his	 hands	 on	 my	 hips	 and	 slams	 my

body	 right	 against	 his	 as	 he	 starts	 dancing	 to	 the

fast	 pop	 tune.	 One	 of	 his	 legs	 is	 between	 mine	 as

he	 does	 some	 kind	 of	 sexy	 rumba	 move,	 swaying

and	 grinding.

“You	 have	 got	 to	 be	 kidding,”	 I	 say	 loudly.	 I

can’t	 believe	 he’s	 comfortable	 dancing	 so

provocatively.



522

“Oh,	 I’m	 not	 kidding.	 Put	 your	 hands	 on	 my

shoulders.”

While	 everyone	 else	 is	 jumping,	 hopping	 and

twirling,	 Carson	 makes	 us	 look	 like	 the	 hot	 salsa

duo.	 I	 would	 never	 do	 this	 in	 public	 with	 any	 other

man,	 but	 my	 surprise	 and	 anger	 dissipates	 as	 I

begin	 enjoying	 our	 erotic	 dance.	 His	 muscles	 are

thick	 and	 hard	 across	 his	 broad	 shoulders.	 His	 eyes

bore	 into	 me	 as	 our	 bodies	 crush	 together	 and	 the

heat	 between	 us	 soars.	 It’s	 over	 too	 soon;	 the	 song

ends	 and	 I	 push	 away	 to	 get	 some	 air.	 Carson	 is

behind	 me	 and	 puts	 his	 hands	 back	 on	 my	 waist.

“I’ve	 changed	 my	 mind,”	 he	 whispers	 into	 my

ear.	 “You’re	 staying	 here	 with	 me	 tonight.”

I	 whip	 around	 so	 fast	 my	 elbow	 slams	 into	 his

ribs.	 He	 winces.

“I’m	 leaving	 with	 the	 girls.	 Jeremy	 is	 our	 driver.”

“Nope.”

Carson	 heads	 to	 the	 door	 where	 people	 are

mil ing	 around,	 putting	 on	 coats	 and	 saying

goodbye.	 He	 says	 something	 to	 Imogene	 who	 looks

across	 the	 room	 at	 me.	 I’m	 stil 	 standing	 there,	 not



523

really	 sure	 if	 I	 should	 insist	 on	 leaving	 or	 fol ow	 my

body’s	 lead,	 which	 is	 begging	 to	 stay	 with	 Carson.

“Dear,”	 Lois	 says.	 She	 raises	 an	 eyebrow	 with	 a

hint	 of	 a	 smile,	 but	 she	 says	 nothing	 else	 before

handing	 me	 my	 evening	 bag	 and	 leaving	 with	 the

other	 guests.





524





Thirty-‐Five



I	 peer	 out	 the	 window	 into	 the	 blackness	 of

the	 val ey	 below	 and	 when	 I	 turn	 back	 to	 the	 large,

quiet	 house,	 the	 catering	 staff	 has	 already	 wrapped

leftover	 food	 and	 stored	 it	 in	 Carson’s	 big,	 empty

refrigerator	 along	 with	 swiftly	 col ecting	 all	 the

dishes	 and	 glassware.	 When	 the	 house	 is	 cleared	 of

all	 people,	 the	 lights	 dimmed	 or	 shut	 off,	 Carson

comes	 back	 in	 through	 the	 front	 door	 and	 locks	 it.

We	 look	 at	 one	 another	 from	 across	 the	 room	 and	 I

don’t	 know	 whether	 to	 be	 excited	 or	 terrified.

He	 strides	 toward	 me	 and	 takes	 my	 hand	 to

pul 	 me	 towards	 the	 stairs.

“We’re	 doing	 it	 your	 way,”	 he	 says.

“What’s	 my	 way?”

“No	 talking,	 no	 strings.”

He	 walks	 me	 briskly	 upstairs	 to	 his	 bedroom

and	 closes	 the	 door.	 Before	 I	 can	 say	 anything,	 his

mouth	 is	 on	 mine,	 hot	 and	 frantic.	 My	 whole	 body



525

responds	 immediately.	 I	 run	 my	 fingers	 through	 his

hair	 and	 then	 his	 tongue	 and	 lips	 are	 on	 my	 neck.	 A

rush	 of	 cool	 air	 envelopes	 my	 body	 as	 I	 realize

Carson	 has	 pushed	 my	 dress	 straps	 off	 my

shoulders	 and	 it	 falls	 to	 the	 floor.

“Keep	 the	 shoes	 on,”	 he	 demands,	 stil 	 kissing

me	 and	 pul ing	 my	 panties	 down	 at	 the	 same	 time.

I	 am	 ful y	 naked	 and	 standing	 in	 my	 heels	 while

he	 is	 ful y	 dressed	 and	 ravaging	 me	 with	 his	 mouth.

I	 reach	 for	 the	 bulge	 in	 his	 pants	 and	 he	 groans,

however,	 when	 I	 start	 to	 undo	 his	 zipper,	 he

pushes	 my	 hand	 away.

“No,”	 he	 says.	 “Here.”	 He	 walks	 me	 to	 the

window,	 a	 glass	 wall	 that	 overlooks	 the	 white

valley,	 and	 plants	 my	 hands	 above	 my	 head,	 flat

against	 the	 glass.	 He	 stands	 behind	 me	 and	 uses	 his

leg	 to	 spread	 mine	 wider.	 I	 feel	 extremely

vulnerable,	 yet	 excited.	 The	 sound	 of	 Carson

unzipping	 his	 pants	 sends	 a	 flame	 of	 arousal

through	 my	 body.	 I	 am	 getting	 wetter	 with

anticipation.

His	 calloused	 hands	 do	 not	 caress	 me	 gently

this	 time,	 they	 maul	 my	 breasts,	 kneading	 and



526

pinching	 my	 nipples	 as	 his	 cock	 rubs	 against	 my

butt	 cheeks.	 He	 keeps	 one	 hand	 on	 my	 breast	 and

uses	 the	 other	 to	 rub	 my	 clit.	 He	 is	 rough	 as	 he

pushes	 two	 fingers	 in	 me	 and	 rubs	 my	 folds	 with

my	 own	 fluids.

“Carson,	 now.”	 I	 am	 practically	 panting	 with

desire.

“I	 don’t	 want	 to	 use	 a	 condom	 this	 time.	 I	 want

to	 feel	 you	 without	 it.	 Is	 that	 okay?”	 he	 asks	 gruffly.

“Yes.	 It’s	 a	 safe	 time,”	 I	 blurt	 it	 out,	 wanting

him	 to	 know	 that	 I	 recently	 started	 the	 pil 	 to	 be

with	 him,	 but	 it	 sounds	 like	 a	 pretty	 lame

statement,	 so	 I	 keep	 quiet.

From	 behind	 he	 pushes	 his	 cock	 into	 me,

forcing	 me	 up	 against	 the	 window.	 I	 gasp,	 but	 then

groan	 with	 pleasure	 as	 he	 grunts	 and	 pumps

relentlessly	 into	 me.	 The	 more	 I	 moan,	 the	 faster

he	 thrusts.	 His	 hand	 is	 stil 	 circling	 my	 wet	 center

and	 I	 think	 I’m	 about	 to	 come	 when	 Carson	 pul s

out.	 He	 swings	 me	 over	 to	 the	 bed,	 no	 easy	 move

for	 me	 in	 heels.	 I’m	 on	 my	 back	 facing	 Carson	 as	 he

strips	 his	 clothes	 off.	 It’s	 a	 highly	 erotic	 sight	 and	 I



527

scramble	 backwards	 to	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 bed	 to

watch	 him.

Naked,	 Carson	 looks	 even	 taller,	 wider	 and

more	 intimidating.	 Seeing	 his	 face	 darken	 with

arousal,	 I	 gasp	 at	 the	 size	 of	 his	 cock.	 He	 puts	 one

knee	 on	 the	 bed,	 grabs	 my	 ankles	 and	 yanks	 me

back	 to	 where	 he’s	 standing	 by	 the	 side	 of	 the	 bed.

He	 shoves	 two	 pil ows	 under	 my	 lower	 back	 and

rests	 my	 left	 thigh	 over	 his	 hip	 so	 I’m	 exposed	 and

titled	 up	 to	 him.	 The	 heels	 fall	 off	 when	 he	 puts	 his

hand	 under	 my	 butt	 cheek	 and	 props	 my	 right	 thigh

up	 with	 his	 other	 hand.	 I	 watch	 every	 muscle	 and

ripple	 in	 his	 torso	 as	 he	 bends	 over	 and	 kisses	 my

bel y.	 He	 works	 his	 way	 down	 between	 my	 legs	 and

pushes	 his	 tongue	 into	 me.

“Oh	 God,”	 I	 whisper.

His	 tongue	 circles,	 licks	 and	 sucks	 until	 I	 can’t

stop	 moaning.

“That	 feels	 so	 good,	 don’t	 stop…	 don’t	 stop.”

He	 stops	 and	 chuckles	 cruel y,	 obviously

wanting	 to	 punish	 me.	 He	 stands	 up	 again	 and

leans	 in	 with	 his	 cock	 circling	 me	 until	 he	 is	 dripping

in	 my	 wetness.	 “Shit,”	 he	 whispers	 and	 shudders.



528

He	 can’t	 wait	 any	 longer	 either,	 and	 plunges	 into

me	 ful 	 hilt.

I	 gasp	 and	 a	 low	 groan	 escapes	 Carson’s	 steely

demeanor.	 He	 doesn’t	 take	 his	 eyes	 off	 mine.	 I

have	 the	 urge	 to	 close	 my	 eyes	 and	 let	 my	 head	 fall

back,	 but	 I	 use	 all	 my	 resolve	 to	 keep	 my	 gaze

locked	 on	 him.	 He	 slams	 into	 me	 with

uncontrol able	 desperation.	 I	 arch	 up	 and	 run	 my

hands	 down	 my	 sides	 and	 back	 up	 across	 my

breasts	 and	 peaked	 nipples.

“Keep	 doing	 that,”	 he	 says	 hoarsely,	 staring	 at

my	 hands	 fondling	 my	 own	 breasts.

I	 slowly	 run	 my	 palms	 lightly	 over	 my	 nipples

and	 watch	 Carson’s	 intense	 gaze	 as	 though	 we’re

dueling	 for	 who	 can	 have	 the	 most	 pleasure

without	 showing	 any	 affection.	 I	 want	 to	 stroke	 his

face	 and	 remove	 the	 lock	 of	 his	 hair	 that	 has	 fallen

forward,	 but	 he	 keeps	 enough	 distance	 between	 us

so	 my	 hands	 can’t	 reach	 him.	 His	 frantic	 thrusts

slow	 down	 and	 he	 grinds	 in	 a	 ful 	 circle.	 It’s	 an

assault	 on	 my	 sensitive	 spot	 and	 I	 smile	 as	 a

spiraling	 orgasm	 begins	 to	 build	 in	 me.



529

“Fuck,	 fuck,	 fuck,”	 Carson	 groans	 as	 his	 own

pleasure	 becomes	 too	 powerful.	 He	 pul s	 out	 of	 me

and	 flips	 me	 over.	 “On	 your	 knees,”	 he	 rasps.

Feeling	 bereft	 without	 him	 in	 me,	 I	 scramble	 to

get	 in	 position,	 on	 my	 knees	 and	 elbows.	 He	 enters

me	 from	 behind	 again	 and	 lunges	 forward	 covering

my	 body.	 I’ve	 temporarily	 lost	 the	 climax	 that	 was

building	 in	 me	 and	 I	 think	 that	 was	 intentional	 on

Carson’s	 part.	 Somehow,	 in	 his	 way,	 this	 angry	 sex

is	 his	 way	 of	 getting	 back	 at	 me	 for	 being	 distant

and	 noncommittal.	 He’s	 putting	 on	 a	 good	 show,

but	 I’m	 not	 fooled.

His	 emotions	 are	 running	 him	 ragged	 on	 the

inside.	 If	 he	 only	 wanted	 to	 fuck	 me	 senseless	 and

get	 pleasure	 out	 of	 it	 for	 himself,	 we’d	 already	 be

done.	 This	 is	 going	 on	 and	 on	 because	 he	 can’t

touch	 me	 without	 an	 emotional	 investment.	 I

consider	 this	 and	 how	 much	 I	 like	 having	 him	 care

about	 me.	 He	 thinks	 this	 rougher	 version	 of	 sex	 wil

frighten	 me	 or	 turn	 me	 off,	 but	 truthful y,	 in

Carson’s	 mind,	 he	 is	 making	 love	 to	 me,	 not

screwing	 me.	 He’s	 a	 terrible	 actor	 if	 he	 thinks	 I’m

falling	 for	 his	 tough	 guy	 act.



530

His	 fingers	 rub	 my	 wet	 folds	 as	 he	 pummels

into	 me	 with	 quick	 grunts.	 Having	 this	 animalistic

effect	 on	 him	 arouses	 me	 more.	 I	 clench	 my	 inner

muscles,	 making	 him	 groan	 louder.

“God,	 Jessica,”	 he	 hisses.	 We	 both	 come.

Our	 undulation	 continues	 as	 his	 climax

subsides.	 Another	 wave	 rol s	 through	 me	 and	 I	 yelp

as	 a	 lingering	 flame	 triggers	 my	 nerves	 endings

again.	 Carson	 holds	 onto	 me	 tightly	 before	 pul ing

me	 down	 with	 him	 stil 	 inside	 of	 me	 as	 he	 lies	 down

on	 his	 side.	 My	 back	 is	 to	 his	 chest	 and	 he	 is

breathing	 heavily	 against	 my	 neck.	 He	 keeps	 his

arms	 wrapped	 around	 me.	 With	 a	 slight	 movement,

he	 pul s	 out	 of	 me.	 I	 can	 feel	 when	 his	 tense	 body

relaxes	 completely	 and	 his	 weight	 sinks	 further

against	 me.

“Seventy	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 myself.

Carson	 laughs	 softly	 into	 my	 hair.

We	 stay	 like	 that	 until	 we	 fall	 asleep.





531





Thirty-‐Six



The	 sun	 is	 pouring	 through	 the	 bedroom	 when

I	 wake.	 I	 am	 wrapped	 under	 Carson’s	 thick	 arm,

nestled	 against	 his	 naked	 body.	 Sometime	 in	 the

night	 he	 must	 have	 put	 a	 pil ow	 under	 my	 head	 and

covered	 me	 with	 a	 blanket.	 I	 turn	 in	 his	 arms	 to

look	 at	 him,	 hoping	 I	 don’t	 disturb	 his	 sleep.

He	 is	 a	 gorgeous	 specimen	 of	 male	 virility.	 His

thick,	 glossy,	 chestnut	 hair	 swept	 back	 from	 his

face,	 his	 muscular	 torso	 that	 narrows	 down	 into	 a

trim	 waist	 with	 abs	 that	 I	 trace	 with	 my	 finger.	 One

of	 his	 giant,	 corded	 legs	 swings	 and	 pins	 me	 in

place.	 His	 steel	 blue	 eyes	 open	 lazily,	 taking	 me	 in

with	 a	 mischievous	 twinkle	 and	 a	 curve	 to	 his

mouth.	 I	 feel	 his	 cock	 get	 hard	 between	 us.	 As	 it

presses	 against	 my	 stomach,	 I	 know	 that,	 if	 I	 don’t

get	 out	 of	 here	 now,	 I’m	 going	 to	 be	 too	 turned	 on

to	 leave.



532

“Huh,	 you	 didn’t	 get	 away.”	 His	 deep	 voice	 is

sultry	 and	 relaxed.

“I	 shouldn’t	 have	 slept	 here.	 I	 have	 to—”

“Get	 going,”	 he	 cuts	 me	 off.	 “Yeah,	 that’s	 the

same	 line	 you	 always	 use.	 Not	 going	 to	 work	 this

time.”

“Carson,	 it’s	 late,	 we	 overslept.”	 I	 peer	 over	 his

shoulder	 at	 the	 nightstand	 clock.	 “It’s	 ten.	 I	 thought

you	 like	 to	 work	 on	 Sunday	 mornings	 and	 I	 have

plenty	 of	 work	 I	 need	 to	 get	 back	 to.”

“Not	 today.”	 He	 runs	 his	 finger	 along	 my

cheekbones	 and	 jaw;	 the	 same	 thing	 I	 was	 aching

to	 do	 to	 him	 before	 he	 woke	 up.

I	 wriggle	 my	 arms	 free	 and	 place	 my	 hands	 on

his	 rock	 hard	 chest.	 “Can	 I	 take	 a	 quick	 shower	 and

borrow	 some	 sweats	 from	 you	 so	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 do

the	 walk	 of	 shame	 home	 in	 my	 dress?”	 I	 ask,

remembering	 that	 Lauren	 left	 my	 sneakers	 from

her	 emergency	 bag	 by	 the	 door.

Carson	 stares	 dreamily	 at	 me	 with	 a	 smirk.

“We’l 	 take	 a	 long	 shower	 and	 then	 think	 about

food.	 I’m	 starving.”



533

I’m	 pretty	 sure	 he’s	 starving	 for	 sex	 the	 way

he’s	 devouring	 me	 with	 his	 smoldering	 eyes	 and	 my

body	 is	 gleefully	 rejoicing	 as	 it	 responds	 with	 a

growing	 heat	 and	 need	 to	 have	 him	 inside	 of	 me

again.	 I	 barely	 recognize	 myself	 when	 I’m	 with	 him.

“Bad	 idea,”	 I	 say	 as	 my	 nipples	 bud	 and	 a	 surge

of	 wetness	 ripples	 between	 my	 legs.

His	 fingers	 begin	 playing	 with	 my	 hair,	 stroking

my	 head.	 “You’re	 not	 going	 anywhere,	 Jess.	 I’m

hard	 and	 your	 hands	 are	 all	 over	 me.	 You	 can’t

touch	 me	 like	 that	 and	 think	 you’re	 walking	 away.”

I	 can’t	 say	 anything	 when	 my	 hands	 are

betraying	 me.	 Carson	 rol s	 me	 onto	 my	 back	 with

him	 on	 top	 of	 me.	 My	 breath	 catches	 with

unabated	 desire	 as	 his	 weight	 presses	 me	 into	 the

bed.	 My	 hands	 immediately	 begin	 roaming	 his	 back

as	 I	 reach	 down	 to	 caress	 his	 firm	 ass.

His	 mouth	 covers	 mine	 and	 his	 tongue	 is

fervent	 at	 first	 before	 slowing	 down	 to	 a	 leisurely

pace	 of	 swirling	 and	 probing	 my	 mouth	 and	 lips.	 I

kiss	 him	 back	 with	 the	 same	 fervor	 and	 feel	 him

reposition	 himself	 with	 his	 forearms,	 taking	 most	 of

his	 weight	 so	 I	 can	 breathe.	 The	 kiss	 ends	 with	 a



534

sweet	 sigh	 and	 the	 stormy	 Carson	 from	 last	 night	 is

gone.	 He	 looks	 at	 me	 with	 a	 boyish	 grin	 that	 makes

my	 heart	 swel .

“You’re	 so	 beautiful,”	 he	 says,	 looking	 down	 at

me	 with	 a	 tenderness	 that	 he	 keeps	 hidden	 from

everyone	 else.	 “I	 love	 this	 wild	 red	 hair	 and	 your

big	 brown	 eyes	 floor	 me	 every	 time	 you	 look	 at	 me.”

“Hmm,”	 I	 mumble	 as	 I	 run	 my	 hands	 through

his	 hair.	 “You’re	 pretty	 gorgeous	 yourself	 but

pinning	 me	 with	 your	 naked	 body	 is	 hardly	 a	 fair

move.	 This	 wil 	 only	 lead	 to	 trouble.	 That’s	 why	 I

should	 leave	 now.”

“I	 told	 you,	 you’re	 not	 going	 anywhere.	 I’m

hard	 and	 you	 can’t	 keep	 your	 hands	 off	 me,	 so	 this

is	 happening,”	 he	 says	 before	 he	 kisses	 my	 neck.	 He

runs	 his	 tongue	 along	 my	 col arbone	 and	 I	 let	 a

moan	 coax	 him	 on.

“I	 don’t	 know	 why	 you	 bother	 to	 put	 up	 with

me,”	 I	 whisper	 and	 then	 regret	 saying	 it	 aloud.

Carson	 runs	 his	 lips	 gently	 over	 mine.	 “Because

I’m	 in	 love	 with	 you	 and	 I	 want	 you.	 Even	 when

you’re	 being	 obnoxiously	 neurotic,	 I	 can’t	 stop

thinking	 about	 you	 or	 wanting	 you.”



535

Carson	 expertly	 rubs	 his	 fingers	 over	 my

hungry	 parts	 and	 circles	 around	 the	 sweet	 spot

until	 I’m	 soaking	 and	 writhing	 in	 his	 arms,	 greedily

raking	 my	 fingers	 over	 any	 unexposed	 part	 of	 him.

He	 has	 two	 fingers	 inside	 of	 me,	 probing	 in	 and	 out,

rubbing	 my	 center,	 and	 I’m	 squirming	 with	 so	 much

agonizing	 pleasure	 that	 the	 blanket	 falls	 down	 to

the	 small	 curve	 in	 Caron’s	 lower	 back.

I	 stroke	 his	 cock	 and	 I	 like	 to	 think	 it	 becomes

longer	 and	 thicker	 in	 my	 grasp.	 He	 watches	 as	 I	 rub

his	 tip	 against	 my	 wet	 cleft	 and	 his	 head	 swings	 up,

throwing	 his	 dark	 hair	 back	 so	 he	 can	 look	 at	 me.

He	 props	 himself	 higher	 up	 with	 his	 hands	 and	 as

soon	 as	 I	 give	 him	 an	 inch	 of	 myself,	 he	 thrusts	 and

grunts	 like	 an	 unleashed	 wild	 beast.	 I	 pul 	 my	 knees

up	 to	 his	 waist	 and	 take	 him	 in	 ful y.

In	 a	 rapid-‐fire	 succession,	 I	 am	 assaulted	 with

the	 joy,	 desire	 and	 ecstasy	 of	 having	 Carson	 inside

of	 me.	 It	 is	 more	 than	 a	 primal	 need	 and	 lust	 for

him.	 I	 want	 him	 to	 need	 me,	 to	 see	 through	 every

part	 of	 my	 body	 and	 mind.

He	 sucks	 hard	 on	 my	 breasts	 until	 they	 ache

and	 I	 let	 out	 a	 cry	 as	 he	 swivels	 his	 hips	 in	 a	 sexy



536

motion	 that	 keeps	 striking	 the	 right	 spot.	 I	 moan

and	 push	 my	 body	 against	 him,	 wanting	 more.

“I	 want	 you	 to	 come,”	 Carson	 says	 between

ragged	 breaths,	 “because	 I’m	 about	 to	 lose	 it.

That’s	 what	 you	 do	 to	 me.”

I	 pul 	 his	 head	 down	 to	 me	 so	 I	 can	 kiss	 him.

“Oh	 man,	 Jess,”	 he	 says	 gruffly	 between	 our	 lips.

I’m	 about	 to	 climax	 when	 I	 see	 a	 bright	 flash	 to

my	 side.	 My	 head	 turns	 in	 that	 instant	 and	 I	 see	 a

young	 blond	 woman	 with	 a	 laundry	 basket	 entering

the	 room,	 singing	 to	 herself.	 She	 is	 lost	 in	 her	 song

before	 seeing	 us.	 Then	 she	 screams,	 covers	 her

mouth	 and	 backs	 out	 of	 the	 room,	 closing	 the	 door

behind	 her.

“Shit!”	 Carson	 says	 as	 his	 cock	 pops	 out	 of	 me

accidentally	 from	 the	 surprise	 intrusion.

“Who	 was	 that?”	 I	 slam	 my	 palms	 against	 his

chest.

“Shh,”	 he	 says,	 trying	 to	 calm	 me.	 “It’s	 okay.

That	 was	 Talia.	 I	 forgot	 she	 comes	 on	 Sunday

mornings	 when	 I’m	 usually	 at	 the	 shop.



537

With	 our	 orgasms	 on	 hold,	 our	 bodies	 are

thrumming	 with	 sensory	 overload.	 “I’m	 so

embarrassed.	 Get	 off	 me.	 I	 have	 to	 get	 dressed.”

“No,	 you	 don’t.”	 Carson	 holds	 my	 face

stil .	 ”Stay	 here.”

His	 cock	 is	 heavy	 as	 it	 bobs	 between	 us,	 Carson

is	 flushed	 and	 barely	 holding	 it	 together.

“Carson,	 she	 saw	 us.	 I	 have	 to	 get	 out	 of	 here.”

I	 slap	 his	 chest	 again,	 but	 it’s	 like	 slapping	 a	 boulder

that	 won’t	 budge.

“Big	 deal.	 We’re	 in	 my	 bed,	 so	 it’s	 not	 like

getting	 caught	 naked	 in	 a	 car.	 We’re	 going	 to	 finish

what	 we	 started.”	 His	 voice	 is	 low	 with	 need.

“Let	 me	 go	 take	 a	 shower.”	 I	 ’m	 thinking	 about

a	 quick	 rinse	 and	 then	 getting	 away.

“You	 want	 a	 shower?”	 he	 asks,	 gaining	 some

composure	 despite	 his	 throbbing	 erection.	 “Good

idea.”

He	 picks	 me	 up	 off	 the	 bed	 quickly	 and	 carries

me	 to	 the	 bathroom,	 to	 his	 large	 shower	 stall.

“I	 meant	 me,”	 I	 say	 as	 he	 puts	 me	 against	 the

cold	 tile	 wall	 and	 turns	 on	 the	 three	 showerheads

that	 are	 positioned	 on	 two	 walls.



538

He	 closes	 the	 glass	 door	 and	 lifts	 me	 up,

propping	 me	 against	 a	 corner	 of	 the	 shower.	 He

lifts	 one	 of	 my	 legs,	 positioning	 himself	 between

them	 and	 then	 begins	 rubbing	 my	 wet	 clit	 again.

“Carson,”	 I	 begin	 to	 protest,	 however,	 his

fingers	 are	 in	 me	 again.	 “Oh	 God.”

He	 smiles	 and	 kisses	 me.	 I	 feel	 dwarfed	 by	 his

height	 and	 powerful,	 naked	 body.	 “Let	 yourself	 go,”

he	 says,	 putting	 the	 tip	 of	 his	 cock	 in	 me.	 He	 hoists

me	 up	 by	 bracing	 both	 of	 his	 arms	 under	 my	 knees

and	 then	 he	 rams	 into	 me	 with	 a	 shudder.	 “Ah,	 fuck

yeah.”

I	 throw	 my	 arms	 around	 his	 neck	 as	 he	 grinds

and	 thrust	 into	 me	 slowly	 while	 I	 salivate	 over	 his

splendid	 form.	 My	 head	 falls	 back	 against	 the	 tile

wall	 with	 the	 water	 spraying	 down	 on	 us.	 Carson

has	 a	 heated	 expression	 of	 rapture	 as	 he	 studies

my	 face	 and	 begins	 to	 thrust	 faster.	 Triumphant

moans	 escape	 from	 him.	 The	 marvelous	 sensation

of	 an	 impending	 explosion	 fil s	 me	 and	 I	 groan	 as

the	 orgasm	 shatters	 me	 into	 a	 mil ion	 tiny	 pieces	 of

extreme	 pleasure,	 sending	 my	 body	 into	 vibrating

after-‐shocks.



539

“Carson.”	 I	 smile	 as	 he	 continues	 to	 drive

himself	 into	 me	 until	 his	 own	 release	 comes.

“Ah!”	 Carson	 groans	 with	 his	 slowing	 thrusts,

pumping	 the	 last	 of	 his	 liquid	 into	 me.

He	 keeps	 swiveling	 and	 grinding	 his	 hips	 into

me	 until	 he’s	 empty.	 He	 frees	 my	 legs,	 but	 keeps

me	 pinned	 against	 the	 wall,	 holding	 my	 face	 for	 a

searing	 kiss	 that	 means	 more	 to	 me	 in	 the

afterglow	 of	 our	 love-‐making.

I	 am	 completely	 sedated	 and	 less	 concerned

about	 Talia	 seeing	 us.	 Carson	 pul s	 me	 under	 one	 of

the	 showerheads	 and	 scrubs	 my	 head	 with

shampoo	 before	 massaging	 my	 body	 with	 bath	 gel.

I	 moan	 as	 his	 slippery	 hands	 slide	 up	 and	 down	 my

arms.

“This	 feels	 too	 good,”	 I	 say.

Carson	 gives	 a	 deep	 chuckle.	 The	 smile	 on	 his

face	 is	 nothing	 short	 of	 bemused	 gloating.

“Spend	 the	 day	 with	 me.”	 He	 wraps	 me	 in	 his

arms	 with	 my	 back	 against	 his	 chest.

I	 groan,	 not	 wanting	 to	 battle	 with	 him	 again,

especially	 when	 I’m	 naked.	 His	 soapy	 hands	 fondle

my	 breasts,	 making	 them	 perk	 and	 fil 	 with	 an	 ache.



540

Then	 before	 I	 can	 build	 up	 any	 defense	 against	 him,

his	 hand	 is	 slipping	 between	 my	 legs,	 rubbing	 me

where	 I’m	 stil 	 vibrating	 from	 the	 first	 orgasm.	 My

sex	 is	 wet	 and	 open	 and	 I	 feel	 my	 senses	 hum	 on	 a

wave	 of	 arousal	 when	 I	 think	 of	 Carson	 driving	 his

lust,	 need	 and	 want	 into	 me.

“One	 more	 time.	 We	 both	 want	 it.	 And	 then

you	 stay	 here	 with	 me	 today,”	 he	 says	 gruffly	 into

my	 ear.

“You	 don’t	 play	 fair,”	 I	 say	 breathlessly	 as	 his

fingers	 push	 inside	 me.	 I	 love	 that	 his	 large	 body

can	 encompass	 me,	 trap	 me	 and	 titil ate	 me	 so

easily.

“I	 can’t	 play	 fair.	 I	 have	 a	 lot	 of	 competition.”

His	 tone	 is	 guttural	 and	 I	 sense	 him	 turning	 into	 a

feral	 creature	 of	 need,	 his	 cock	 getting	 hard	 against

my	 back.

“There’s	 no	 competition.	 How	 can	 you	 be

ready	 for	 this	 so	 soon?”

“Look	 who’s	 talking?	 You’re	 so	 wet.	 I	 bet	 I

could	 make	 you	 come	 with	 two	 more	 strokes.”	 He

talks	 low	 as	 though	 he	 can’t	 control	 himself	 much

longer.



541

I	 raise	 my	 arms,	 put	 my	 hands	 against	 the	 glass

wall	 and	 arch	 my	 back,	 sticking	 my	 rear	 end	 out.

“Now.	 I	 want	 you.”

Carson	 rubs	 his	 ful 	 cock	 against	 me	 before

inserting	 the	 head.	 “Are	 you	 ready	 for	 me	 again?	 I

don’t	 want	 to	 hurt	 you,”	 he	 says,	 spreading	 my	 legs.

His	 slippery	 fingers	 rub	 me	 from	 the	 front	 and

caress	 me	 from	 the	 back	 as	 I	 pant	 with	 wanting	 him,

arching	 my	 back	 more.

“Now,”	 I	 moan.

“This	 wil 	 help,”	 he	 says	 and	 it	 sounds	 like	 he’s

using	 more	 gooey	 liquid	 soap.

“Now,	 Carson,”	 I	 beg	 as	 I	 face	 the	 shower	 glass.

He	 pushes	 upward	 into	 me	 with	 his	 hands	 on

my	 waist	 like	 a	 vise,	 which	 is	 good	 because	 I	 can

barely	 hold	 myself	 up.

“How’s	 that?”	 he	 asks	 and	 I	 can	 picture	 his

smug	 expression.

“Faster,	 harder,”	 I	 plead.

On	 my	 command	 I	 can	 feel	 his	 excitement

surge	 through	 him,	 an	 energy	 that	 also	 courses

through	 me	 as	 long	 as	 we	 are	 touching.	 He	 holds

me	 in	 place	 with	 one	 strong	 arm	 while	 his	 hand



542

rubs	 my	 clit	 until	 I’m	 about	 to	 scream.	 The

lubrication	 allows	 him	 to	 go	 deeper	 and	 faster,	 and

I	 cry	 out	 with	 each	 thrust.	 My	 climax	 comes	 hard

and	 spil s	 into	 converging	 spasms	 that	 shake	 me

into	 oblivion	 and	 leave	 me	 gasping.

“Yes,”	 I	 moan.

“Fuck,	 that	 feels	 good,”	 Carson	 mutters	 as	 his

cock	 spurts	 into	 me.	 His	 arms	 wrap	 around	 my

waist	 and	 he	 holds	 me	 firmly	 as	 he	 mounts	 me,

slamming	 his	 length	 as	 deep	 as	 it	 can	 go	 until	 it	 is

empty.

We	 are	 in	 a	 slow,	 hazy	 mind	 fuck	 after	 that.	 I

have	 never	 spent	 this	 much	 time	 with	 any	 man	 in

any	 of	 my	 sexual	 experiences.	 That’s	 not	 saying

much	 since	 I’ve	 only	 had	 actual	 intercourse	 with

two	 men,	 two	 brothers.	 I	 cringe.	 One	 I	 liked,	 but

one	 I	 am	 now	 falling	 hard	 for.	 I	 think	 about	 this	 as	 I

regain	 my	 composure.

Carson	 cleans	 my	 body	 gently	 again	 with	 a

washcloth,	 kissing	 each	 part	 as	 he	 does.	 Dylan

could	 do	 this	 with	 anyone	 I	 think.	 He	 is	 affectionate,

loving	 and	 able	 to	 throw	 himself	 into	 a	 moment

with	 anyone.	 I	 suppose	 that’s	 how	 he	 got	 a



543

reputation	 as	 a	 ladies’	 man.	 Yet	 Carson	 is	 closed	 off

to	 women	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 intimacy	 and	 I	 know

how	 significant	 it	 is	 for	 him	 to	 have	 me	 in	 his

personal	 space.	 Plus,	 all	 this	 time	 our	 bodies	 were

touching,	 I	 only	 thought	 of	 Carson.	 Not	 once	 did	 I

think	 of	 Dylan	 or	 any	 of	 the	 guys	 I’ve	 ever	 thought	 I

liked.

Carson	 hangs	 up	 the	 washcloth	 and	 then	 pul s

me	 in	 for	 a	 long,	 deep	 kiss.	 His	 hands	 cup	 my	 face

and	 I	 gush	 inside,	 knowing	 that	 he	 loves	 me.	 At

least	 for	 this	 moment,	 I	 have	 this	 beautiful	 man

and	 his	 desire	 to	 please	 me.	 I	 stil 	 grapple	 with

believing	 this	 could	 be	 permanent,	 however,	 it’s

this	 moment	 that	 I	 want	 to	 savor,	 so	 I	 return	 his

kiss	 with	 the	 same	 loving	 attention.

“If	 you	 keep	 looking	 at	 me	 like	 that,	 I’m	 going

to	 make	 love	 to	 you	 all	 day,”	 he	 says,	 biting	 my	 ear

lobe.

“Hmm,	 you	 have	 to	 be	 out	 of	 steam.”

Carson	 looks	 down	 and	 smirks	 and	 I	 fol ow	 his

gaze.	 His	 cock	 is	 semi-‐erect	 and	 bobbing	 between

his	 legs.

“Good	 Lord.	 What	 are	 you	 made	 of?”



544

“Want	 to	 find	 out?”	 He	 laughs	 before	 kissing

me	 again.

I	 have	 to	 push	 my	 way	 out	 of	 the	 shower.

“You’re	 going	 to	 leave	 me	 like	 this?”	 he	 asks	 as

I	 snatch	 two	 towels.

“You’re	 insatiable,”	 I	 accuse	 as	 I	 wrap	 a	 towel

around	 my	 body	 and	 put	 my	 hair	 in	 a	 turban.

“Only	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 you.”	 He	 laughs	 again

and	 begins	 washing	 his	 hair.

As	 he	 showers,	 I	 find	 his	 hair	 dryer	 and	 work

on	 my	 knotted	 mass	 with	 sneak	 peeks	 at	 his

magnificent	 physique.

“I	 see	 you	 looking,”	 he	 says	 as	 he	 shampoos	 his

hair	 with	 his	 eyes	 closed.

I	 scoff	 and	 leave	 the	 bathroom.

“I’m	 going	 to	 have	 my	 way	 with	 you	 again	 in

the	 bed,”	 he	 shouts	 after	 me	 and	 I	 hope	 Talia	 can’t

hear	 us.

I	 rifle	 through	 his	 drawers	 to	 find	 some	 sweat

pants	 and	 a	 T-‐shirt.	 I	 have	 to	 rol 	 the	 pants	 and	 tie

the	 drawstring	 waist	 band	 as	 tight	 as	 possible.	 Then

I	 col ect	 my	 rumpled	 black	 dress	 before	 heading

downstairs.



545

The	 scent	 of	 good	 coffee	 hits	 me	 as	 I	 descend

the	 staircase.	 I	 head	 into	 the	 kitchen	 where	 Talia	 is

adjusting	 a	 mop	 head.	 She	 is	 not	 much	 older	 than

me;	 petite,	 blond	 and	 very	 pretty.	 Carson	 never

mentioned	 that.

With	 Carson	 naked	 on	 top	 of	 me	 and	 a	 skimpy

blanket	 covering	 his	 ass,	 I	 wonder	 how	 much	 she

actually	 saw.	 At	 least	 I	 feel	 less	 exposed	 now.	 My

face	 and	 body	 scrubbed	 clean	 and	 I’m	 swimming	 in

Carson’s	 giant-‐sized	 sweats.	 Without	 make-‐up	 I

look	 like	 I’m	 seventeen	 tops	 and	 that	 makes	 me

self-‐conscious.

“Hel o,”	 Talia	 says	 with	 a	 heavy	 Polish	 accent

and	 a	 big	 smile.	 “I’m	 so	 sorry.	 I	 didn’t	 mean	 to

disturb.”

“It’s	 okay.”

“Carson	 is	 always	 out	 the	 door	 before	 seven	 so

I	 didn’t	 know	 he	 was	 here	 and	 the	 truck	 is	 not

parked	 in	 front	 of	 the	 house.	 Really,	 I	 thought	 he

was	 at	 work,”	 she	 goes	 on	 to	 plead	 her	 apologies.

“Really,	 it’s	 fine.”	 I	 flit	 my	 hand	 in	 the	 air	 like

getting	 caught	 in	 a	 sex	 act	 is	 something	 that

happens	 all	 the	 time	 to	 me.	 “Did	 you	 make	 coffee?”



546

“Yes,	 for	 you	 and	 Carson,”	 she	 answers.	 My

discomfort	 is	 somewhat	 mitigated	 by	 her	 sincerity

and	 sweet	 demeanor.

I	 help	 myself	 to	 a	 mug	 of	 coffee	 and	 relish	 the

hit	 of	 caffeine.

“Are	 you	 hungry?’	 she	 asks.	 She	 takes	 a	 pan	 of

burritos	 out	 of	 the	 oven.

“Did	 you	 make	 that?”

“Yes.	 I	 cook	 for	 Carson.	 I	 cook	 for	 you,	 too.	 It’s

shrimp	 and	 asparagus	 from	 the	 party	 and	 I

scramble	 it	 with	 egg	 and	 cheese	 to	 make	 a

breakfast	 burrito.	 You	 like?”

“I	 love.”

Talia	 puts	 a	 burrito	 on	 a	 plate,	 gathers	 a	 napkin

and	 utensils	 and	 then	 places	 it	 in	 front	 of	 me	 where

I	 sit	 at	 the	 kitchen	 island.	 I	 pick	 the	 burrito	 up	 with

my	 hands	 and	 start	 eating,	 realizing	 once	 again

how	 hungry	 I	 am.

“I’m	 so	 glad	 you’re	 with	 Carson,”	 she	 says,

putting	 another	 burrito	 on	 my	 plate	 and	 making	 a

plate	 for	 Carson.	 “He	 likes	 you	 a	 lot.	 You	 were

dancing	 last	 night.”



547

I	 vaguely	 remember	 noticing	 a	 pretty	 blond	 on

the	 dance	 floor	 with	 Dylan.	 It	 was	 Talia.	 She	 must

have	 witnessed	 our	 sil y	 scene	 while	 Carson	 and	 I

were	 dancing.

“He	 talks	 about	 me?”

“No,”	 she	 says,	 but	 she’s	 nodding	 and	 smiling.

“I	 mean,	 yes,	 in	 a	 way.	 When	 he’s	 here,	 sometimes

he	 mentions	 you,	 but	 it’s	 how	 he	 says	 your	 name.

He	 put	 up	 your	 paintings,	 did	 you	 see?”

I	 nod,	 my	 mouth	 ful 	 of	 her	 excel ent	 food.	 I

imagine	 Carson	 talking	 about	 me	 with	 Talia	 in	 a

subtle	 way,	 although	 it’s	 enough	 that	 she	 picks	 up

the	 signals.	 She’s	 a	 very	 attractive	 woman	 after	 all

and	 looks	 like	 someone	 who	 has	 to	 fend	 off	 a	 lot	 of

men.

“You	 blush.	 You	 like	 him,	 too.	 More	 than	 like,

yes?”	 she	 asks.

We	 both	 turn	 and	 notice	 that	 Carson	 is

standing	 at	 the	 far	 side	 of	 the	 kitchen,	 leaning

against	 the	 passageway	 to	 the	 formal	 dining	 area.

He’s	 wearing	 relaxed	 jeans	 and	 a	 black	 T-‐shirt.	 His

hair	 is	 wet	 and	 slicked	 back.	 He	 crosses	 his	 feet	 and



548

arms	 in	 a	 very	 obvious	 way	 as	 he	 waits	 for	 my

answer.

I	 turn	 back	 to	 Talia	 and	 feel	 my	 face	 redden

even	 more.

“Oops,”	 she	 says,	 smiling	 at	 me	 and	 then	 at

Carson.	 “Too	 personal.	 I’m	 going	 to	 go	 clean.”	 She

slinks	 out	 of	 the	 room	 with	 her	 mop	 and	 bucket.

Carson	 approaches	 and	 sits	 down	 to	 eat	 his

meal.	 He	 is	 quiet	 and	 I	 know,	 behind	 that	 steely

façade,	 he	 is	 seething.	 He	 has	 professed	 his	 love	 for

me	 more	 than	 once	 over	 the	 last	 few	 weeks,

especially	 over	 the	 last	 ten	 hours.

I	 scrutinize	 my	 unfinished	 meal	 with	 an

artificial	 interest	 and	 wish	 there	 was	 some	 way	 I

could	 click	 my	 heels	 and	 beam	 myself	 home.	 I’m

going	 to	 have	 to	 ask	 Carson	 for	 a	 ride	 since	 the

snow	 is	 too	 deep	 and	 treacherous	 for	 walking.

“More	 than	 like?”	 Carson	 repeats	 Talia’s

question	 to	 me.	 “Jess?”

Our	 eyes	 meet	 and	 I	 immediately	 register	 the

hurt	 behind	 his	 tone.

“You	 don’t	 want	 to	 give	 the	 real	 answer,”	 he

says.	 “Whatever.	 I’m	 starved.”	 He	 picks	 up	 his	 food



549

with	 his	 bare	 hands	 and	 eats	 it	 like	 a	 bear

discovering	 a	 ful y	 stocked	 campground.

I	 want	 to	 tel 	 him	 that	 I’m	 crazy	 about	 him	 and

I	 want	 to	 reach	 out	 to	 tuck	 a	 lock	 of	 his	 glossy	 hair

behind	 his	 ear,	 something	 to	 bring	 back	 the

intimacy	 of	 the	 last	 few	 hours	 we	 spent	 together.	 I

don’t	 do	 or	 say	 anything.

“Fucking	 is	 exhausting,”	 he	 says	 between	 bites.

I	 deserve	 that	 one.

Carson	 finishes	 his	 meal	 while	 I	 sip	 my	 coffee.

His	 silence	 is	 punishing.	 If	 we	 can	 do	 this	 to	 each

other,	 the	 sooner	 I	 leave,	 the	 better.

“Get	 your	 things.	 I’l 	 drop	 you	 at	 your	 house.”

His	 tone	 is	 cold.	 It	 makes	 me	 feel	 sick	 to	 disappoint

him.



Carson	 pul s	 his	 truck	 up	 to	 my	 house	 and

keeps	 the	 engine	 running.

“Sorry,”	 I	 say,	 looking	 at	 him	 for	 the	 first	 time

since	 we	 left	 his	 house.

“Don’t.”	 He	 puts	 a	 hand	 up	 so	 I’l 	 shut	 up.	 “I

don’t	 want	 to	 hear	 it.”



550

“Fine.	 Tel 	 me	 how	 a	 guy	 like	 you	 can	 surround

yourself	 with	 so	 many	 beautiful	 women	 and	 yet

you	 want	 me	 to	 believe	 that	 I’m	 so	 spectacular?”

Carson	 takes	 in	 a	 slow	 breath	 and	 clenches	 his

jaw.	 “I	 really	 don’t	 understand	 how	 your	 great

mathematical	 mind	 works,	 Babycakes.”

“Don’t	 call	 me	 that.	 I	 told	 you	 I	 hate	 it.	 It’s

patronizing.”

My	 rage	 over	 his	 sil y	 pet	 name	 for	 me	 startles

him.	 “I’l 	 never	 say	 it	 again,”	 he	 says	 curtly.

“You	 said	 you	 haven’t	 slept	 with	 any	 women	 in

a	 while,	 but	 there	 are	 plenty	 of	 condoms	 in	 your

truck	 and	 your	 house.	 You’re	 getting	 action

somewhere.	 Talia	 is	 very	 pretty—”

“What?”	 he	 shouts.	 “I	 have	 never	 touched	 her.”

“What	 about	 the	 women	 you	 just	 hired	 at

work?	 Hel ,	 what	 about	 Lauren	 or	 Imogene	 and	 the

mystery	 woman	 at	 the	 Mohonk	 resort?”

“I’m	 confused,”	 he	 says	 angrily.	 “Do	 you

actually	 think	 I	 slept	 with	 all	 of	 these	 women	 or	 are

you	 just	 jealous	 of	 every	 woman	 I	 know?	 What	 am	 I

working	 with	 here?	 Irrational	 accusations	 or	 insane

jealousy?”



551

“Oh!”	 I	 scream	 and	 kick	 the	 dashboard.	 “I

don’t	 know	 what	 I’m	 thinking,	 but	 I	 hate	 feeling

unsure	 about	 you.”

“How	 can	 you	 be	 so	 insecure	 about	 us?	 I’m	 a

very	 direct	 guy;	 I	 thought	 I	 made	 my	 intentions

clear.”

“You	 paint	 a	 very	 enticing	 picture	 here,	 a	 nice

package;	 the	 handsome	 guy	 with	 an	 incredible

talent,	 who	 also	 happens	 to	 be	 super	 nurturing	 to

others	 and	 he’s	 surrounded	 by	 all	 these	 lovely

available	 women,	 but	 he	 sets	 his	 sights	 on	 me,”	 I

mock.	 “Hmm,	 I	 don’t	 know.	 Should	 I	 fall	 for	 this	 or

should	 I	 use	 some	 common	 sense?”

Carson	 looks	 dejected	 and	 shakes	 his	 head.

“You	 don’t	 trust	 me.	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 I’ve	 done,

but	 you	 don’t	 trust	 me.”

“I’m	 a	 realist	 and	 I’m	 not	 ready	 to	 live	 up	 to

your	 expectations	 of	 me.”	 I	 jump	 out	 of	 the	 truck.

“You’re	 a	 cynic.	 Bottom	 line,	 you	 don’t	 believe

what	 I’m	 tel ing	 you,	 so	 end	 of	 story.”	 Carson	 yanks

my	 door	 closed	 and	 drives	 off.





552





Thirty-‐Seven



“Tel 	 me	 again,”	 Lauren	 says.	 “I’m	 trying	 to

understand	 why	 you	 walked	 out	 on	 Carson.”

I’m	 sitting	 at	 the	 kitchen	 table.	 Jeremy	 and

Imogene	 are	 making	 gril ed	 cheese	 sandwiches

with	 bacon	 and	 tomato	 while	 Lauren	 and	 Leo	 are

setting	 the	 table.	 It’s	 a	 very	 homey,	 domestic

setting	 with	 two	 lovey-‐dovey	 couples	 and	 me.	 I

envy	 their	 comfortable	 simplicity	 when	 it	 comes	 to

dating.	 It	 makes	 me	 more	 miserable	 watching	 them

touch	 each	 other	 with	 loving	 gestures	 and	 little

knowing	 smiles.

“I	 didn’t	 walk	 out	 on	 him.	 You	 make	 it	 sound

like	 we’re	 married	 and	 this	 is	 a	 bad	 country	 song.

Can	 we	 change	 the	 subject,	 please?”

They	 spend	 the	 next	 hour	 talking	 about	 their

new	 projects	 at	 the	 workshop	 and	 the	 girls’	 jewelry

business.	 Leo	 and	 Jeremy	 have	 nothing	 except

good	 things	 to	 say	 about	 Carson’s	 business	 acumen



553

and	 the	 project	 ideas	 as	 wel 	 as	 the	 new	 furniture

plans	 coming	 from	 the	 design	 team,	 Gemma	 and

Noel e.	 Imogene	 explains	 her	 new	 marketing	 plan

for	 her	 and	 Lauren’s	 re-‐purposed	 vintage	 jewelry

and	 everyone	 praises	 her	 for	 the	 research	 and

business	 plan	 she	 has	 drafted.

I	 say	 little	 and	 mostly	 push	 my	 food	 around	 on

my	 plate.	 I	 wouldn’t	 say	 it	 out	 loud,	 but	 I’m	 longing

for	 Talia’s	 scrumptious	 breakfast	 burrito	 that	 was

sitting	 so	 close	 to	 the	 guy	 who	 stars	 in	 my

daydreams	 and	 fantasies.	 If	 I	 could	 go	 back	 and

play	 that	 scene	 over,	 I	 don’t	 know	 what	 I’d	 say

differently,	 yet	 I	 would	 do	 it	 with	 more	 diplomacy

and	 unselfishness.	 I	 would	 hope.	 Then	 again,	 I	 keep

blowing	 it	 every	 time,	 so	 who	 knows.

After	 lunch,	 I	 check	 my	 emails	 from	 my	 5	 Alpha

team	 and	 fol ow	 a	 thread	 of	 messages	 about	 a

glitch	 that	 started	 about	 the	 time	 I	 left	 for	 the	 party.

The	 team	 is	 worried	 that	 the	 first	 trial	 run	 and

presentation	 to	 the	 client	 wil 	 have	 to	 be

postponed,	 so	 I	 begin	 reading	 through	 the	 code.

I’m	 sitting	 sideways	 against	 the	 massive	 desk	 with

my	 feet	 propped	 up	 while	 I	 scrol 	 through	 one	 of



554

the	 monitors.	 I’m	 mindlessly	 lost	 in	 a	 particular

section	 of	 the	 software	 when	 Lauren	 walks	 into	 the

library	 and	 plops	 herself	 on	 the	 couch	 with	 an

exaggerated	 huff.

“Where’s	 Leo?”	 I	 ask.

“He	 and	 Jeremy	 just	 left.	 Is	 this	 a	 good	 time	 to

talk	 or	 am	 I	 interrupting	 your	 work?”

“I	 can’t	 concentrate,	 so	 we	 can	 talk.	 Let	 me

guess.	 Carson?”

Lauren	 is	 wearing	 a	 Syracuse	 sweatshirt	 and

fleece	 shorts,	 looking	 like	 a	 cheerleader	 with	 her

blond	 hair	 pul ed	 back	 in	 a	 high	 ponytail.	 She’s	 the

popular,	 pretty	 girl	 on	 campus	 that	 I	 wanted	 to	 be

in	 high	 school	 and	 col ege,	 but	 I	 could	 never	 muster

up	 the	 confidence	 to	 be	 as	 outgoing	 as	 Lauren.

“You	 spent	 the	 night	 at	 his	 place	 and	 you	 came

home	 in	 his	 clothes.	 How	 long	 have	 you	 really	 been

seeing	 each	 other?”

“We’re	 not.	 We’ve…”	 I	 take	 my	 feet	 off	 the

desk	 and	 bring	 them	 to	 my	 chair,	 hugging	 my	 legs.

“You’ve	 hooked	 up	 a	 few	 times,	 right?”

“Yes.”	 I	 don’t	 like	 using	 that	 term.	 “Hooking-‐up”

isn’t	 the	 right	 word	 to	 use	 with	 Carson.	 Maybe	 he



555

did	 that	 with	 other	 women	 in	 the	 past,	 but	 it’s	 not

how	 he	 sees	 me.	 At	 least	 that’s	 what	 I	 tel 	 myself

because	 it’s	 not	 how	 I	 see	 him.

“But	 it’s	 more	 than	 that,	 right?”

“Lauren,	 get	 to	 the	 point.	 What	 are	 you	 asking

me?”

“Leo	 says	 that	 Carson	 doesn’t	 even	 realize

when	 he’s	 talking	 about	 you,	 but	 he	 brings	 you	 up	 a

lot;	 at	 work,	 at	 lunch.	 Leo	 says	 Carson	 has	 been	 like

this	 for	 weeks,	 and	 I’m	 no	 idiot.	 Carson	 didn’t	 leave

a	 date	 and	 drive	 through	 a	 tropical	 storm	 to	 see	 me.

He	 does	 these	 things	 for	 you.	 Not	 to	 mention	 the

party	 last	 night.	 My	 God,	 the	 guy	 only	 has	 eyes	 and

hands	 for	 you.	 How	 do	 you	 not	 see	 this?”

“I	 do	 see	 it,	 but	 I	 find	 it	 hard	 to	 believe	 that	 it’s

real.	 It	 wasn’t	 long	 ago	 I	 was	 going	 through	 a

similar	 situation	 with	 Dylan	 and	 look	 how	 that

turned	 out.	 It	 seems	 kind	 of	 creepy	 of	 me	 to	 date

his	 brother	 even	 if	 he	 thinks	 he’s	 in	 love	 with	 me.	 I

don’t—”

“What?”	 Lauren	 practically	 shouts.	 “Carson

told	 you	 he’s	 in	 love	 with	 you?”

“Yes.”



556

She	 beams.	 “That	 is	 so	 fucking	 amazing.	 Carson

is	 a	 great	 guy.	 He’s	 not	 screwed	 up	 like	 Dylan.	 I

mean,	 I	 love	 Dylan,	 he’s	 adorable,	 but	 Carson	 has

his	 shit	 together	 and	 he	 lives	 like	 a	 monk.	 Seriously,

if	 he	 did	 date	 a	 woman,	 it	 was	 a	 secret	 and	 it	 never

happened	 here.	 I	 always	 wondered	 if	 he’d	 find

someone	 and	 settle	 down	 and	 now	 he	 has	 his	 eyes

on	 you.	 I	 love	 this.”

“Wel …”	 I	 hesitate.

“Oh	 God,	 no.	 I	 know	 that	 face	 you	 make.	 What

did	 you	 do?”

“Apparently,	 I’m	 not	 doing	 enough.	 I’ve

discovered	 Carson	 is	 a	 very	 direct,	 no	 holds	 barred

type	 of	 guy	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 a	 relationship.	 He	 has

an	 idea	 or	 opinion	 and	 that’s	 it,	 he	 puts	 it	 out	 there.

It’s	 all	 or	 nothing	 with	 him.	 There’s	 no	 in	 between.”

“Oh,	 let	 me	 see	 if	 I	 get	 this	 straight.	 He’s	 in

love	 with	 you	 and	 you	 probably	 haven’t	 said	 it	 back

to	 him	 because	 you’re	 chicken	 shit	 after	 what

happened	 with	 Dylan.	 Because	 if	 you	 get	 involved

with	 Carson	 and	 it	 goes	 south,”	 Lauren	 winces,

“yikes,	 you’d	 have	 the	 small	 town	 gossip	 girls

shredding	 you.	 Oh,	 wait	 a	 minute.	 I’m	 the	 biggest



557

gossip	 in	 town,	 so	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 worry	 about

that,	 and	 um,	 you’re	 already	 involved	 with	 Carson.

You	 can’t	 sleep	 with	 him	 and	 pretend	 like	 nothing

happened.	 Besides,	 I	 don’t	 think	 it’s	 creepy.	 The

Dylan	 thing	 was	 months	 ago	 and	 they’re	 not

related	 by	 blood	 so	 there’s	 that.”

“What?	 Dylan	 and	 Carson	 aren’t	 brothers?	 I

mean,	 of	 course	 they’re	 brothers,	 but	 they	 are	 not

biologically	 related?”

“You	 didn’t	 know?	 Carson	 was	 adopted.	 His

parents	 adopted	 him	 when	 they	 didn’t	 think	 they

could	 have	 kids	 and	 then	 Dylan	 was	 a	 surprise	 baby

that	 same	 year.”

“Carson	 was	 adopted	 when	 he	 was	 three?”

“Yeah.	 He	 was	 removed	 from	 a	 very	 violent

home	 and	 the	 state	 put	 him	 in	 foster	 care.	 The

Blackards	 took	 him	 in	 and	 adopted	 him.	 He	 never,	 I

mean	 never,	 talks	 about	 it.	 I	 got	 all	 this	 information

from	 my	 parents	 and	 Ginnie	 when	 I	 was	 younger.

He	 probably	 didn’t	 tel 	 you	 because	 he	 thinks	 of

Dylan	 as	 his	 only	 family	 and	 nothing	 can	 come

between	 them.	 Carson	 has	 hammered	 it	 into

Dylan’s	 head	 that	 they	 are	 brothers,	 regardless	 of



558

blood	 ties.	 He	 had	 to	 in	 order	 to	 get	 Dylan	 to	 listen

to	 him	 over	 the	 years.	 Carson	 has	 worked	 his	 ass

off	 trying	 to	 protect	 Dylan.”

“Yeah,	 I	 know,	 that’s	 one	 of	 the	 things	 I	 admire

about	 him.”

“So	 why	 are	 you	 pushing	 him	 away?”

“Because	 I’m	 not	 sure	 of	 this.	 I’m	 not	 sure

about	 me	 and	 if	 this	 is	 what	 I	 want.”

“Stop	 trying	 to	 process	 this	 like	 it’s	 one	 of	 your

computer	 programs.	 What	 do	 you	 feel	 in	 your	 gut?”

“My	 gut	 jumps	 up	 and	 down	 every	 time	 I’m

around	 Carson.	 It’s	 been	 like	 that	 from	 day	 one.

Even	 when	 I	 was	 with	 Dylan,”	 I	 admit	 to	 her.

“Wow.”	 Lauren	 smiles	 and	 it’s	 the	 hopeless

romantic	 in	 her	 that	 makes	 me	 cry.

I	 put	 my	 head	 in	 my	 hands	 and	 start	 sobbing.

Lauren	 jumps	 off	 the	 couch	 and	 hands	 me	 a	 wad	 of

tissues.

“It’s	 not	 that	 bad,	 is	 it?”	 She	 rubs	 my	 back.

“I	 want	 to	 be	 normal.	 I	 like	 Carson.	 I	 wish	 I

wasn’t	 afraid	 to	 act	 on	 this.	 Any	 normal	 woman

would	 jump	 at	 the	 chance	 to	 be	 with	 him	 and	 I

keep	 screwing	 up	 by	 running	 away.	 He	 wants	 a



559

straight	 answer,	 no	 games,	 and	 I’m	 behaving	 like	 a

child.	 Am	 I	 intentionally	 trying	 to	 sabotage	 this?”

“I	 don’t	 think	 so.	 You’re	 too	 smart	 for	 that.

What	 has	 he	 said	 to	 you?”

“He’s	 told	 me	 more	 than	 once	 that	 he	 loves

me,	 that	 he’s	 in	 love	 with	 me,	 and	 today	 he	 wanted

me	 to	 spend	 the	 day	 with	 him.	 God,	 I’m	 awful.	 I

have	 sex	 with	 him	 and	 then	 I	 say	 I	 gotta	 run.”

“That’s	 a	 guy	 thing,”	 Lauren	 adds.	 “Just	 saying.

Kind	 of	 funny	 you’d	 do	 that.	 Is	 that	 what	 started

your	 fight	 today?	 You	 had	 an	 argument,	 right?”

“You	 could	 say	 that.	 Talia	 walked	 in	 on	 us	 in

the	 middle	 of	 getting	 it	 on.”	 Lauren’s	 eyes	 grow	 big

and	 she	 covers	 her	 mouth	 to	 stifle	 a	 laugh.	 “Oh,	 it

gets	 worse.	 When	 we	 came	 down	 for	 breakfast,

Talia	 was	 very	 happy	 for	 us	 and	 she	 asked	 if	 my

feelings	 for	 Carson	 are	 stronger	 than	 ‘like’.	 Believe

me,	 nothing	 was	 lost	 in	 her	 broken	 English

translation.	 She	 wanted	 to	 know	 if	 I	 am	 in	 love	 with

Carson.	 I	 didn’t	 say	 anything	 and	 Carson	 was

standing	 in	 the	 doorway	 and	 heard	 the	 whole	 thing.

Breakfast	 was	 miserable.	 The	 ride	 home,	 even

worse.”



560

“Poor	 Carson.	 He’s	 whipped	 and	 you	 crushed

him,”	 she	 says.

“I	 thought	 you	 were	 trying	 to	 make	 me	 feel

better.”

“What	 did	 he	 say	 after	 that?”

“Wel 	 after	 my	 diatribe	 about	 him	 and	 other

women	 that	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 repeat,	 he	 accused	 me

of	 not	 trusting	 him.	 He’s	 right.	 I’m	 cynical	 and	 cold

when	 it	 comes	 to	 talking	 about…”

“Love	 and	 commitment.	 Yeah,	 I	 dated	 enough

guys	 who	 had	 the	 same	 problem.”

“You’re	 not	 making	 me	 feel	 better.”

“Why	 should	 I?	 Carson	 is	 the	 one	 getting	 his

heart	 battered	 around.”

“It’s	 my	 heart,	 too.	 That’s	 why	 I’m	 crying.”

“Oh,	 boo-‐hoo.	 Say	 it	 then.”

“Say	 what?”

“That	 you’re	 in	 love	 with	 him.	 What	 is	 with

you?	 Do	 you	 think	 a	 bomb	 is	 going	 to	 go	 off	 if	 you

say	 the	 three	 little	 words	 to	 him?”

“They’re	 not	 little	 words	 and	 I	 can’t	 be	 cavalier

about	 it.	 That’s	 how	 people	 end	 up	 getting	 hurt.”



561

Lauren	 rises	 on	 her	 long	 legs	 and	 moves	 to	 sit

on	 the	 armrest	 of	 the	 couch.

“Then	 decide	 how	 important	 it	 is	 to	 you.	 Is	 it

worth	 having	 Carson	 in	 your	 life	 or	 would	 you	 be

content	 without	 him?	 Stew	 on	 it.	 Get	 pickled	 and

really	 miserable	 over	 him,	 or	 not.”

“You	 think	 I’m	 an	 idiot,	 don’t	 you?”

“I	 think	 you	 know	 what	 you	 want,	 but	 you’re

afraid	 to	 go	 after	 it.	 You	 like	 to	 plan	 things	 out	 and

your	 methodical	 approach	 has	 been	 very	 successful

for	 you	 in	 school	 and	 work,	 but	 this	 is	 love.	 There’s

no	 blueprint	 to	 fol ow.	 Carson	 is	 waiting	 for	 you	 to

tel 	 him	 you	 feel	 the	 same	 way	 as	 him.	 It’s	 not

unreasonable.”

“It’s	 not	 easy.”

“Then	 don’t	 do	 it.	 Baby,”	 she	 accuses.	 “You	 tel

me	 that	 you’ve	 been	 in	 love	 with	 Carson	 for

months,	 but	 you	 can’t	 tel 	 him?”

I’ve	 lost	 Lauren’s	 sympathy.	 She’s	 completely

on	 Carson’s	 side	 at	 this	 point.

“Okay,	 I’m	 going	 to	 take	 your	 advice	 and	 stew,”

I	 concede.



562

“Great.	 You’l 	 be	 known	 as	 the	 woman	 who

single-‐handedly	 brought	 down	 the	 Blackard	 boys.

Hope	 you’re	 happy.”	 She	 stalks	 out	 of	 the	 room.





563





Thirty-‐Eight



Dylan	 meets	 me	 at	 our	 usual	 booth	 at	 Bonnie’s.

Imogene	 is	 our	 waitress	 and	 in	 between	 serving

other	 customers,	 she	 sits	 down	 with	 us	 and	 chats

about	 Dylan’s	 upcoming	 stay	 at	 the	 mental	 health

facility	 in	 Massachusetts.	 Carson	 wil 	 be	 picking	 him

up	 after	 lunch	 and	 driving	 him	 up	 there.	 My	 heart

clenches	 when	 I	 think	 of	 Carson.

“This	 is	 what	 the	 place	 looks	 like,”	 Dylan	 says,

sliding	 a	 brochure	 across	 the	 table.	 “Nice	 dorm

rooms,	 right?”

I	 flip	 through	 the	 photos	 of	 the	 wel -‐appointed

grounds,	 amenities	 for	 patients	 and	 the	 images

showing	 smiling	 concerned	 doctors	 as	 wel 	 as

therapists	 in	 one-‐on-‐one	 and	 group	 sessions.

“It	 looks	 very	 nice,	 Dylan.	 Kind	 of	 like	 a	 retreat

with	 spa	 services.”

“No	 shit.	 It	 comes	 with	 a	 hefty	 price	 tag,	 too.”



564

“It’s	 really	 that	 expensive?	 Does	 insurance

cover	 it?”

“No.	 Affluent	 brothers	 cover	 it.	 At	 these	 prices,

I	 better	 leave	 there	 feeling	 great.”

Dylan	 is	 his	 usual	 cute	 self.	 His	 hair	 is	 growing

out	 and	 his	 athletic	 good	 looks	 haven’t	 suffered

since	 the	 accident;	 in	 fact,	 he	 is	 probably	 more

attractive	 since	 taking	 his	 anti-‐depressant	 and

fol owing	 a	 dedicated	 program	 he	 prescribed	 for

himself	 of	 alcohol	 abstention	 and	 daily	 runs.	 He

said	 Carson	 works	 out	 with	 him	 in	 the	 makeshift

weight	 room	 in	 the	 back	 of	 the	 shop	 and	 then	 they

go	 for	 a	 six-‐mile	 run	 before	 they	 start	 their	 day.

He	 explains	 that	 he	 was	 diagnosed	 with	 bipolar

disorder	 as	 a	 teenager	 and	 how	 his	 classification

has	 changed	 since	 then	 to	 bipolar	 II.	 When	 he

describes	 the	 symptoms	 he’s	 tried	 to	 manage	 over

the	 last	 ten	 years—extreme	 depressive	 episodes,

decreased	 need	 for	 sleep,	 talkativeness	 and

excessive	 participation	 in	 risky	 behaviors—I	 think

of	 his	 past	 experience	 with	 his	 dangerous

motorcycle	 racing	 and	 all	 the	 wild	 partying	 he	 did



565

in	 col ege.	 Yet	 it’s	 the	 last	 symptom	 he	 tel s	 me

about,	 hyper-‐sexuality,	 that	 triggers	 remorse	 in	 me.

Dylan	 is	 kind	 and	 never	 discusses	 our	 past

sexual	 relationship.	 We	 have	 built	 a	 stronger

friendship	 over	 the	 last	 few	 months	 and	 I’m

pleasantly	 surprised	 since	 I’ve	 never	 maintained	 a

friendship	 with	 any	 of	 the	 men	 I	 dated;	 I	 use	 that

term	 loosely.	 Dylan	 is	 like	 the	 sibling	 I	 never	 had

and,	 despite	 our	 crazed	 few	 weeks	 of	 dating	 and

sex,	 that	 period	 seems	 like	 events	 that	 happened	 in

a	 different	 lifetime	 with	 a	 different	 person.

Dylan	 talks	 openly	 about	 his	 disorder	 as	 if	 the

accident	 has	 freed	 him	 from	 a	 lifetime	 of	 secret

shame,	 his	 il ness,	 and	 his	 father’s	 suicide.	 I	 am

happy	 for	 him	 and	 reach	 my	 hand	 across	 the	 table

to	 hold	 his	 hand	 that	 is	 fidgeting	 with	 a	 fork.

“Dylan,	 this	 is	 so	 wonderful.	 I’m	 happy	 you’re

going	 to	 one	 of	 the	 best	 places	 for	 treatment	 and

that	 you’re	 so	 enthusiastic	 about	 it.”

“Don’t	 get	 too	 excited.	 My	 enthusiasm	 could

be	 one	 of	 the	 symptoms	 of	 the	 disorder.

Grandiosity,”	 he	 says,	 rol ing	 his	 eyes.



566

We	 laugh	 over	 that	 and	 eat	 our	 burgers	 and

fries,	 which	 he	 refers	 to	 as	 his	 last	 meal	 before

imprisonment.	 Of	 course,	 the	 treatment	 center	 has

a	 gourmet	 chef	 in	 residence	 since	 they	 cater	 to

wealthy	 people	 and	 celebrities	 because,	 if	 you’re

going	 to	 suffer	 from	 depression,	 there’s	 no	 reason

your	 refined	 palette	 should	 suffer,	 too.

“Can	 I	 ask	 you	 something?”

Dylan	 swallows	 his	 last	 bite	 of	 food	 and	 gives

me	 a	 questioning	 look.	 “What	 haven’t	 you	 asked

me,	 or	 better	 yet,	 what	 I	 haven’t	 I	 told	 you?”

“It’s	 not	 about	 you.	 It’s	 about	 Carson.	 It’s

personal	 and	 you’ve	 never	 mentioned	 it	 and

neither	 has	 he,	 so	 this	 is	 kind	 of	 awkward.”

“Ah,”	 Dylan	 says,	 putting	 his	 napkin	 on	 the

table.	 “Shoot.”

“Carson	 is	 adopted.	 Is	 that	 true?”

“Yes.	 My	 parents	 didn’t	 think	 they	 could	 have

kids.	 My	 mom	 and	 dad	 took	 in	 Carson	 as	 a	 foster

child	 and	 then	 they	 adopted	 him.	 I	 was	 a	 surprise

baby.”

“That’s	 what	 I	 heard.”



567

“Is	 there	 a	 problem?”	 Dylan	 is	 concerned	 and,

considering	 his	 big	 heart,	 perhaps	 it’s	 for	 both

Carson	 and	 me.

“A	 while	 back,	 Carson	 referred	 to	 his	 family	 as

having	 the	 genetic	 component,	 a	 predisposition	 to

depression.	 But	 if	 he	 isn’t	 your	 biological	 brother,

I’m	 wondering	 why	 he	 felt	 the	 need	 to	 say	 that	 to

me.	 Why	 didn’t	 he	 tel 	 me	 that	 he	 was	 adopted?”	 A

sudden	 chil 	 makes	 me	 shudder,	 so	 I	 pul 	 the	 long

sleeves	 of	 my	 heavy	 black	 sweater	 down	 over	 my

hands	 and	 clasp	 them	 on	 the	 table.

“Carson	 never	 refers	 to	 himself	 as	 the	 adopted

son.	 It	 doesn’t	 matter	 that	 we’re	 not	 related	 by

blood,	 there	 are	 no	 brothers	 closer	 to	 each	 other

than	 us.	 I	 think	 he	 decided	 a	 long	 time	 ago	 that

whatever	 happened	 to	 him	 before	 the	 age	 of	 three

is	 irrelevant	 and	 his	 real	 family	 was	 my	 parents	 and

me.	 Loyalty	 is	 one	 of	 Carson’s	 strong	 suits.	 He

never	 forgets	 and	 he	 takes	 care	 of	 his	 own.”

“Does	 he	 remember	 his	 biological	 family?”

“Nothing	 good.	 He	 was	 only	 three	 when	 the

state	 removed	 him	 from	 his	 home.	 He	 remembers

the	 trauma,	 the	 violence,	 the	 yel ing	 and	 his	 fear.



568

He	 told	 me	 about	 it	 when	 we	 were	 kids	 and	 I	 was

old	 enough	 to	 understand.	 I	 brought	 it	 up	 and

asked	 a	 lot	 of	 questions,	 but	 this	 isn’t	 something	 he

talks	 about.	 I	 doubt	 he’s	 talked	 about	 it	 in	 over	 a

decade	 unless	 he’s	 seeing	 a	 shrink	 that	 I	 don’t

know	 about.	 Why	 are	 you	 asking?”

“Don’t	 you	 think	 it’s	 odd	 that	 he’s	 never

mentioned	 this	 to	 me	 in	 all	 these	 months	 I’ve

known	 him?”

“You	 mean	 because	 you	 two	 have	 hooked	 up	 a

few	 times?”	 Dylan	 says	 this	 as	 if	 hooking	 up	 for	 me

is	 as	 trivial	 as	 sharing	 a	 cab.

I	 clamp	 my	 mouth	 shut	 in	 surprise	 and	 the

heat	 in	 my	 face	 rises.

Dylan	 smiles.	 “Sorry.	 Did	 I	 embarrass	 you?”

“A	 little.	 How	 did	 you	 know?”

“About	 you	 and	 Carson?”	 He	 scoffs.	 “No	 one

knows	 my	 brother	 like	 I	 do.	 He	 has	 had	 a	 thing	 for

you	 forever.	 The	 day	 of	 the	 accident,	 I	 assumed	 you

were	 stopping	 by	 his	 house.	 But	 by	 the	 look	 of	 your

face	 now,	 I’m	 guessing	 you	 got	 more	 than	 a	 tour.”

I	 look	 down	 at	 my	 hands.	 “We	 don’t	 have	 to

talk	 about	 this.”



569

“I	 can	 handle	 it,”	 Dylan	 says	 softly.	 “It’s	 not	 my

favorite	 topic,	 but	 I’m	 not	 going	 to	 slit	 my	 wrists

over	 this.”

“Don’t	 make	 jokes	 like	 that.	 Please,”	 I	 say

quietly,	 hoping	 other	 customers	 can’t	 hear	 us.

“Fine.	 Wel ,	 I	 also	 know	 of	 another	 time	 when

Carson	 came	 into	 work,	 really	 worked	 up,

muttering	 about	 you.	 This	 was	 after	 you	 visited	 the

workshop	 and	 he	 gave	 you	 a	 ride	 home.	 You’re

pretty	 irresistible,	 so	 I	 kind	 of	 put	 two	 and	 two

together,”	 he	 says	 with	 a	 little	 smirk.	 “And	 then	 I

heard	 about	 the	 party	 and	 you	 spending	 the	 night.

So,	 there’s	 that.”

“I	 guess	 everyone	 knows.”

“Pretty	 much.	 It’s	 good	 I’l 	 be	 gone	 for	 a	 couple

of	 months	 or	 so.	 You	 two	 can	 figure	 out	 what

you’re	 doing	 without	 me	 being	 in	 the	 way,	 if	 that’s

what’s	 making	 you	 uncomfortable.”

“Why	 are	 you	 so	 supportive	 of	 this	 after	 what

you	 and	 I	 went	 through?”

“Because	 I	 love	 my	 brother	 and	 he	 deserves	 to

be	 happy	 for	 a	 change.	 He’s	 always	 taking	 care	 of



570

other	 people;	 me,	 his	 employees,	 his	 friends.	 If	 he

wants	 to	 be	 with	 you,	 I	 hope	 it	 happens.”

“I	 don’t	 understand	 the	 secrets.	 Why	 wouldn’t

he	 tel 	 me	 about	 his	 past?”

“Maybe	 he	 doesn’t	 think	 what	 happened	 to

him	 before	 coming	 to	 our	 family	 matters	 anymore.

If	 he	 had	 a	 criminal	 record,	 then	 I’d	 say	 yeah,	 he

should	 be	 upfront	 about	 it.	 But	 Carson	 does

whatever	 he	 thinks	 is	 best	 to	 protect	 other	 people.

It’s	 rarely	 about	 him.”

But	 that	 isn’t	 true, 	 I	 think.	 Protecting	 other

people	 is	 what	 makes	 Carson	 feel	 stronger	 and	 in

control.	 It	 is	 about	 him,	 but	 I	 really	 can’t	 hold	 his

intentions	 against	 him.	 It’s	 one	 more	 damn	 thing	 I

have	 to	 admire	 about	 Carson.	 Someone	 should

smack	 me	 for	 being	 so	 tough	 on	 him.

My	 silence	 annoys	 Dylan	 enough	 that	 he	 feels

he	 must	 intervene	 on	 Carson’s	 behalf.	 “Carson	 is	 in

love	 with	 you,”	 he	 spits	 out	 with	 a	 tinge	 of	 anger.

“Okay,	 maybe	 I’m	 ful 	 of	 shit	 and	 act	 like	 I’m	 okay

with	 all	 of	 this,	 but	 the	 truth	 is,	 I’m	 jealous	 of	 my

brother.	 Always	 have	 been.	 But	 he	 deserves	 to	 be

with	 someone	 who	 is	 good	 to	 him	 and	 honestly



571

cares	 about	 him.	 He	 is	 a	 better	 man	 than	 me.	 If	 you

could	 start	 something	 with	 me,	 then	 what	 is

holding	 you	 back	 from	 Carson?	 He’s	 better	 than	 me

in	 every	 way.	 I’ve	 been	 a	 handful	 for	 Carson	 since

we	 were	 kids;	 I	 did	 bad	 things	 out	 of	 spite	 because	 I

was	 jealous	 of	 him.	 He	 never	 cut	 me	 off,	 though.

He	 kept	 pushing	 his	 way	 into	 my	 life	 to	 help	 me.

He’s	 never	 let	 me	 drown	 in	 my	 own	 mistakes.

Never.	 Is	 that	 what	 this	 is	 about?	 How	 you	 feel

about	 Carson?”

I	 sigh	 nervously.

“That	 wasn’t	 fair	 of	 me,”	 Dylan	 says	 and	 then

rubs	 his	 chin,	 the	 gesture	 I	 assumed	 was	 a	 genetic

trait,	 but	 now	 I	 realize	 it	 must	 have	 been	 a

characteristic	 of	 Carson’s	 that	 Dylan	 emulated	 after

observing	 his	 big	 brother	 do	 it	 so	 many	 times.

“There	 are	 parts	 of	 Carson	 that	 make	 me

question	 how	 I	 feel	 about	 him.	 This	 little	 secret

doesn’t	 help.”

“Shit,	 women	 love	 him;	 think	 he’s	 some

unattainable	 gift.	 He	 is	 unattainable	 because	 he’s

been	 in	 love	 with	 you	 for	 years.”	 Dylan	 shakes	 his

head	 in	 disbelief.



572

“Years?	 You	 mean	 months	 or	 weeks	 maybe.”

“Years,”	 Dylan	 says	 emphatically.	 “How	 do	 you

think	 Gin	 kept	 up	 on	 you?	 Who	 got	 her	 the	 photos

of	 you?”

“Carson	 told	 me	 about	 the	 private	 detective

she	 hired	 to	 track	 me	 down	 and	 he	 took	 photos	 of

me	 at	 different	 times	 in	 my	 life.”	 My	 seriousness	 is

drowned	 out	 by	 Dylan’s	 boisterous	 laugh.

“Holy	 crap!	 Is	 that	 what	 my	 brother	 told	 you?

A	 detective?”	 He	 keeps	 laughing.

“What	 is	 so	 funny?”

Dylan	 wipes	 the	 tears	 from	 his	 eyes	 with	 a

napkin.	 He	 has	 a	 big	 grin	 on	 his	 face.	 “There	 was	 no

private	 detective.	 The	 year	 you	 graduated	 high

school	 from	 the	 posh	 private	 school	 you	 went	 to,

Carson	 was	 in	 the	 city	 working	 on	 his	 first	 contacts

for	 distributing	 and	 sel ing	 the	 furniture.	 He	 swung

by	 the	 school	 on	 the	 day	 of	 your	 graduation	 and

took	 the	 photos	 of	 you	 outside	 of	 the	 school	 talking

to	 your	 parents	 and	 friends.	 When	 you	 were	 at

Columbia,	 he	 walked	 right	 into	 the	 big	 lecture	 halls

and	 got	 photos	 of	 you	 sitting	 and	 taking	 notes.	 It

was	 easy.	 Carson	 had	 his	 own	 school	 ID.	 He	 was



573

accepted	 and	 took	 classes	 part-‐time.	 He	 wanted	 to

study	 engineering,	 but	 he	 never	 finished	 because

he	 had	 to	 deal	 with	 yours	 truly.”

By	 this	 time,	 my	 mouth	 is	 hanging	 open	 in	 a

stupor.	 I	 can’t	 believe	 this	 is	 the	 same	 Carson.	 “Go

on,”	 I	 say,	 dying	 to	 hear	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 whole

cockamamie	 scheme.

“Carson	 got	 a	 lot	 of	 photos	 of	 you	 for	 Aunt	 Gin.

He	 kind	 of	 prided	 himself	 on	 being	 so

inconspicuous,	 but	 then	 you	 wouldn’t	 have

recognized	 him	 as	 an	 adult.	 Gin	 was	 thril ed	 to	 keep

up	 with	 you.”

“It	 is	 so	 weird.”

“Weird?”	 Dylan	 asks	 annoyed.	 “How	 about

impressive?	 Carson	 didn’t	 start	 out	 falling	 for	 you.

He	 was	 doing	 this	 as	 a	 favor	 to	 Gin,	 but	 then

something	 happened	 and	 I	 could	 tel 	 he	 was	 very

interested	 in	 you.”

“Wel ,	 he	 wasn’t	 charged	 with	 stalking	 because

I	 didn’t	 know	 what	 was	 going	 on.	 So	 what

happened?”

“You	 became	 a	 woman,”	 Dylan	 says	 in	 all

seriousness.



574

I	 lean	 back	 in	 the	 booth,	 my	 skepticism

faltering	 as	 I	 listen	 to	 Dylan.

“You	 left	 for	 M.I.T.;	 two	 years	 and	 two

Master’s	 while	 Carson	 kind	 of	 watched	 over	 you.”

“Carson	 went	 to	 Cambridge	 to	 fol ow	 me?”

“No,	 by	 that	 time	 he	 had	 clients	 there	 sel ing

his	 furniture.	 Instead	 of	 sending	 me,	 he	 went	 on

store	 visits.	 He	 would	 spend	 a	 few	 days	 there

seeing	 clients	 and	 attending	 some	 interesting

consortiums	 in	 math	 and	 computer	 science.”

“That’s	 absurd.”

“Yeah?	 How	 many	 guys	 would	 sit	 through	 a

two-‐hour	 lecture	 on	 algorithms	 or	 math	 and

computer	 jargon	 so	 he	 could	 hear	 you	 speak?

Carson,	 that’s	 who.”

“That’s	 amazingly	 insane,”	 I	 say	 but	 inwardly,	 I

am	 glowing	 with	 joy	 that	 Carson	 saw	 that	 confident

intel igent	 side	 of	 me	 when	 I	 was	 a	 graduate

student.

“He	 loved	 bringing	 back	 information	 to	 Ginnie.

I	 could	 see	 it	 in	 how	 he	 acted,	 he	 was	 excited	 to	 do

this	 for	 Gin	 and	 even	 more	 excited	 to	 show	 us	 the

photos.	 That’s	 when	 I	 knew	 my	 brother	 was	 falling



575

for	 you	 in	 an	 epic	 sort	 of	 way	 and	 a	 part	 of	 me

always	 wants	 what	 my	 brother	 wants.

“We	 knew	 when	 your	 bus	 was	 arriving	 last

June.	 What	 Carson	 didn’t	 know	 is	 that	 his	 brother

had	 a	 plan	 to	 usurp	 him.	 Carson	 thought	 he’d	 catch

up	 with	 you	 at	 Gin’s	 house	 when	 Archie	 took	 you

there.	 He	 didn’t	 know	 that	 I	 planned	 on	 being	 there

front	 and	 center,	 your	 escort	 to	 the	 house,	 your

date,	 your	 boyfriend.	 He	 didn’t	 have	 a	 chance,

unless	 of	 course	 you	 were	 repulsed	 by	 me.”

I	 scoff.	 “You	 were	 diabolical.”

“I	 was	 an	 asshole.”

“Why	 did	 Carson	 let	 it	 happen?”

“Carson	 doubts	 himself	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 you.

He	 was	 second-‐guessing	 how	 he	 would	 approach

you.	 I	 didn’t	 give	 him	 a	 chance	 to	 find	 out.”

“That’s	 not	 true.	 I	 met	 Carson	 first,	 in	 Archie’s

office.	 He	 stormed	 by	 me.	 He	 didn’t	 seem	 to	 give	 a

shit	 who	 I	 was.”

“That’s	 not	 true.	 You	 don’t	 think	 guys	 get	 stage

fright	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 women?	 How	 did	 I	 end	 up

at	 the	 diner,	 falling	 all	 over	 you,	 Jess?”

I	 shrug,	 more	 disturbed	 as	 his	 story	 progresses.



576

“Carson	 came	 back	 to	 the	 shop	 like	 he’d	 seen	 a

ghost.	 He	 was	 on	 a	 total	 high	 that	 you	 were	 here,

but	 he	 was	 torpedoed.	 A	 total	 mess.	 Had	 no	 idea

how	 to	 talk	 to	 you.	 So	 while	 he	 wasted	 time	 pacing

the	 office,	 I	 went	 to	 the	 diner	 to	 zoom	 in	 on	 you.”

“You	 fiend.”	 I’m	 not	 being	 playful	 or	 smiling

along	 with	 Dylan.

“I	 know.”

“No,	 really.	 You	 were	 a	 fiend.	 You	 undermined

Carson,	 but	 you	 also	 played	 me,”	 I	 snap.

Dylan’s	 smile	 fades	 to	 concern.	 “No,	 that

wasn’t	 my	 intention.	 I	 didn’t	 think	 I	 would	 actually

end	 up	 in	 a	 relationship	 with	 you.	 I	 planned	 on

flirting	 and	 making	 Carson	 jealous,	 but	 I	 really	 fel

for	 you.”

“It	 doesn’t	 matter	 now,”	 I	 mutter.	 “What’s

done	 is	 done.”

“I	 regret	 fucking	 everything	 up	 for	 all	 of	 us,”	 he

says.	 “But	 on	 the	 bright	 side,	 you	 know	 more	 about

Carson,	 maybe	 things	 he	 was	 afraid	 to	 tel 	 you.	 I

hope	 it	 works	 in	 his	 favor	 and	 you	 don’t	 shut	 him

out.”



577

“Wel ,	 I	 did	 get	 that	 very	 inspiring	 story	 from

Archie	 on	 missed	 opportunities.”

“Oh	 right.	 The	 story	 about	 making	 his	 fortune

and	 losing	 the	 girl	 he	 loved	 to	 someone	 else?”

“Very	 sad.”

“Yeah,	 he’s	 used	 that	 story	 on	 everyone	 under

the	 age	 of	 thirty.”

“You	 mean	 it’s	 not	 true?”

“No,	 it’s	 true	 and	 very	 sad,	 but	 Archie	 has	 been

milking	 that	 one	 for	 years,	 trying	 to	 get	 all	 of	 us	 to

settle	 down	 and	 get	 married.	 He’s	 lonely,	 especially

without	 your	 aunt	 around.	 He	 wants	 us	 to	 all	 settle

and	 grow	 roots	 in	 Hera	 so	 he	 has	 some	 company.”

“I’m	 not	 sure	 this	 was	 the	 best	 decision	 for	 me

to	 give	 up	 the	 anonymity	 I	 had	 in	 New	 York	 and	 all

the	 action	 there	 to	 be	 the	 center	 of	 small	 town

gossip	 and	 scandal	 here.”

Dylan	 comes	 around	 to	 my	 side	 of	 the	 booth

and	 hugs	 me.	 “You	 are	 definitely	 in	 the	 right	 place.

You	 need	 this	 place	 as	 much	 as	 it	 needs	 you.	 No

one	 should	 go	 through	 life	 being	 anonymous.”

I	 lean	 my	 head	 against	 his	 and	 he	 kisses	 me	 on

the	 temple.



578

“Walk	 me	 out.	 It’s	 time	 for	 me	 to	 go.”	 He	 pulls

my	 hand	 as	 he	 stands	 up.

Before	 we	 can	 get	 out	 the	 door	 of	 the	 diner,

Imogene,	 Bonnie,	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene’s	 parents,

Pam	 and	 Mark,	 all	 give	 Dylan	 long	 embraces.	 A	 few

of	 the	 women	 are	 crying	 and	 I	 feel	 my	 eyes	 wel 	 up,

too.	 The	 customers	 give	 him	 a	 cheery	 loud	 sendoff

of	 Go	 Dylan!	 Go	 Dylan!	 Go	 Dylan!

I	 walk	 him	 out	 to	 Carson’s	 truck,	 which	 is	 idling

in	 the	 street.	 Dylan	 is	 stil 	 smiling.	 “It’s	 nice	 to	 know

that	 people	 wil 	 miss	 me.”

“I’l 	 miss	 you,”	 I	 say	 and	 look	 over	 to	 the

driver’s	 side	 window	 where	 Carson	 is	 waiting

patiently	 for	 Dylan.	 He’s	 wearing	 aviator	 sunglasses

and	 he’s	 looking	 straight	 ahead	 at	 the	 road	 and	 not

at	 us.

When	 I	 stand	 on	 my	 toes	 to	 give	 Dylan	 a	 peck

on	 his	 cheek,	 I	 notice	 Carson	 glance	 our	 way.	 Dylan

quickly	 kisses	 the	 top	 of	 my	 head	 and	 I	 push	 him

forward.	 “Leave	 before	 I	 start	 crying	 for	 real,”	 I

whisper.



579

Dylan	 jogs	 around	 the	 truck	 to	 the	 passenger

side	 and	 gets	 in.	 Carson	 turns	 towards	 me	 at	 the

last	 moment	 and	 raises	 his	 hand	 in	 a	 solemn	 wave.

“Seventy	 mil ion,”	 I	 whisper	 to	 myself,	 teary-‐

eyed.





580





Thirty-‐Nine



The	 first	 two	 weeks	 that	 Dylan	 is	 gone	 are	 the

worst	 for	 everyone.	 The	 town	 seems	 too	 quiet	 and

somber	 without	 him.

Leo	 is	 painful y	 lonely	 in	 his	 home	 without

Dylan	 there	 talking	 and	 cooking,	 so	 he	 spends	 as

much	 time	 as	 he	 can	 with	 Lauren	 at	 my	 house.	 He

speaks	 in	 a	 soft,	 reserved	 manner,	 although	 it’s

apparent	 he’s	 got	 it	 bad	 for	 Lauren.	 He	 fol ows	 her

around,	 pul ing	 out	 chairs,	 getting	 her	 coffee	 and

generally	 touching	 her	 arm	 or	 back	 in	 a	 possessive

way	 that	 I	 miss	 having	 in	 my	 own	 life.

Imogene	 is	 very	 industrious	 and	 focuses	 on

growing	 their	 jewelry	 business	 and	 her	 relationship

with	 Jeremy.	 Both	 women	 party	 less	 and	 put	 more

structure	 into	 their	 day,	 so	 when	 they	 aren’t

waitressing,	 they	 are	 working	 in	 the	 room

dedicated	 to	 their	 business.	 When	 I’m	 lonely,	 I



581

wander	 in	 and	 sit	 at	 their	 craft	 table	 and	 watch

them	 make	 their	 intricate	 pieces.

Bert	 fol ows	 my	 moods	 and	 mopes	 along	 with

me.	 We	 drag	 ourselves	 around	 the	 house	 from	 the

studio	 so	 I	 can	 paint,	 to	 the	 library	 where	 I	 unravel

mangled	 code	 and	 rebuild	 weak	 platforms	 and	 then

back	 to	 eat	 my	 umpteenth	 bowl	 of	 cereal	 before	 I

make	 my	 way	 to	 bed.	 Bert	 lounges	 against	 me	 to

give	 me	 some	 comfort	 in	 that	 special	 way	 dogs	 can

read	 their	 owners.

I	 miss	 Dylan’s	 friendship,	 but	 I	 ache	 for	 Carson

in	 every	 way,	 emotionally	 and	 physically.



“Why	 don’t	 you	 send	 him	 a	 nice	 friendly	 text?

It’s	 not	 as	 scary	 as	 a	 phone	 call	 or	 seeing	 him	 in

person.	 That	 way	 you	 can	 connect	 to	 him	 in	 a	 less

terrifying	 way,”	 Lauren	 suggests	 one	 morning	 at

the	 kitchen	 table	 as	 I	 scrol 	 through	 emails	 on	 my

phone.

At	 first	 I	 think	 she’s	 referring	 to	 Dylan,	 but	 then

I	 realize	 she’s	 not.



582

“That’s	 an	 excel ent	 idea,”	 Imogene	 says,

looking	 up	 from	 her	 laptop.	 “Let	 him	 know	 you’re

thinking	 about	 him.”

“How	 is	 that	 a	 good	 idea?	 Then	 we’re	 right

back	 where	 we	 started	 from.	 He	 wants	 a	 sure	 thing

and	 I’m	 wishy-‐washy.	 We’l 	 have	 the	 same

argument.”	 I	 put	 my	 phone	 on	 the	 table.

“You’ve	 been	 sad	 long	 enough.	 You	 drag	 your

sorry	 ass	 around	 the	 house	 like	 some	 maiden	 who

lost	 her	 sailor-‐pirate-‐husband-‐lover	 at	 sea!”	 Lauren

shouts.

Her	 outburst	 surprises	 Imogene	 and	 me.

“You	 need	 make-‐up	 sex	 and	 then	 you’l 	 come

to	 your	 senses.	 You’re	 just	 as	 crazy	 about	 Carson	 as

he	 is	 about	 you,”	 Lauren	 continues.	 “You’re	 not

fooling	 anyone	 with	 your	 I’m-‐not-‐ready-‐for-‐a-‐

serious-‐relationship.	 I’m-‐not-‐sure;	 poor-‐me! Enough,

Jess,	 you’re	 the	 surest	 person	 I	 know.	 Your	 whole

life	 has	 been	 about	 planning	 and	 fol owing	 a	 very

specific	 path	 and	 you	 nail	 each	 objective	 perfectly.	 I

think	 you	 are	 madly	 in	 love	 with	 Carson	 and	 yeah,

maybe	 it	 scares	 you	 a	 little,	 but	 you	 can’t	 throw	 it

all	 away	 because	 of	 a	 little	 fear	 of	 the	 unknown.”



583

“Take	 it	 easy,”	 Imogene	 says	 to	 Lauren.	 “Jess

has	 to	 figure	 this	 out	 on	 her	 own.”

“No.	 She	 won’t	 figure	 it	 out	 because	 this	 isn’t

one	 of	 her	 number	 problems	 that	 add	 up	 to	 a	 nice

perfect	 sum.	 She’s	 so	 used	 to	 being	 the	 girl	 genius

and	 having	 all	 the	 answers.	 Nothing	 is	 a	 mystery	 to

her.”	 Lauren	 leans	 over	 the	 table	 to	 me.	 “Quit

being	 an	 asshat	 and	 go	 after	 this	 guy	 before	 you

lose	 him.	 Who	 says	 he	 has	 to	 wait	 around	 for	 you?

Another	 pretty	 genius	 could	 come	 along	 and	 snatch

him	 up.	 You’re	 not	 the	 only	 one	 on	 the	 planet.”

“God,”	 I	 say.	 “Why	 are	 you	 flipping	 out	 over

this?”

“Because	 you’re	 making	 a	 problem	 where

there	 doesn’t	 need	 to	 be	 one.	 Are	 you	 in	 love	 with

Carson?”	 Lauren	 asks.

Imogene	 looks	 at	 me.	 “Wel ?”

I	 take	 a	 deep	 breath;	 the	 question	 is	 a	 punch	 to

the	 gut	 that	 stirs	 a	 whirlwind	 of	 emotions	 in	 me.

“Yes,”	 I	 say	 softly.

“Give	 me	 this,”	 Lauren	 says,	 grabbing	 my	 cel

phone.

“What	 are	 you	 doing?”	 I	 panic.



584

“Thinking	 of	 you,”	 Lauren	 says	 as	 she	 types

furiously.	 “There.	 Done.”

“What	 did	 you	 do?”	 I	 shout	 and	 lunge	 for	 the

phone.

“I	 sent	 Carson	 a	 sweet	 text	 from	 you.”	 Lauren

tosses	 the	 phone	 back	 to	 me.

Imogene	 huddles	 next	 to	 me	 as	 I	 read	 the	 text.

Thinking	 of	 you.

“Oh	 God.	 This	 is	 so	 not	 like	 me.	 What	 do	 I	 do	 if

he	 responds?”

Lauren	 huffs	 and	 puts	 her	 hands	 on	 her	 bony

hips.	 “You	 have	 a	 big,	 fat	 I.Q.,	 so	 I’m	 sure	 you’l

have	 no	 problem	 sending	 a	 reply.	 Imogene,	 we

have	 to	 finish	 those	 necklaces	 and	 get	 our

shipments	 out	 today.”

Before	 they	 leave,	 my	 phone	 pings	 with	 an

incoming	 message.

Lauren	 runs	 around	 the	 table	 to	 see	 my	 phone.

She	 and	 Imogene	 lean	 in	 to	 read	 the	 screen	 while

I’m	 holding	 it	 in	 my	 hand	 like	 it’s	 a	 live	 grenade.

They	 giggle	 at	 Carson’s	 response. Good.	 I’m	 always

thinking	 about	 you.



585

“There.	 Now	 who’s	 a	 genius?”	 Lauren	 says,

waving	 her	 arms	 above	 her	 head.	 “Me,	 that’s	 who.

I	 got	 the	 ball	 rol ing	 for	 you.	 You’l 	 thank	 me	 when

this	 nonsense	 is	 all	 over.”



Several	 hours	 later,	 the	 paintings	 for	 the	 show

are	 finished	 and	 packaged,	 ready	 for	 Tom’s

assistant,	 Griffin,	 to	 pick	 up.	 I	 leave	 my	 studio,	 stil

wearing	 my	 black	 leggings	 and	 oversized	 painting

smock,	 which	 is	 really	 one	 of	 my	 father’s	 old,	 white

dress	 shirts.	 It	 is	 covered	 in	 faded,	 dried	 paint	 and

it’s	 almost	 tissue	 soft	 from	 years	 of	 washings.	 My

hair	 is	 pul ed	 into	 a	 ponytail	 on	 top	 of	 my	 head,

making	 my	 curls	 fan	 out	 like	 a	 mop	 head.	 I	 keep	 my

big,	 black,	 retro-‐style	 glasses	 on	 since	 I’m	 going	 to

sit	 in	 front	 of	 the	 computer	 for	 a	 few	 hours.	 Lately,

I’ve	 been	 wearing	 my	 glasses	 more	 when	 I	 paint	 or

have	 to	 look	 at	 screens	 for	 a	 long	 period	 of	 time	 to

prevent	 eyestrain.	 They	 make	 me	 look	 like	 a	 total

geek,	 though.

I	 go	 back	 to	 the	 library	 and	 sit	 in	 front	 of	 the

monitors,	 pul ing	 up	 the	 work	 I’m	 doing	 for	 Lauren

and	 Imogene.	 One	 screen	 shows	 the	 website	 I	 set



586

up	 for	 them.	 Another	 screen	 shows	 the	 simple

program	 I	 set	 up	 for	 their	 financial	 records	 and

inventory.	 The	 screen	 I’m	 currently	 working	 on

shows	 photos	 of	 individual	 pieces	 of	 their	 jewelry

col ection.	 I’m	 creating	 a	 product	 gallery	 so	 people

can	 purchase	 items	 directly	 from	 the	 website.

As	 I	 play	 around	 with	 a	 photo,	 I	 hear	 my	 phone

ping.	 I	 look	 down	 to	 see	 Carson’s	 text. So?	 What

were	 you	 thinking	 about?	 Bed?	 Truck?	 Shower?

I	 laugh	 and	 quickly	 type	 a	 response. Not	 sex.

You.

I	 try	 to	 concentrate	 on	 the	 photo	 position	 I

keep	 changing,	 but	 it’s	 hopeless.	 I’m	 waiting	 to

hear	 if	 my	 phone	 wil 	 ping	 again.	 I’m	 more	 excited

about	 the	 prospect	 of	 engaging	 Carson	 in	 a

remedial	 texting	 conversation	 than	 working.

He	 texts	 back. I	 like	 that.	 Can	 I	 see	 you?

I	 respond. Yes.	 When?

After	 a	 few	 minutes,	 there’s	 stil 	 no	 response,

so	 I	 figure	 he	 must	 have	 had	 something	 to	 do	 at

work.	 I	 put	 my	 heavy,	 noise	 cancel ing	 headphones

on	 and	 decide	 to	 listen	 to	 some	 music	 while	 I	 work

on	 the	 website	 design.	 Lauren	 comes	 in	 from	 the



587

room	 next	 door	 that	 has	 been	 dubbed	 L	 &	 I

Creations, 	 as	 their	 temporary	 business	 title.	 She

hands	 me	 the	 SLR	 camera	 she	 has	 been	 using	 to

take	 photos	 of	 her	 jewelry.	 I	 can’t	 hear	 her	 over

Adele’s	 deep	 voice	 wailing	 in	 my	 ears	 as	 I	 dance

and	 play	 with	 the	 website,	 but	 I	 nod	 and	 take	 the

camera,	 knowing	 there	 are	 more	 photos	 I	 need	 to

download	 for	 the	 gallery	 portion	 of	 the	 site.

After	 Adele,	 I	 have	 my	 music	 library	 shuffle

through	 dance	 songs.	 Rick	 James’s	 “Superfreak”

comes	 on	 and	 I	 have	 to	 sing	 and	 dance	 along.

I	 feel	 a	 tap	 on	 my	 shoulder	 and	 scream.	 I	 jerk

around	 so	 fast,	 the	 headphone	 cord	 yanks	 my	 head

back	 and	 I	 hit	 the	 floor	 on	 my	 ass.

It’s	 Carson	 and,	 as	 I	 scramble	 to	 my	 feet,	 he

watches	 me	 with	 an	 expression	 of	 amusement.	 His

hands	 are	 clenched	 at	 his	 sides	 as	 he	 searches	 for

something	 to	 say.

“You	 scared	 the	 hel 	 out	 of	 me.”	 I	 put	 the

headphones	 on	 the	 desk.	 “I’m	 doing	 some	 stuff	 for

the	 girls;	 their	 website.”

He	 looks	 at	 my	 bare	 feet,	 my	 freshly	 painted

pink	 toenails	 and	 works	 his	 gaze	 up	 to	 my	 leggings



588

and	 tattered	 shirt	 before	 his	 gaze	 then	 settles	 on

my	 face.	 “That’s	 a	 good	 look	 on	 you.”

I	 look	 down	 at	 my	 grungy	 clothing	 and	 adjust

my	 glasses	 with	 a	 nervous	 laugh.	 “Yeah,	 no	 one	 is

supposed	 to	 see	 me	 looking	 like	 this.	 Except

Imogene	 and	 Lauren,	 that	 is.	 They	 always	 see	 me

like	 this,	 unfortunately.”

“I	 envy	 them,”	 he	 says,	 his	 voice	 wavers	 and	 I

know	 that	 look	 he	 gets	 when	 he’s	 turned	 on.

“Ah!”	 I	 scoff.

The	 blood	 is	 rushing	 through	 me,	 starting

those	 exhilarating	 waves	 of	 searing	 heat.	 I	 try	 not

to	 stare	 at	 his	 blue	 eyes	 or	 his	 biceps	 bulging

underneath	 the	 long-‐sleeve,	 black	 T-‐shirt	 he’s

wearing,	 but	 he	 has	 that	 sexy	 five	 o’clock	 shadow	 I

love	 to	 touch	 and	 his	 hair	 is	 falling	 in	 careless

waves	 around	 his	 face.	 The	 sight	 of	 him	 puts	 my

sexual	 drive	 into	 warp	 speed,	 and	 this,	 after	 I

texted	 him	 that	 it	 wasn’t	 about	 sex.

“What	 are	 you	 doing	 here?”	 I	 ask,	 gripping	 the

edge	 of	 the	 desk	 so	 I	 won’t	 fall	 down.

“You	 said,	 ‘ Yes’. 	 I	 got	 here	 as	 fast	 as	 I	 could.”



589

“I	 thought	 you	 wanted	 to	 set	 up	 a	 date	 and

time.	 I	 didn’t	 know	 you	 meant	 now.”

He’s	 eyeing	 me	 like	 I’m	 his	 prey	 and	 he’s	 toying

with	 me.	 Who	 doesn’t	 love	 being	 pursued	 by

someone	 they’re	 crazy	 about?

“I	 meant	 now,”	 he	 says,	 moving	 closer	 so	 we’re

only	 a	 few	 inches	 apart.

“But	 it’s	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 work	 day.	 You	 must

have	 furniture…	 stuff…	 things,	 and	 I’m	 in	 the

middle	 of	 work…	 here.”	 I	 struggle	 to	 sound

coherent.

“You’re	 not	 working.	 You’re	 dancing	 and

singing	 “Superfreak”.	 And	 I	 like	 it.	 I	 also	 really	 like

those	 glasses	 on	 you.	 You’ve	 got	 some	 kind	 of	 sexy-‐

librarian-‐slash-‐bohemian	 artist	 thing	 going	 on	 here.”

“Oh,”	 I	 say.	 My	 vocabulary	 bank	 is	 completely

empty.

Carson	 has	 inched	 his	 way	 forward	 so	 his	 body

lightly	 touches	 mine.	 I	 can	 feel	 his	 breath	 on	 me

and	 the	 electricity	 he	 puts	 out	 makes	 me	 shiver

and	 tighten	 my	 inner	 muscles.	 I	 am	 trapped

between	 the	 desk	 and	 him	 with	 my	 ass	 practically

on	 my	 keyboard.	 He	 reaches	 down	 to	 touch	 my



590

face	 and	 put	 a	 hand	 on	 my	 lower	 back	 so	 I	 don’t

crash	 backwards	 into	 the	 computer	 equipment.	 He

bends	 his	 head	 down	 to	 kiss	 me	 tenderly,	 tugging

at	 my	 lip	 with	 his	 teeth	 and	 circling	 my	 lips	 with	 his

tongue.	 He	 keeps	 his	 eyes	 locked	 on	 mine.	 My

breathing	 becomes	 heavier,	 however,	 I	 don’t	 want

to	 lunge	 at	 him,	 instigate	 sex	 and	 then	 be	 accused

all	 over	 again	 of	 being	 heartless.

“What	 are	 you	 doing?”	 I	 ask	 breathless.

“Seducing	 you,”	 he	 says	 calmly	 as	 he	 continues

to	 kiss	 my	 lips	 and	 trail	 down	 to	 my	 neck.

“I	 thought	 you	 didn’t	 want	 casual	 sex	 with	 me.

I	 thought	 you	 were	 angry	 at	 me	 and	 you	 don’t	 want

me	 near	 you	 unless	 I’m	 wil ing	 to	 sign	 myself	 over

with	 some	 kind	 of	 rights	 of	 exclusivity	 or

declaration	 of	 dependence.”	 He	 licks	 around	 my

ear	 and	 my	 nipples	 get	 hard,	 so	 does	 the	 bulge	 he

has	 pressed	 against	 my	 bel y.

He	 sighs	 and	 then	 pul s	 back	 to	 look	 at	 me	 with

a	 curved	 mouth.	 “It’s	 been	 a	 long	 three	 weeks	 since

you	 slept	 at	 my	 house.”

“I	 wouldn’t	 call	 what	 we	 did	 sleeping,”	 I	 say

and	 he	 smiles.



591

“I	 miss	 you.	 Every	 day.	 The	 first	 thought	 I	 have

when	 I	 wake	 up	 is	 you	 and	 the	 last	 thought	 I	 have

before	 I	 fall	 asleep	 at	 night	 is	 you.	 I	 don’t	 want	 you

to	 forget	 about	 me.”

“Don’t	 worry;	 Hera	 is	 hurting	 for	 available

good	 looking,	 young	 studs,	 so	 you’re	 always	 in	 the

running.”

He	 laughs	 and	 runs	 his	 hands	 around	 my	 waist.

“I	 also	 miss	 your	 sense	 of	 humor.”

“I	 miss	 you,	 too.”	 Saying	 it	 out	 loud	 is	 liberating

and	 for	 the	 first	 time,	 I	 feel	 like	 I’m	 making	 myself

available	 for	 real	 intimacy.	 I’ve	 been	 hurting	 over

missing	 him,	 so	 rather	 than	 doing	 it	 in	 silence,	 I

might	 as	 wel 	 summon	 up	 some	 bravery	 and	 say

how	 I	 feel.

“Thank	 you,”	 he	 says.	 “Thank	 you	 for	 saying

that.”

“I’m	 not	 just	 saying	 it.	 It’s	 true.”

Carson	 kisses	 me	 harder,	 with	 more	 purpose,

and	 I	 melt	 into	 the	 strokes	 of	 his	 tongue,	 letting	 my

hands	 rest	 in	 his	 hair.

He	 presses	 into	 me	 and	 the	 zing	 of	 arousal	 is

instantly	 amplified.



592

“I	 can	 either	 take	 you	 on	 this	 desk	 or	 the	 couch.

Either	 works	 for	 me,”	 he	 says	 into	 my	 ear	 with	 a

husky	 voice.

“We	 can’t.	 The	 girls	 are	 right	 next	 door,

working	 in	 the	 other	 room.”

“That’s	 what	 doors	 are	 for.”

He	 grabs	 my	 hand	 and	 pul s	 me	 across	 the

room	 to	 slam	 the	 door	 to	 the	 hallway	 closed.	 I	 turn

the	 bolt	 to	 prevent	 any	 surprise	 visitors.	 Then	 he

swings	 me	 around	 to	 the	 couch	 so	 I	 land	 on	 my

back	 against	 the	 aged	 leather	 cushions.	 He	 pushes

my	 legs	 apart	 and	 nestles	 his	 body	 on	 top	 of	 me.

He	 kisses	 me	 with	 a	 grateful	 brutality.	 His	 erection

feels	 like	 a	 brick	 against	 my	 pelvis	 and	 I	 get	 wet

thinking	 about	 it	 being	 inside	 of	 me.

“I	 have	 been	 hard	 since	 this	 morning	 when	 you

sent	 the	 first	 text.	 So,	 I	 decided	 I	 would	 either	 have

to	 jerk	 myself	 off	 while	 thinking	 about	 you,	 or	 I

could	 drive	 up	 here	 and	 convince	 you	 that	 Tuesday

afternoons	 are	 the	 optimum	 time	 for	 sex.”

“Take	 off	 your	 clothes,”	 I	 command,	 pul ing	 the

bottom	 of	 his	 T-‐shirt	 up.



593

Carson	 stands	 up	 and	 hurriedly	 takes	 off	 his

shirt,	 yanks	 his	 boots	 off	 and	 then	 throws	 his	 jeans

and	 boxer	 briefs	 off.	 I’m	 lying	 on	 the	 couch	 as	 he

pul s	 my	 leggings	 and	 panties	 off	 with	 such	 force

that	 I	 slide	 across	 the	 leather	 cushions.	 I	 slip	 my

oversized	 shirt	 over	 my	 head	 without	 unbuttoning

it.	 Carson’s	 eyes	 widen	 when	 he	 sees	 that	 I’m

braless.

He	 kneels	 on	 the	 couch	 between	 my	 legs	 as	 I

take	 in	 his	 beautiful y	 sculpted	 features;	 his	 olive

skin	 that	 looks	 so	 dark	 against	 my	 fair	 complexion

when	 he	 runs	 his	 fingers	 up	 my	 leg	 and	 his





handsome	 face	 that	 shadows	 with	 lust	 and	 love

when	 his	 eyes	 meet	 mine.

As	 he	 leans	 down,	 propping	 his	 arms	 on	 either

side	 of	 my	 head,	 I	 take	 his	 erection	 in	 my	 hand	 and

rub	 it	 against	 my	 wet	 folds.	 “I’m	 so	 ready.”

“Good,”	 he	 chokes	 out.	 “I’ve	 been	 waiting	 all

day	 to	 do	 this.	 I	 need	 you	 now.	 This	 second.”

I	 put	 him	 partially	 in	 me	 and	 grab	 his	 back	 to

drive	 him	 into	 me.	 He	 obliges	 without	 delay	 and

goes	 deep	 with	 the	 first	 thrust.	 “I’m	 sorry,	 baby,

but	 this	 is	 going	 to	 be	 fast	 and	 hard.”



594

“Yes,”	 I	 whisper	 as	 he	 pummels	 me	 with	 his

thickness.

Our	 moans	 and	 grunts	 escalate	 with	 each

thrust.	 Suddenly	 dance	 music	 with	 a	 heavy,

thumping	 bass	 starts	 blasting	 from	 the	 other	 side

of	 the	 wall	 where	 Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 are	 working.

Carson	 and	 I	 laugh	 as	 he	 pumps	 into	 me	 with	 more

force	 in	 sync	 with	 the	 quick	 beat	 of	 the	 music.	 I	 lock

my	 legs	 around	 him	 and	 he	 moves	 in	 closer,

changing	 his	 long	 thrusts	 to	 faster,	 shorter	 pumps

so	 his	 hips	 are	 doing	 most	 of	 the	 work.	 As	 soon	 as	 I

start	 arching	 upwards,	 the	 friction	 on	 my	 special

spot	 makes	 me	 tighter	 and	 hotter.

“Carson,”	 I	 moan	 as	 an	 orgasm	 takes	 command

of	 my	 nervous	 system	 and	 I	 fall	 into	 a	 delirious

series	 of	 aftershocks.

“Ah,	 shit,”	 Carson	 says	 as	 his	 own	 release	 takes

over	 him.	 “God,	 fuck;	 I	 love	 you.”	 He	 covers	 my

mouth	 with	 his	 as	 he	 rams	 his	 last	 shred	 of

hardness	 into	 me.

He	 col apses	 on	 me,	 all	 two	 hundred	 plus

pounds	 of	 him,	 and	 I	 hope	 the	 couch	 doesn’t

col apse	 after	 all	 that	 creaking	 and	 crunching



595

coming	 from	 the	 wood	 frame.	 His	 mouth	 travels

down	 to	 my	 breasts	 and	 sucks	 on	 each	 nipple.	 “And

I	 love	 these,”	 he	 says	 then	 kisses	 my	 ears,

shoulders	 and	 hands,	 proclaiming	 his	 love	 for	 them

as	 wel .

I	 rol 	 to	 the	 edge	 of	 the	 couch	 so	 Carson	 can	 lie

behind	 me	 against	 the	 back	 of	 the	 couch	 and	 hold

me.	 He	 grabs	 the	 throw	 blanket	 from	 the	 armrest

and	 covers	 us.	 I	 snuggle	 against	 him	 so	 he	 can

spoon	 me.

“Thanks	 for	 the	 booty	 call,”	 he	 says	 and	 kisses

the	 nape	 of	 my	 neck.

“My	 pleasure.”

“Trust	 me,	 it	 was	 mine.	 I	 wasn’t	 kidding;	 I’ve

been	 carrying	 a	 hard-‐on	 all	 day	 over	 you.	 A	 guy	 can

only	 adjust	 his	 dick	 so	 many	 times	 before	 he	 loses

his	 vision	 and	 implodes.	 I	 was	 ready	 to	 hunt	 you

down;	 I	 couldn’t	 think	 straight	 at	 work.”

I	 laugh.	 The	 music	 volume	 suddenly	 goes	 down

and	 we	 both	 laugh	 again.

“Guess	 we	 were	 rocking	 the	 house,”	 he	 says.

“Carson,”	 I	 say	 softly.

“What?”	 He	 plants	 another	 kiss	 on	 my	 neck.



596

“Thank	 you	 for	 not	 hating	 me.	 I	 can’t	 bear	 the

thought	 of	 you	 hating	 me.”

He	 holds	 my	 chin	 and	 directs	 it	 slowly	 towards

his	 face.	 I	 have	 to	 turn	 my	 whole	 body	 towards	 him

to	 see	 his	 blue	 eyes	 that	 exude	 warmth	 for	 me,

creating	 a	 tight	 spasm	 in	 my	 heart.	 “I	 could	 never

hate	 you,”	 he	 says.

My	 head	 rests	 on	 his	 bicep	 as	 I	 trace	 the

outline	 of	 his	 jaw.	 He	 closes	 his	 eyes	 and	 then

inhales	 and	 exhales	 slowly.

“Carson,	 I	 know	 Aunt	 Ginnie	 had	 some	 photos

of	 me	 from	 school.	 I	 think	 she	 had	 some	 from	 the

conferences	 I	 spoke	 at.	 There	 was	 one	 I	 did	 on

computer	 analysis,	 if	 I	 recall.”	 I	 pretend	 not	 to

remember	 the	 name.

“It	 was	 a	 symposium	 on	 software	 testing	 and

analysis.	 You	 were	 the	 third	 presenter	 that	 day,”	 he

rattles	 this	 off	 with	 his	 eyes	 closed,	 enjoying	 my

light	 touch.

He	 remembers	 every	 detail;	 the	 titles	 of	 the

conferences	 don’t	 fluster	 him	 in	 the	 least.	 He	 must

have	 been	 paying	 very	 close	 attention	 when	 he	 was

stalking	 me.	 The	 thought	 of	 Carson	 navigating	 the



597

conferences	 then	 sitting	 and	 listening	 to	 the	 dry

material	 is	 more	 than	 thril ing,	 knowing	 he	 was

near	 me.

“Yeah,	 that	 was	 it.	 And	 then	 I	 had	 a	 bigger	 one

on	 numerical	 computations.”

Carson	 jumps	 right	 in,	 not	 aware	 that	 I’m

testing	 him.	 “That	 was	 the	 conference	 on

computational	 methods	 and	 function	 theory.	 You

gave	 a	 talk	 on	 theory	 and	 algorithms,”	 he	 says

matter-‐of-‐factly.	 “You	 were	 very	 good,	 professional

and	 entertaining	 at	 the	 same	 time.”

“Carson?”

“Yes?”	 He	 opens	 his	 eyes	 and	 looks	 at	 me.

“What	 was	 my	 Master’s	 in?”

“Science.	 You	 specialized	 in	 computation	 for

design	 and	 optimization.”

I	 smile.	 “And	 how	 do	 you	 know	 so	 much?”

“Oh.”	 It	 finally	 hits	 him.	 “You	 know.”

“That	 there	 was	 no	 detective?	 I	 can’t	 believe	 I

fel 	 for	 that	 malarkey.”

“Dylan	 told	 you?”



598

“Right	 before	 he	 left	 town,	 he	 told	 me.	 I	 had

no	 idea	 you	 knew	 so	 much	 about	 me	 and

shadowed	 me	 through	 school.”

“It	 started	 as	 a	 favor	 to	 your	 aunt.	 I	 was	 going

into	 the	 city	 on	 business	 and	 she	 mentioned	 you

were	 graduating.	 I	 didn’t	 ask	 how	 she	 got	 her

information.	 I	 suppose	 through	 old	 friends	 of	 hers

in	 the	 city.	 I	 didn’t	 think	 anything	 of	 it.	 You	 were	 a

kid.	 Fourteen?	 Almost	 fifteen?	 I	 got	 some	 shots	 of

you	 outside	 the	 high	 school	 and	 it	 made	 Gin	 really

happy.”

“How	 did	 you	 recognize	 me?”

“Your	 long,	 red	 hair,	 big	 brown	 eyes	 and	 you

looked	 like	 you	 could	 boss	 any	 guy	 around.”

I	 laugh.	 “I	 grew	 out	 of	 the	 bossy	 phase	 when	 I

became	 the	 youngest	 person	 in	 every	 school	 I

attended.	 I	 became	 timid.”

“No	 matter.	 I	 found	 you.”

“And	 the	 other	 photos	 in	 col ege?”

“It	 was	 easy	 at	 Columbia	 because	 I	 was

enrol ed	 part-‐time,	 so	 I	 found	 some	 of	 your

information.	 I	 knew	 where	 you	 lived	 and	 I	 sat	 in

some	 of	 your	 classes—the	 big	 lectures—and



599

nabbed	 some	 photos	 on	 my	 phone.	 It	 was	 harder

to	 keep	 tabs	 on	 you	 at	 M.I.T.,	 though.	 But	 when	 I

saw	 you…”

“What?	 When	 did	 you	 see	 me?”

“You	 were	 eighteen.	 I	 sat	 in	 the	 different

conferences	 they	 had	 your	 last	 year	 of	 graduate

school.	 I	 checked	 agendas	 to	 see	 where	 you	 were

speaking.	 By	 then	 I	 could	 get	 partial	 videos	 for	 Gin

and	 some	 very	 good	 shots.	 You	 were—”

“I	 was	 what?”

“Fearsome,	 beautiful,	 and	 so	 fucking	 smart.

You	 took	 my	 sanity	 away.	 And	 then,	 after

graduation,	 you	 turned	 nineteen	 and	 went	 to	 work

for	 5	 Alpha.	 I	 have	 a	 huge	 client	 in	 the	 Vil age	 so	 I

actually	 passed	 you	 a	 few	 times	 on	 the	 street	 near

your	 apartment.”

“I	 can’t	 believe	 you	 recognized	 me.	 There	 are

beautiful	 women	 all	 over	 New	 York.	 Those	 fucking

Amazonian	 models	 on	 every	 goddamn	 street

corner	 who	 make	 people	 like	 me	 look	 like	 shlubs.”

“No,	 you	 are	 beautiful.	 I	 couldn’t	 miss	 you.

That’s	 about	 the	 time	 when	 I	 started	 falling	 for	 you.”

“You	 didn’t	 know	 me.”



600

“I	 knew	 your	 voice.	 I	 also	 knew	 it	 was	 at	 least

two	 octaves	 higher	 when	 you	 talked	 to	 your

girlfriends	 about	 tacos	 or	 shoes.”

I	 start	 laughing	 and	 slap	 him	 on	 the	 shoulder.

“No,	 really.	 Your	 voice	 was	 deeper	 when	 you

were	 giving	 lectures	 and	 you’d	 wear	 glasses	 and

put	 your	 hair	 up	 to	 look	 older.	 You	 really	 were	 a

fearsome	 creature.	 You	 spoke	 with	 so	 much

confidence	 and	 you	 were	 graceful	 and	 poised;	 I	 was

blown	 away	 by	 your	 maturity	 and	 intel igence.

That’s	 how	 I	 started	 thinking	 about	 you.	 It	 was

about	 the	 time	 Gin	 was	 diagnosed	 and	 she	 wanted

to	 plan	 what	 to	 do	 with	 the	 house.	 She	 didn’t	 think

you’d	 want	 it,	 but	 I	 probably	 pushed	 her	 more	 than

anyone	 else	 to	 give	 you	 the	 house	 instead	 of	 the

proceeds	 from	 a	 sale.	 I	 wanted	 you	 here	 and	 Gin

agreed	 that	 a	 home	 with	 a	 solid	 community	 would

be	 good	 for	 you	 since	 you	 didn’t	 have	 the	 happiest

family	 situation	 growing	 up.”

“Like	 you,	 right?”

“Yeah,”	 he	 says	 and	 kisses	 my	 forehead.	 “I

thought	 we	 could	 both	 use	 something	 better	 and	 it

seemed	 like	 the	 ideal	 opportunity	 for	 you	 to	 come



601

here	 and	 experience	 something	 other	 than	 dance

clubs	 and	 fine	 dining	 in	 the	 greatest	 city	 in	 the

world.	 Hera	 has	 sushi	 you	 know.”

We	 both	 laugh.	 “Thanks.”	 I	 kiss	 his	 neck	 and

inhale	 his	 manly,	 musky	 scent	 of	 sweat.

“You	 can	 text	 me	 anytime	 for	 this,”	 he	 jokes,

but	 this	 isn’t	 just	 sex	 for	 him.	 He’s	 already	 revealed

so	 much	 about	 himself	 and	 how	 he	 feels	 about	 me.

My	 insides	 are	 like	 jel y,	 I	 am	 turning	 into	 a	 big	 pile

of	 mush	 around	 him.

“No,	 I	 was	 thanking	 you	 for	 this	 home,	 helping

my	 aunt	 and	 finding	 out	 who	 I	 am.	 Thank	 you.	 I’m

not	 sure	 I	 deserve	 this.”

“We	 both	 deserve	 this.”

I	 snuggle	 against	 him	 and	 he	 holds	 me	 tightly.	 I

feel	 safe	 asking	 him	 anything.

“Okay,	 maybe	 you	 never	 mentioned	 this	 to	 me

because	 it’s	 not	 something	 you	 like	 to	 talk	 about,

but	 why	 didn’t	 you	 mention	 you	 were	 adopted?”

Carson	 is	 quiet	 and	 then	 focuses	 intently	 on

me.	 “Does	 it	 matter?”

“That	 you’re	 adopted	 doesn’t	 matter.	 It’s	 that

you	 chose	 to	 omit	 it	 from	 any	 of	 our	 conversations



602

that’s	 strange.	 You	 even	 alluded	 to	 a	 genetic

predisposition	 to	 mental	 il ness,	 but	 you’re	 not

biologically	 related	 to	 Dylan.”

“He’s	 my	 only	 family	 regardless	 of	 what

circumstances	 brought	 us	 together.	 Just	 like	 your

parents	 are	 your	 family	 and	 someday	 you’l 	 see

that	 you	 want	 them	 in	 your	 life.	 I	 want	 to	 have	 a

family	 even	 if	 Dylan	 is	 the	 only	 member	 I	 ever	 have.

Family	 is	 everything.	 But	 I	 hope	 my	 family	 grows.	 I

want	 Dylan	 and	 myself	 to	 have	 more	 than	 this.	 It’s

one	 of	 the	 reasons	 why	 I	 supported	 the	 idea	 of	 you

taking	 over	 Gin’s	 home.	 I	 wanted	 you	 near	 me.	 I	 did

everything	 for	 my	 own	 selfish	 reasons.”

Finally,	 the	 knot	 in	 my	 chest	 loosens	 and	 I

exhale.	 Carson	 keeps	 giving	 me	 more	 reasons	 to

love	 him	 and	 it’s	 beginning	 to	 seem	 incredibly	 easy.

“Wil 	 you	 tel 	 me	 about	 your	 family?”	 I	 ask.

“The	 only	 parents	 I	 remember	 are	 Abby	 and

Robert	 Blackard.	 I	 remember	 the	 day	 they	 drove

me	 to	 their	 home.	 I	 remember	 how	 the	 car	 smel ed.

My	 dad	 was	 driving	 and	 my	 mom	 was	 sitting	 next

to	 me	 explaining	 that	 they	 were	 my	 parents	 now.

She	 made	 me	 feel	 safe.	 It	 was	 a	 good	 feeling.”



603

“She	 was	 very	 caring,	 like	 you.	 She	 gave	 you

the	 beautiful	 name,	 didn’t	 she?”

“Yes,	 she	 told	 me	 it	 was	 so	 I	 could	 start	 over.”

I	 kiss	 his	 cheek	 and	 run	 my	 fingers	 along	 his

jaw.	 Carson	 closes	 his	 eyes	 as	 I	 touch	 him.

“I	 thought	 my	 new	 parents	 were	 pretty	 great,”

he	 says,	 looking	 at	 me	 again.	 “I	 had	 my	 own	 room

with	 a	 lot	 of	 toys,	 but	 it	 didn’t	 last	 long.	 Soon	 there

was	 a	 crib	 and	 then	 a	 crying	 baby.	 Dylan.	 I	 thought

he	 was	 pretty	 great,	 too.	 I	 liked	 having	 a	 little

brother.	 We	 had	 about	 five	 years	 of	 being	 a	 perfect

family.	 We	 loved	 each	 other	 and	 my	 parents	 never

fought.	 It	 was	 good	 and	 it	 was	 safe.	 Then	 my	 mom

got	 sick	 and	 my	 dad	 fel 	 into	 a	 bad	 depression.	 You

know	 the	 rest	 of	 that	 story.	 It’s	 those	 five	 great

years	 that	 I	 try	 to	 remember	 more	 than	 the	 bad

stuff	 that	 came	 later.	 We	 lost	 the	 house	 because	 of

the	 medical	 bil s.	 Then,	 when	 my	 mom	 died,	 we

moved	 to	 a	 rental	 in	 a	 run-‐down	 trailer	 park.	 That’s

when	 everything	 went	 to	 shit.”

“I	 sound	 petty	 when	 I	 complain	 about	 my

parents,”	 I	 whisper	 “It	 makes	 me	 sad	 to	 think	 of

you	 and	 Dylan	 as	 young	 boys,	 struggling	 to	 survive



604

all	 that	 pain.	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 people	 overcome

that.”

“I	 figured	 out	 what	 was	 important	 and	 put

everything	 into	 that.	 It	 came	 down	 to	 Dylan	 and

making	 a	 living.	 If	 you	 have	 someone	 you	 care

about,	 you	 figure	 out	 a	 way	 to	 make	 it	 happen.”

“Your	 dad	 couldn’t	 do	 that.	 I	 don’t	 know	 if	 I’d

be	 strong	 enough	 to	 do	 it,	 either.”

“Like	 I	 said,	 you	 figure	 out	 what’s	 important

and	 you	 do	 it.”

“Carson, you’re	 fearsome.”

“Why	 do	 you	 think	 I’m	 here?”	 he	 asks	 and

kisses	 me	 thoroughly	 before	 I	 can	 say	 anything.





605





Forty



When	 we	 open	 the	 door	 to	 the	 library,	 Lauren

is	 leaning	 her	 hip	 against	 the	 second	 floor	 railing

with	 her	 arms	 crossed,	 looking	 expectantly	 at	 us.

I’m	 a	 little	 uncomfortable	 with	 her	 scrutinizing

expression,	 but	 Carson	 is	 unfazed.

“Hel o,	 Carson,”	 she	 says.

“Lauren,”	 he	 replies.

“Imogene	 is	 cooking	 a	 scrumptious	 stew	 for

dinner	 and	 wants	 to	 know	 if	 you’d	 like	 to	 join	 us?”

Carson	 looks	 at	 me.

“Please?”	 I	 ask.

“Absolutely,”	 he	 says	 to	 me	 and	 then	 turns	 to

Lauren.	 “Tel 	 Imogene	 I	 wouldn’t	 miss	 it.”

“Very	 good.”	 Lauren	 smirks	 at	 me	 before

turning	 on	 her	 heel	 to	 run	 downstairs.

“Let’s	 go	 freshen	 up.”	 I	 take	 him	 by	 the	 hand

and	 lead	 him	 up	 to	 the	 third	 floor.	 When	 we	 enter



606

my	 bedroom	 I	 see	 him	 look	 at	 the	 bed	 with	 a	 grin.

“No.	 No	 bed.	 Shower,	 and	 don’t	 get	 any	 ideas.”

“You	 first.	 I	 want	 to	 get	 something	 for	 you,”

Carson	 says.

I	 shrug	 and	 take	 a	 scalding	 hot	 shower,	 but

leave	 my	 hair	 in	 a	 ponytail	 so	 when	 I	 step	 out	 of

the	 water	 it	 curls	 up	 around	 my	 head.	 I	 wrap	 a

towel	 around	 me	 and	 go	 back	 into	 my	 bedroom.

Carson	 is	 sitting	 on	 the	 bed	 with	 only	 his	 jeans	 on,

rifling	 through	 boxes	 of	 photos	 and	 discs.	 He’s	 not

wearing	 a	 shirt	 and	 his	 bare	 feet	 are	 crossed	 at	 the

ankle.	 It’s	 a	 rare	 vision	 where	 he	 looks	 vulnerable,

as	 though	 he’s	 let	 a	 wall	 down	 and	 I’m	 seeing	 the

real	 man	 who	 is	 wil ing	 to	 do	 anything	 for	 me.

“What	 ya	 got	 there?”	 I	 ask.

“The	 photos	 I	 took	 of	 you	 for	 Gin.	 These	 were

in	 a	 box	 in	 her	 closet.	 You	 must	 have	 missed	 them

when	 Lois	 was	 going	 through	 the	 closets	 with	 you.

The	 discs	 are	 videos	 of	 your	 conferences	 or

whatever	 I	 could	 capture	 on	 my	 phone.	 Not	 the

best	 quality,	 but	 some	 are	 pretty	 good.”

“Lois	 must	 have	 decided	 not	 tel 	 me	 about

them.”	 I	 walk	 over	 to	 the	 bed	 and	 lift	 up	 one	 of	 the



607

photos.	 It’s	 a	 close-‐up	 of	 my	 roommate	 Marissa

and	 me.	 My	 head	 is	 thrown	 back	 and	 I’m	 laughing

exuberantly.	 I	 recognize	 a	 store	 window	 behind	 my

head.

“This	 is	 on	 Bleeker	 Street,”	 I	 say	 as	 if	 that

matters.

Carson	 nods.	 “That’s	 one	 of	 my	 favorites.	 I

have	 a	 copy	 of	 that	 one,	 too.”

“You	 do?”	 I	 look	 more	 closely	 at	 the	 photo	 and

notice	 part	 of	 someone	 else	 in	 the	 foreground,

someone	 with	 red	 hair.	 A	 woman.	 “How	 did	 you

take	 this	 photo	 so	 close	 to	 me	 without	 me

noticing?	 It	 looks	 like	 you	 were	 taking	 a	 photo	 of

someone	 else,	 but	 moved	 the	 camera	 slightly	 to

the	 left	 of	 that	 person	 to	 capture	 me.”

Carson	 looks	 at	 the	 photo,	 yet	 doesn’t

elaborate.

“Carson,	 you	 were	 with	 a	 woman	 here.	 She

thought	 you	 were	 taking	 her	 photo,	 right?	 But	 you

were	 really	 taking	 a	 photo	 of	 me?”

“Yes.”

“Who	 was	 the	 woman?	 I	 see	 she	 has	 red	 hair.

It’s	 Gemma,	 isn’t	 it?”



608

“Yeah,	 it	 is.”	 Carson’s	 good	 mood	 disappears

as	 soon	 as	 I	 say	 her	 name.

“Was	 she	 your	 girlfriend?”	 I	 have	 a	 mil ion

questions	 and	 I	 feel	 myself	 about	 to	 hyperventilate

if	 I	 don’t	 slow	 down.

“No.	 I	 dated	 her	 a	 few	 years	 ago.”

“She’s	 the	 one	 everyone	 jokes	 about	 you

seeing	 in	 the	 city,	 the	 mystery	 girlfriend.	 Oh	 God.

And	 now	 she	 works	 with	 you.”

“That’s	 not	 how	 it	 is,	 Jess.”

“Did	 you	 sleep	 with	 her?	 I	 know	 I	 probably

don’t	 have	 a	 right	 to	 ask	 these	 kinds	 of	 questions

since	 I	 dated	 your	 brother,	 but	 fuck	 if	 this	 doesn’t

piss	 me	 off.”	 I	 start	 crying.

“Jess,	 I	 went	 out	 with	 her	 a	 few	 times,	 but	 we

weren’t	 serious.	 Ever.”

“Did	 you	 sleep	 with	 her?”

“Yes.	 Once.	 When	 I	 was	 in	 the	 city.	 Not	 at	 my

house	 and	 it’s	 been	 two	 years.”

“Who	 was	 the	 woman	 who	 you	 met	 at

Mohonk	 for	 a	 date,	 the	 night	 of	 the	 storm?”

Carson	 stands	 up	 to	 hold	 me.



609

“No,	 Carson.	 Was	 it	 Gemma?	 Is	 that	 who	 you

met?”

“Yes.	 Okay?	 Yes,	 I	 met	 her	 for	 dinner	 and	 then	 I

left	 her	 so	 I	 could	 be	 with	 you.”

“Were	 you	 two	 trying	 to	 make	 it	 work	 again?

Were	 you	 planning	 on	 sleeping	 with	 her?”

“No.”	 Carson’s	 steely	 eyes	 look	 at	 me.	 “She

may	 have	 wanted	 more,	 but	 I	 told	 her	 I	 wasn’t

interested	 so	 we	 talked	 about	 business.	 That’s	 all

that	 happened.”

Everything	 about	 him	 seems	 sincere	 and	 I	 want

to	 believe	 him,	 but	 I’ve	 never	 felt	 I	 could	 be	 a

match	 for	 someone	 like	 Gemma	 or	 most	 women.

“I	 didn’t	 sleep	 with	 her	 because	 I’m	 in	 love

with	 you.	 The	 only	 reason	 I	 met	 her	 for	 dinner	 was

because,	 maybe	 I	 was	 lonely,	 but	 I	 wasn’t	 going	 to

sleep	 with	 her.	 I	 thought	 I	 could	 pass	 the	 time

talking	 about	 business.	 At	 that	 point	 I	 was	 wil ing	 to

try	 anything	 to	 get	 my	 mind	 off	 you.”

“But	 then	 you	 hired	 her.	 Why	 her?”

“She’s	 a	 good	 designer	 and	 has	 a	 good

reputation	 in	 the	 business.	 She’s	 an	 asset	 to	 the

company.	 Jess,	 she	 lives	 in	 the	 city	 and	 only	 works



610

from	 our	 shop	 two	 days	 a	 week.	 The	 rest	 of	 the

time	 she	 works	 from	 the	 city	 and,	 when	 she	 is	 here,

I	 don’t	 spend	 that	 much	 time	 with	 her.	 She	 works

with	 everyone	 in	 the	 shop.	 I’m	 not	 interested	 in

Gemma,	 other	 than	 her	 business	 knowledge.”

“But	 the	 way	 she	 looked	 at	 me	 at	 your	 shop.	 I

get	 it	 now.	 She	 was	 checking	 me	 out	 like	 I’m	 the

competition.”

“No,	 that’s	 when	 she	 realized	 you’re	 the	 one

I’m	 interested	 in.	 You’re	 the	 mystery	 woman,	 at

least	 to	 my	 business	 col eagues	 and	 associates.

When	 I	 walked	 you	 around	 the	 shop,	 everyone	 got

that.”

“But	 she	 was	 all	 over	 you	 at	 the	 party.	 You

didn’t	 see	 the	 way	 she	 was	 looking	 at	 you.”

Carson	 scoffs	 and	 smiles.	 “Jess,	 you’re	 jealous.

I	 like	 that.	 But	 you’re	 also	 wrong.	 We	 were	 talking

about	 business	 at	 the	 party.”

“I	 am	 jealous.”

“You	 don’t	 need	 to	 be.	 I’m	 only	 interested	 in

you.	 Besides,	 if	 it	 makes	 you	 feel	 any	 better,	 I	 think

Gemma	 has	 been	 dating	 someone	 for	 the	 last	 two



611

months.	 I	 think	 she’s	 serious	 about	 him	 so	 she

doesn’t	 have	 any	 interest	 in	 me.”

“You	 men	 are	 so	 stupid	 when	 it	 comes	 to

women,”	 I	 mutter.

Carson’s	 mouth	 curves	 and	 I	 think	 he	 wants	 to

laugh.	 “Do	 you	 want	 me	 to	 fire	 her?	 Should	 I	 tel

her	 I’m	 in	 love	 with	 a	 woman	 who	 doesn’t	 want	 to

be	 my	 girlfriend,	 but	 she’s	 also	 jealous	 of	 any

woman	 who	 comes	 near	 me?	 I’l 	 certainly	 do	 that

for	 you	 if	 it	 wil 	 put	 your	 mind	 at	 ease.”

“No,	 that’s	 ridiculous	 and	 it	 makes	 me	 sound

like	 a	 moron.”	 I	 push	 him	 back	 on	 the	 bed	 and	 he

laughs.	 “So,	 you	 have	 all	 these	 photos,	 too?”

Carson	 picks	 up	 the	 photos	 again	 and	 rests	 his

hands,	 clenching	 a	 stack	 of	 them	 on	 his	 leg	 while	 he

looks	 at	 me	 with	 amusement.	 “Yes.	 I	 gave	 Gin	 the

copies.	 I	 kept	 all	 the	 originals.”

“What	 did	 you	 do	 with	 them?”

“They’re	 on	 a	 memory	 card	 and	 I	 have	 a	 shoe

box	 like	 this	 with	 hard	 copies,	 but	 mine	 are

probably	 more	 worn	 out	 than	 Gin’s.	 I	 looked	 at

them	 a	 lot,	 and	 then,	 you	 moved	 here	 so	 I	 got	 to

see	 the	 real	 thing.”



612

I	 rifle	 through	 more	 photos	 of	 myself	 as	 I	 stand

in	 front	 of	 him	 and	 blush.	 “Do	 you	 remember	 much

about	 me	 when	 I	 was	 a	 kid?”

Carson	 sighs	 and	 smiles.	 “I	 remember

everything.	 I	 was	 eleven.	 You	 used	 to	 bust	 my	 balls

over	 everything.	 ‘ Carson,	 this	 sandwich	 has	 too

much	 peanut	 butter. 	 Carson,	 fil 	 the	 baby	 pool	 with

more	 water.	 Carson,	 get	 out	 of	 the	 pool,	 your

weight	 displaces	 too	 much	 water!	 Carson,	 you’re	 a

meanie!	 Carson,	 I’l 	 marry	 you	 if	 you	 buy	 me	 a	 red

convertible!’”

I	 am	 laughing	 so	 hard	 at	 his	 impression	 of	 a

little	 girl,	 I	 think	 I’l 	 pee	 my	 pants.	 “I	 didn’t	 really

say	 those	 things.”	 Although,	 I	 know	 without	 a

doubt	 I	 did.

“Yes,	 you	 did.	 You	 said	 it	 so	 often	 I	 couldn’t

possibly	 forget.	 Gin	 and	 your	 mom	 gave	 you	 a	 party

for	 your	 sixth	 birthday.	 I	 got	 to	 light	 the	 candles	 on

your	 cake	 and	 you	 actually	 said, ‘Carson,	 you	 have

to	 give	 me	 a	 kiss	 for	 each	 candle.	 That’s	 six,	 in	 case

you	 didn’t	 know.’”

“I	 did	 not	 say	 that,	 Carson.	 You	 made	 that	 one

up.”



613

“Scouts	 honor.”

“You	 were	 never	 a	 Boy	 Scout.”

“Okay,	 but	 it’s	 the	 truth.”

“So	 did	 you	 give	 me	 my	 six	 kisses?”

“Yes,	 I	 did.	 On	 the	 cheek.	 Your	 lips	 were	 ful 	 of

blue	 frosting.”

“That’s	 funny.	 You	 must	 have	 hated	 me	 then.”

“You	 drove	 me	 insane,	 but	 I	 thought	 you	 were

pretty	 cute.”

“Like	 a	 little	 sister?”

“No,	 I	 never	 thought	 of	 you	 as	 my	 sister,	 I	 told

you	 that	 before.	 It	 was	 more	 like	 you	 were	 the	 girl

who	 would	 grow	 up	 to	 be	 my	 impossible	 boss

someday.	 You’d	 be	 the	 CEO,”	 he	 says	 and	 slaps	 my

rear	 end.

“That’s	 cute.”	 I	 smile	 because	 his	 grin	 fil s	 me

up	 with	 so	 much	 promise.

“Can	 I	 buy	 you	 a	 red	 convertible?”

I	 let	 out	 a	 little	 gasp	 at	 the	 meaning	 behind	 his

question	 and	 quickly	 dismiss	 it.	 “It’s	 your	 turn.	 Get

in	 the	 shower.”

While	 Carson	 takes	 a	 quick	 shower,	 I	 put	 on	 a

fresh	 pair	 of	 skinny	 jeans	 and	 a	 flattering	 black



614

sweater	 that	 hugs	 my	 slender	 frame	 while	 it	 also

makes	 me	 look	 more	 curvy	 and	 busty	 than	 I	 am.	 I

take	 out	 the	 ponytail	 holder,	 fix	 my	 hair	 and	 brush

on	 a	 little	 mascara	 and	 lip	 gloss.	 I	 study	 myself	 in

the	 dresser	 mirror	 and	 think	 I	 look	 infinitely	 better

than	 when	 Carson	 arrived	 to	 see	 me	 in	 my	 working

duds.

When	 he	 comes	 out	 of	 the	 shower	 with	 a

towel	 wrapped	 around	 his	 waist,	 he	 takes	 one	 look

at	 my	 transformation,	 strides	 towards	 me	 and

plants	 a	 leisurely	 kiss	 on	 my	 mouth.

“No,	 no.”	 I	 push	 his	 hands	 away.	 I	 can	 already

see	 myself	 as	 one	 of	 those	 women	 who	 have	 no

self-‐control	 and	 drops	 everything	 for	 her	 irresistible

man.	 I	 want	 to	 get	 naked	 again	 and	 have	 him	 all

over	 my	 body,	 which	 is	 why	 we	 have	 to	 get	 out	 of

my	 bedroom.

“One	 more	 round,”	 he	 says,	 holding	 my	 waist

and	 leaving	 a	 trail	 of	 wet	 kisses	 down	 my	 neck.

“No,	 get	 dressed,	 please.”	 I	 don’t	 have	 to	 beg

long	 before	 we	 hear	 the	 front	 doorknocker	 banging.

“Jesus,	 that	 thing	 is	 loud,”	 Carson	 says.	 “Are

you	 expecting	 someone?”



615

“Yes,	 the	 gallery	 is	 sending	 someone	 over	 to

pick	 up	 the	 rest	 of	 my	 paintings.”

We	 hear	 Lauren	 answer	 the	 door	 and	 her	 high-‐

pitched	 voice	 carries	 upstairs	 as	 Carson	 gets

dressed.

He	 fol ows	 me	 downstairs	 and,	 when	 I	 see

Griffin,	 I	 feel	 Carson	 fil 	 in	 every	 breathable	 space

behind	 me	 like	 an	 ominous	 presence.	 I	 sense	 his

growing	 heat	 like	 he’s	 protecting	 his	 turf.

Griffin	 is	 a	 twenty-‐three-‐year-‐old	 graduate

student	 who	 interns	 for	 Tom	 and	 is	 one	 of	 the	 few

people	 that	 likes	 talking	 to	 me	 about	 my	 science

background.	 Griffin	 dotes	 on	 me	 and	 happens	 to	 be

very	 cute	 in	 an	 academic	 way	 with	 his	 wire-‐rimmed

glasses	 and	 khaki	 pants.	 He’s	 getting	 his	 Ph.D.	 in	 art

history	 and	 is	 wiry	 and	 slender.	 He	 also	 doesn’t

emit	 any	 dangerous	 pheromones	 like	 sexy,	 hunky

Carson.	 Yet	 our	 recent	 sexcapade	 is	 stil 	 fresh	 in

Carson’s	 mind,	 his	 head	 is	 running	 low	 on	 blood

and	 he	 can	 be	 a	 big,	 dumb	 male.	 I	 suppose	 it’s

fitting	 since	 I’ve	 proven	 that	 I	 can	 be	 a	 stupid

female	 on	 occasion.	 Carson	 does	 the	 territorial

dance	 as	 if	 Griffin	 is	 a	 threat,	 so	 he	 immediately



616

walks	 in	 front	 of	 me	 and	 circles	 Griffin	 like	 he’s

Carson’s	 next	 meal.

“Carson,	 this	 is	 Griffin,”	 I	 introduce,	 trying	 to

diffuse	 Carson’s	 detonation	 trigger.

“Hel o,”	 Griffin	 says	 to	 a	 towering	 Carson	 and

sticks	 his	 scrawny	 hand	 out.	 Carson	 captures	 his

hand	 with	 a	 little	 too	 much	 pressure.

I	 give	 Carson	 my	 best	 stare	 down.	 “Griffin,	 the

portfolios	 are	 over	 here.”	 I	 point	 to	 the	 living	 room

and	 Griffin	 follows	 with	 Carson	 inches	 behind	 him.

I	 have	 ten	 portfolios	 stacked	 on	 the	 table	 with

all	 my	 recent	 paintings.	 Earlier	 in	 the	 week	 I

photographed	 them	 and	 emailed	 them	 to	 Tom	 so

he	 would	 know	 what	 to	 expect.	 He	 and	 Griffin	 have

been	 very	 supportive	 of	 my	 grunge	 style	 paintings

with	 their	 whimsical	 and	 chaotic	 compositions,	 so	 I

am	 immensely	 grateful	 that	 I	 have	 this	 opportunity.

I	 offer	 to	 help	 Griffin	 carry	 the	 cases	 to	 the	 SUV	 he

parked	 outside,	 but	 Carson	 interjects	 and	 insists	 on

helping	 Griffin.	 When	 they	 return	 to	 the	 house,

Griffin	 is	 carrying	 a	 large	 tote	 bag	 and	 Carson	 is

carrying	 a	 large,	 flat	 cardboard	 box.



617

“I	 brought	 you	 something.	 It’s	 a	 gift	 from	 Tom

and	 me.	 This	 has	 brushes,	 watercolors,	 ink;	 all	 your

favorite	 brands.”	 Griffin	 says	 hands	 the	 bag	 to	 me

with	 a	 big	 smile.	 “And	 that’s	 more	 paper.	 Arches

and	 Fabiano.	 The	 one	 hundred	 forty	 pound	 weight

ones	 are	 in	 there,	 too,”	 he	 says,	 pointing	 to	 the

cumbersome	 cardboard	 Carson	 is	 setting	 against

the	 wall.

“Griffin,	 that	 is	 so	 nice	 of	 you.	 I’ve	 been

meaning	 to	 make	 a	 trip	 in	 to	 visit	 Lee’s	 and	 New

York	 Art.	 You	 saved	 me	 a	 drive.”	 I	 give	 him	 a	 kiss	 on

the	 cheek.	 Carson	 watches	 me	 without	 blinking.

Lauren	 is	 about	 to	 invite	 Griffin	 for	 dinner,

however,	 I	 intercept	 and	 tel 	 him	 to	 be	 careful	 on

his	 drive	 back	 to	 the	 city.	 Griffin	 looks	 a	 little

disappointed	 to	 be	 rushed	 out	 of	 the	 house,	 but	 his

smile	 returns	 when	 I	 tel 	 him	 I	 owe	 him	 a	 dinner	 in

the	 city	 sometime.

“Wel ,	 that	 was	 very	 rude,”	 Lauren	 says	 when

we	 see	 Griffin	 get	 in	 his	 SUV.	 “Why	 didn’t	 you

invite	 him	 in	 for	 dinner?”



618

“Because	 The	 Hulk	 over	 there	 looked	 like	 he

was	 going	 to	 have	 Griffin	 for	 dinner.”	 I	 wave	 my

hand	 in	 Carson’s	 direction.

“I	 didn’t	 do	 anything.”	 Carson	 scowls.

“You	 didn’t	 have	 to.	 You	 were	 practically

breathing	 fire	 down	 the	 guy’s	 neck,	 hovering	 over

him.”

Lauren	 starts	 laughing.

“The	 guy	 is	 totally	 into	 you.	 He’s	 bringing	 gifts

and	 he	 drove	 out	 here	 at	 night	 so	 he	 could	 get

invited	 in	 for	 a	 drink.	 That	 was	 at	 least	 three

hundred	 dol ars’	 worth	 of	 supplies	 he	 gave	 you.”

Carson	 stops	 and	 tries	 to	 think	 of	 more	 ways	 to

inflame	 the	 situation.

“Carson,	 he’s	 doing	 his	 job.	 There’s	 nothing

more	 to	 it,”	 I	 say	 in	 a	 huff.

“Did	 you	 see	 his	 face	 when	 you	 said	 you	 owed

him	 dinner?	 He’s	 one	 of	 those	 guys	 who	 hear, ‘I

owe	 you	 a	 blow	 job.’”	 Carson	 mimics	 and	 crosses

his	 arms.

Lauren	 can’t	 contain	 her	 laughter.	 “Dinner	 is

ready,”	 she	 says	 and	 heads	 back	 to	 the	 kitchen.



619

“He	 did	 not	 think	 that,	 Carson.	 You’re	 being

ridiculous	 and	 jealous.”

“Sound	 familiar?	 I’m	 only	 jealous	 because

every	 guy	 thinks	 you’re	 available.	 If	 you	 were	 with

me,	 I	 wouldn’t	 worry	 about	 other	 men	 because	 I’d

know	 that	 you’re	 mine.”

That	 shuts	 me	 up.	 I	 stand	 back	 and	 think	 for	 a

moment.	 There’s	 nothing	 I	 can	 say	 that	 hasn’t	 been

repeated	 to	 Carson	 too	 many	 times	 already.	 I	 don’t

want	 to	 drive	 him	 away,	 but	 I’m	 not	 ready	 to	 give

him	 the	 three	 words	 he	 wants.	 I	 feel	 powerful	 and

cruel	 at	 the	 same	 time.

“I	 don’t	 want	 to	 argue,”	 he	 says,	 noticing	 my

discomfort.	 “Let’s	 go	 eat	 Imogene’s	 dinner	 and	 try

not	 to	 say	 our	 trigger	 words.”

“I	 agree,	 but	 every	 word	 seems	 to	 be	 a	 trigger

word	 for	 us.”

“I’m	 going	 to	 go	 eat,”	 he	 mutters,	 raising	 his

arms	 above	 his	 head	 in	 defeat,	 “before	 I	 consider

doing	 something	 else	 with	 you.”

“No,	 wait.	 You	 don’t	 get	 to	 have	 the	 last	 word

and	 walk	 away.	 I	 have	 thought	 about	 this	 a	 lot	 and	 I

have	 something	 to	 say.”



620

“I’m	 not	 going	 to	 like	 this,	 am	 I?”	 Carson’s

hands	 clench	 and	 open	 at	 his	 sides	 as	 he	 watches

me.

“I	 believe	 in	 you,	 Carson.	 I	 do.	 I	 screwed	 up.

Anyone	 in	 town	 wil 	 tel 	 you	 that.	 I	 shouldn’t	 have

been	 with	 Dylan,	 but	 I’m	 not	 entirely	 to	 blame.	 I	 do

think	 you’re	 Mr.	 Romance.	 I	 also	 think	 you’re	 Mr.

Take	 Care	 of	 Everyone.	 But	 you	 screwed	 up	 big

time,	 too.	 You	 like	 ‘should	 haves’.	 Well,	 you	 should

have	 been	 strong	 enough	 to	 stop	 Dylan	 and	 me

from	 going	 out	 in	 the	 first	 place.”

“Here	 we	 go	 again,”	 Carson	 mutters.

“It’s	 true!”

“I	 know,”	 he	 growls.	 “You	 don’t	 think	 I	 play

that	 over	 and	 over	 and	 regret	 not	 doing	 something

then.	 I	 was	 afraid	 of	 hurting	 my	 brother.	 Seeing	 you

two	 together	 made	 me	 sick.	 Sick!	 But	 I	 failed	 to	 act

on	 it	 immediately	 from	 day	 one.”

“Why?”

“Because	 for	 a	 long	 time	 I	 thought	 Dylan	 was

my	 weakness.	 I	 couldn’t	 be	 happy	 because	 I

worried	 about	 Dylan.	 I	 couldn’t	 go	 to	 col ege

because	 I	 had	 to	 take	 care	 of	 Dylan.	 I	 couldn’t	 have



621

more	 in	 my	 life,	 other	 than	 work,	 because	 Dylan

consumed	 all	 of	 my	 energy.	 I	 allowed	 myself	 to

believe	 that	 I	 was	 doing	 the	 right	 thing	 by	 letting

Dylan	 be	 with	 you	 even	 though	 it	 felt	 so	 wrong.”

“So	 you’re	 not	 made	 of	 steel.	 You	 do	 have

weaknesses?”	 I	 give	 a	 small	 smile	 to	 restore	 the

peace.

“I	 do.	 But	 I	 can’t	 blame	 Dylan.	 He’s	 not	 really

my	 weakness.	 I	 actually	 think	 he	 makes	 me

stronger.	 I	 have	 to	 be…	 for	 him…	 for	 me…	 because

failure	 isn’t	 an	 option.”

“Geez.	 Now	 we’re	 back	 to	 Mr.	 Perfect	 again.”

“I’m	 not	 perfect	 at	 all.	 As	 you	 know,	 I	 can	 be

too	 uptight,	 too	 control ing,	 too	 opinionated	 and

too	 stupid	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 you.	 You’re	 my

weakness.”

“Really?”	 The	 thought	 that	 I	 can	 bring	 this

impressive	 man	 to	 his	 knees	 inflates	 my	 ego	 with	 a

jolt.

“You’re	 a	 weakness	 in	 a	 good	 way.	 When	 I’m

with	 you,	 I	 let	 part	 of	 my	 tough	 exterior	 down	 and

you	 bring	 out	 a	 side	 of	 me	 that	 I	 like.	 Do	 I	 make	 any

sense	 to	 you?”



622

“You	 make	 perfect	 sense	 to	 me.”





623





Forty-‐One



I	 put	 on	 the	 final	 touches	 of	 black	 ink,

splattered	 in	 some	 places.	 The	 photo	 of	 Carson

hugging	 Dylan	 at	 the	 party	 is	 captured	 in	 my	 own

style.	 I	 blew	 the	 photo	 up	 and	 hung	 it	 on	 my	 wall	 so

I	 could	 paint	 my	 own	 rendition	 of	 it.	 The	 goal	 is	 to

capture	 their	 love	 for	 each	 other	 and	 their	 stand-‐

out	 charisma	 in	 a	 sea	 of	 bodies.	 I	 am	 pleased	 with

the	 finished	 product	 and	 it	 gives	 me	 pause	 to

memorize	 Carson’s	 loving	 gaze	 on	 his	 younger

brother.	 It	 makes	 me	 miss	 Carson	 more	 and	 it’s	 the

reason	 I	 could	 never	 really	 leave	 Hera	 to	 move	 back

to	 New	 York.	 Knowing	 he’s	 a	 short	 distance	 up	 the

road	 from	 me	 is	 a	 geographical	 significance	 that	 I

don’t	 want	 to	 lose.

I	 pul 	 off	 my	 smock	 and	 take	 a	 quick	 shower	 to

scrub	 the	 paint	 from	 my	 nails	 and	 arms.	 The	 house

has	 a	 distinct,	 ever	 present	 chil ,	 like	 any	 old

Victorian	 home,	 so	 I	 put	 on	 a	 black	 tunic	 sweater



624

with	 a	 mock	 turtleneck	 and	 my	 black	 leggings,

topped	 off	 with	 my	 chunky	 glasses	 to	 remind	 me	 of

my	 afternoon	 with	 Carson	 in	 the	 library.	 I	 put

Carson’s	 key	 necklace	 on	 over	 the	 sweater.	 I	 wear

the	 necklace	 every	 day	 and	 flip	 it	 between	 my

fingers	 when	 I	 think	 of	 Carson.

I	 try	 out	 the	 new	 flat	 iron	 I	 bought	 online.

Imogene	 showed	 me	 how	 to	 create	 a	 new	 look.	 It

makes	 me	 look	 a	 little	 more	 sophisticated,	 I	 think,

when	 I	 straighten	 my	 hair	 out	 to	 its	 ful 	 length,

letting	 it	 drape	 in	 thick,	 silky	 strands.

The	 third	 floor	 is	 the	 warmest	 part	 of	 the

house,	 so	 I	 stay	 in	 my	 bedroom	 and	 work	 on	 the

bed	 with	 my	 laptop	 on	 a	 lap	 desk.	 It’s	 these	 times

of	 day	 when	 the	 girls	 are	 working	 at	 the	 diner	 that	 I

daydream	 too	 much,	 thinking	 about	 Carson.

Sometimes	 I	 get	 funny	 texts	 from	 Dylan,	 sent

to	 a	 wide	 circle	 of	 his	 friends;	 photos	 of	 a	 sandwich

he’s	 eating,	 or	 his	 feet	 propped	 on	 a	 table.	 His

messages	 are	 optimistic	 and	 are	 meant	 to	 reassure

us,	 especially	 Carson.	 However,	 when	 my	 phone

pings,	 I	 am	 always	 hoping	 it’s	 Carson.	 He	 wil 	 no



625

longer	 initiate	 anything	 between	 us.	 Lauren	 called

it;	 he’s	 waiting	 for	 me.

I	 run	 some	 tests	 on	 a	 program	 and	 take	 a	 few

work	 phone	 calls	 while	 Bert	 snuggles	 on	 the	 bed	 at

my	 feet.	 I	 like	 to	 run	 my	 toe	 over	 his	 jowls	 and

under	 his	 chin.	 He	 flips	 over	 on	 his	 back	 with	 his

legs	 in	 the	 air,	 hoping	 I’l 	 rub	 his	 bel y.	 “You	 males

are	 all	 the	 same,”	 I	 say	 to	 Bert.

“What	 about	 us	 males?”	 Carson	 fil s	 the

doorway,	 his	 hands	 raised	 above	 his	 head,	 gripping

the	 doorframe,	 and	 one	 bare	 foot	 bent	 slightly

forward	 in	 a	 casual	 stance.

“I	 didn’t	 hear	 you	 come	 in.	 What	 are	 you	 doing

here?”	 I	 try	 to	 fight	 back	 a	 smile	 so	 I	 don’t	 look	 too

eager.

He	 shrugs.	 “I	 stil 	 have	 a	 key.	 I	 decided	 that	 I

need	 to	 show	 you	 what	 you’re	 missing.”

“You	 mean	 sex?”

“Nope.	 By	 the	 way,	 your	 hair	 looks	 great	 like

that.”

“Are	 you	 trying	 to	 get	 in	 my	 pants?”

“Nope.	 There	 wil 	 be	 none	 of	 that.”



626

“Did	 you	 bring	 your	 handy	 dandy	 tool	 belt	 to

hammer	 something	 senseless?	 Something	 to	 drive

me	 insane?”

“Nope.	 I’m	 making	 dinner.	 I’l 	 let	 you	 know

when	 it’s	 ready.”

“But	 you	 can’t	 cook.”

“Imogene	 gave	 me	 some	 tips.	 It	 won’t	 be	 as

good	 as	 Dylan’s	 cooking,	 but	 I’ve	 got	 some	 moves.”

He	 is	 serious	 and	 it	 occurs	 to	 me	 that	 he	 is

intentionally	 staying	 outside	 of	 my	 bedroom.

“Dylan	 used	 to	 cook	 for	 me.	 Is	 that	 what	 this

is?	 I	 thought	 you	 weren’t	 jealous	 of	 Dylan	 and	 our

short	 affair.”	 I	 had	 to	 put	 that	 out	 there	 since	 it

seems	 to	 be	 one	 of	 the	 main	 reasons	 why	 I	 can’t

give	 myself	 completely	 to	 Carson.

“I’ve	 never	 been	 jealous	 of	 Dylan.	 I	 know	 how

much	 he	 has	 struggled.	 I	 would	 never	 want	 to	 live

with	 the	 demons	 that	 battle	 in	 his	 brain.”	 He’s

about	 to	 say	 more	 and	 then	 clears	 his	 throat	 to	 end

our	 conversation.	 “Be	 downstairs	 in	 an	 hour	 or	 I

wil 	 come	 and	 carry	 you	 down.	 Don’t	 cross	 me	 on

this	 one.”	 His	 lovely	 mouth	 curves	 and	 I	 am



627

tempted	 to	 ask	 him	 for	 a	 kiss,	 but	 I	 wil 	 fol ow	 his

rules.



An	 hour	 later,	 when	 I	 walk	 downstairs,	 I	 smel

tomato	 sauce	 and	 burnt	 garlic	 and	 enter	 the

kitchen	 to	 a	 scene	 of	 Carson	 flinging	 spaghetti

noodles	 against	 my	 new	 refrigerator.	 There’s	 a	 pile

of	 cooked	 noodles	 on	 the	 floor	 and	 a	 trail	 of	 them

sticking	 to	 the	 fridge.

“What	 are	 you	 doing	 to	 my	 new	 appliances?”

“Imogene	 told	 me	 how	 to	 test	 the	 pasta	 to

make	 sure	 it’s	 al	 dente.	 I	 think	 I	 got	 it.”	 He	 picks	 up

potholders	 and	 takes	 the	 boiling	 water	 off	 the

stove	 and	 dumps	 the	 noodles	 in	 a	 strainer	 in	 the

sink.	 He	 moves	 fast,	 sliding	 on	 his	 bare	 feet,	 tossing

olive	 oil	 in	 the	 pot	 and	 then	 tossing	 the	 drained

pasta	 back	 into	 it.	 He	 adds	 more	 olive	 oil	 and	 a

touch	 of	 marinara	 sauce	 from	 another	 pan.	 I	 see

empty	 jars	 of	 Rao’s	 Marinara	 Sauce	 on	 the	 counter.

“You	 got	 me	 Rao’s?”	 I	 am	 excited.

Carson	 smiles.	 “Sit	 down.	 Imogene	 told	 me	 it’s

your	 favorite	 and	 you	 miss	 it.	 I	 bought	 two	 cases



628

for	 you	 when	 I	 was	 on	 the	 Upper	 Westside

yesterday.”	 He	 nods	 to	 the	 boxes	 on	 the	 floor.

I	 put	 my	 hands	 together	 gleeful y	 as	 if	 he	 just

unveiled	 a	 pony	 to	 a	 five-‐year-‐old.	 He	 dresses	 our

pasta	 bowls	 with	 more	 sauce	 and	 freshly	 grated

Parmesan	 cheese.	 “So	 what’s	 the	 nasty	 smel ?”

“I	 annihilated	 the	 garlic	 bread.	 Apparently	 the

two-‐step	 directions	 were	 too	 complicated	 for	 me.”

I	 laugh,	 seeing	 the	 charred	 bread	 log	 on	 the

counter.	 “It’s	 the	 stove.	 It’s	 made	 for	 a	 professional

chef	 and	 it’s	 easy	 to	 ruin	 your	 food	 if	 you	 don’t

know	 what	 you’re	 doing.”

“Now	 you	 know	 why	 Talia	 is	 the	 only	 one	 who

uses	 my	 range.”	 His	 remark	 is	 meant	 to	 be	 funny,

but	 I	 feel	 a	 pang	 of	 envy	 that	 Talia	 spends	 several

days	 a	 week	 cooking	 for	 Carson	 and	 handling	 his

laundry,	 folding	 his	 boxer	 briefs!

He	 fil s	 two	 glasses	 of	 wine.	 “Eat,”	 he

commands.

I	 dig	 in	 and	 eat	 with	 a	 craving	 for	 my	 favorite

starchy	 carbs,	 twirling	 mounds	 of	 spaghetti	 on	 my

fork	 against	 the	 pasta	 spoon	 before	 shoving	 it	 in



629

my	 mouth.	 “Forgive	 me,	 but	 no	 one	 looks

attractive	 eating	 spaghetti	 and	 I’m	 really	 hungry.”

“Go	 ahead.	 Slurp	 all	 you	 want.”	 He	 is	 pleased

with	 himself.	 “Oh,	 and	 I	 fucked	 up	 the	 salad,	 too.	 It

was	 supposed	 to	 be	 arugula	 with	 shaved	 fennel.	 I

accidentally	 pulverized	 the	 fennel	 in	 the	 food

processor,	 so	 the	 salad	 is	 arugula	 with	 a	 side	 of

arugula.	 But	 this	 is	 very	 good	 wine	 and	 there’s	 ice

cream	 for	 dessert.”

I	 bark	 a	 laugh.	 “I	 thought	 you	 would	 offer

yourself	 up	 as	 dessert.	 Isn’t	 that	 a	 guy	 move?”

“Nope.	 No	 sex,	 babe.	 And	 if	 that’s	 what	 your

previous	 boyfriends	 offered,	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 hear

about	 it.	 Got	 it?”

“Sure.”	 I	 twirl	 a	 smaller	 amount	 on	 my	 fork	 and

try	 to	 look	 a	 bit	 more	 elegant,	 if	 that’s	 possible	 with

spaghetti.	 I	 like	 that	 he	 calls	 me	 babe,	 a	 new

endearment.	 “There	 weren’t	 any	 other	 boyfriends,

Carson.	 And	 Dylan	 was…	 you	 know,	 a	 moment	 in

time.”

He	 nods	 and	 keeps	 eating	 and	 re-‐filling	 my

wine	 glass.



630

When	 I	 work	 on	 my	 dish	 of	 caramel	 ice	 cream,

he	 gets	 up	 to	 do	 the	 dishes.	 With	 his	 back	 to	 me	 at

the	 sink,	 I	 watch	 his	 butt	 like	 it’s	 the	 swim	 relay	 at

the	 Olympics	 when	 the	 hunky	 anchor	 is	 coming

down	 the	 lane	 for	 the	 photo	 finish.	 My	 eyes	 never

leave	 Carson’s	 ass.

“Getting	 enough	 there?”	 he	 asks	 without

turning	 around.

“I	 have	 plenty	 of	 ice	 cream,	 thanks.”

“No,	 I	 meant	 the	 view.”	 He	 turns	 around	 and

points	 to	 the	 window	 over	 the	 sink	 where	 my

reflection	 looks	 back	 at	 me.

“Oh.	 Yeah,	 it’s	 a	 nice	 view.”	 Caught	 red-‐

handed.	 I	 smirk	 and	 lick	 my	 spoon.

“Don’t	 do	 that.”	 Carson	 is	 looking	 at	 my

tongue.	 “That	 new	 hair,	 with	 those	 glasses?	 It’s	 like

having	 a	 horny,	 sexy	 librarian	 staring	 at	 my	 ass.”

“How	 do	 you	 know	 I’m	 horny?”

“Because	 I’m	 horny,”	 he	 growls.	 He	 takes	 my

bowl,	 finishes	 loading	 the	 dishwasher	 and	 washing

the	 pots	 by	 hand.

“Thanks	 for	 dinner	 and	 doing	 the	 dishes.	 It	 was

a	 very	 nice	 surprise.”



631

Carson	 turns	 around	 and	 leans	 against	 the	 sink.

“It	 doesn’t	 have	 to	 be	 a	 surprise.	 I’m	 happy	 to	 do

this	 anytime.	 I’m	 happy	 to	 do	 a	 lot	 of	 things	 for	 you

that	 have	 nothing	 to	 do	 with	 sex.	 Believe	 me,	 when

I	 get	 horny,	 I	 don’t	 cook	 for	 any	 old	 girl.”

Our	 conversation	 is	 interrupted	 by	 Imogene

and	 Lauren	 making	 a	 commotion	 as	 they	 come	 in

the	 front	 door.	 “Who	 made	 dinner?”	 Imogene	 yel s

as	 she	 comes	 down	 the	 hall.

“Ah!	 Mr.	 Blackard,	 did	 you	 fol ow	 my

instructions?”	 Imogene	 smiles	 to	 me,	 sniffing,

looking	 for	 some	 sign	 of	 how	 the	 dinner	 went.

“I	 got	 about	 fifty	 percent	 of	 it	 right.	 There	 are

leftovers	 in	 the	 fridge	 for	 you	 and	 Lauren.”

Lauren	 pops	 into	 the	 kitchen	 with	 snow	 stil 	 in

her	 hair.	 She	 stands	 next	 to	 Carson	 at	 the	 sink	 and

looks	 at	 me,	 waiting	 for	 the	 game	 replay.

“Lauren,	 your	 eyes	 are	 about	 to	 pop	 out	 of

your	 head,”	 I	 say,	 getting	 up	 to	 put	 my	 wine	 glass

on	 the	 counter.

“Babe,	 don’t	 forget	 I’m	 coming	 tomorrow	 to	 fix

the	 downstairs	 toilet	 that	 keeps	 running	 and	 I’m

going	 to	 measure	 the	 windows.	 I’m	 not	 going	 to



632

replace	 them	 when	 it’s	 this	 cold,	 but	 I	 can	 order

them.”	 Carson	 kisses	 me	 on	 top	 of	 the	 head	 and

starts	 for	 the	 front	 door.	 I	 am	 a	 little	 tipsy	 and

giddy	 that	 he	 called	 me	 babe	 again,	 another

obvious	 move	 on	 his	 part.

“Babe?”	 Lauren	 whispers.

I	 ignore	 her	 and	 head	 to	 the	 door	 as	 Carson

puts	 his	 boots	 and	 coat	 on.

“Is	 this	 your	 new	 strategy?	 Show	 up	 and	 fix

things,	 cook	 for	 me,	 call	 me	 babe?”

“Yep,”	 he	 says	 and	 looks	 past	 me	 to	 see	 if	 the

girls	 are	 listening.	 We	 both	 know	 they	 are	 staying

perfectly	 quiet	 in	 the	 kitchen	 so	 they	 can	 hear	 us.

“You	 told	 me	 you	 didn’t	 want	 me	 barging	 in

anymore,	 but	 I’m	 thinking	 fuck	 that.	 I’m	 going	 to	 be

around	 and	 you’re	 going	 to	 know	 it.”

“To	 what	 end?	 Why?”

“So	 you’l 	 know	 how	 good	 it	 feels	 to	 be	 wanted

and	 needed;	 to	 know	 that	 it’s	 what	 you	 really	 want.”

“You	 think	 so?”	 I	 linger,	 hanging	 back	 at	 the	 far

end	 of	 the	 front	 hall.

“Yeah,	 I	 do.”



633

He	 strides	 toward	 me	 and	 covers	 my	 mouth

with	 his	 lips	 that	 taste	 like	 marinara	 sauce	 and	 wine.

I	 let	 a	 small	 moan	 escape	 and	 he	 probes	 further,

running	 his	 tongue	 inside	 every	 part	 of	 my	 mouth

before	 tugging	 on	 my	 bottom	 lip	 with	 his	 teeth.	 We

slowly	 pul 	 apart,	 not	 wanting	 the	 kiss	 to	 end.

“I’m	 going	 to	 get	 in	 my	 truck	 and	 think	 about

you	 on	 the	 drive	 home.	 Then	 I’m	 going	 to	 go	 to	 bed

and	 think	 about	 you	 until	 I	 fall	 asleep.	 When	 I	 wake

up,	 I’l 	 think	 about	 you	 again	 and	 then	 I’l 	 have	 to

take	 a	 cold	 shower.	 I’m	 going	 to	 pick	 up	 lunch

because	 I	 know	 you	 like	 when	 Sushi	 Dan	 is	 town.	 So

I’m	 going	 to	 bring	 you	 lunch.	 I’m	 going	 to	 work	 in

your	 house	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 afternoon,	 not	 because	 I

want	 to	 fuck	 you,	 but	 because	 your	 house	 needs

work.	 I	 wouldn’t	 mind	 if	 you	 think	 about	 me,	 too.

Even	 if	 it’s	 my	 ass	 that	 turns	 you	 on.”

I	 am	 touched	 by	 his	 thoughtful	 assertiveness

and	 insistence	 and	 he’s	 so	 goddamn	 sexy.	 “I	 love

Sushi	 Dan.”

His	 mouth	 does	 that	 slight	 curve	 again.	 “I	 have

to	 leave	 before	 I	 kiss	 you	 again.”



634

“Wait	 a	 minute.	 Who	 is	 Talia	 cooking	 for?	 Are

you	 going	 to	 sneak	 home	 and	 eat	 the	 good	 stuff?”

“Nope.	 I	 gave	 her	 three	 weeks	 off.	 So	 it’s	 you,

me	 and	 my	 bad	 cooking.”

“That	 was	 generous	 of	 you.	 It’s	 paid	 time	 off,

right?”

Carson	 shrugs.	 “She	 needs	 to	 see	 her	 family	 in

Poland.”

“And	 I	 bet	 you	 paid	 for	 the	 trip.	 You’re	 such	 a

nice	 person.”

Carson	 picks	 up	 my	 hand	 and	 kisses	 it.	 “I’m

coming	 back	 for	 you.”

He	 sure	 knows	 how	 to	 shut	 me	 up.	 I	 bask

numbly	 in	 his	 flirtation	 before	 he	 leaves	 and	 I	 lock

the	 door	 behind	 him.

“What	 was	 that?”	 Lauren	 asks,	 running	 down

the	 hall	 towards	 me.	 “Babe?”

I	 shake	 my	 head.	 “He	 wants	 to	 come	 over	 and

fix	 things.”	 I	 shrug.

Imogene	 joins	 us	 and	 crosses	 her	 arms.	 “He

wants	 to	 fix	 you.

My	 cel 	 phone	 pings	 with	 a	 text	 from	 Carson.

You’re	 always	 on	 my	 mind.



635

Lauren	 reads	 it	 and	 does	 one	 of	 those	 spastic

cheerleader	 jumps.	 “He’s	 courting	 you.	 He’s

wooing	 you	 until	 you	 admit	 that	 you’re	 in	 love	 with

him.”

Imogene	 is	 more	 reserved	 and,	 for	 some

reason,	 I	 trust	 her	 advice	 more	 than	 Lauren’s.

Something	 about	 Imogene’s	 dark	 red	 lipstick	 and

dark	 wavy	 hair	 with	 her	 Jessica	 Rabbit	 body	 makes

her	 seem	 like	 a	 woman	 who	 reads	 men	 wel .	 “He’s

very	 serious,	 Jess.	 It	 may	 look	 cute	 and	 innocent,

but	 make	 no	 mistake.	 Carson	 is	 deadly	 serious

about	 what	 he’s	 doing.	 Do	 not	 fuck	 with	 his	 heart

on	 this.	 If	 you	 have	 a	 problem,	 you	 tel 	 him	 now.”

Her	 warning	 carries	 a	 great	 weight,	 this	 time	 I

understand.	 I	 can’t	 dismiss	 her	 the	 way	 I	 brushed

off	 Carson’s	 warning	 about	 Dylan.





636





Forty-‐Two



For	 the	 next	 two	 weeks	 leading	 up	 to	 my	 show,

Carson	 arrives	 every	 day	 to	 work	 on	 my	 house	 and

to	 cook	 dinner.	 I	 work	 in	 the	 library	 or	 paint	 in	 the

studio	 and	 sometimes	 I	 wonder	 if	 he’s	 downstairs

breaking	 things	 so	 he	 has	 projects	 to	 work	 on.	 I

really	 don’t	 care.	 I	 listen	 like	 a	 hawk	 for	 any	 sign	 of

the	 door	 opening	 and	 grin	 to	 myself	 when	 I	 know

he’s	 arrived.

Sometimes	 he	 comes	 in	 the	 morning	 and	 stays

all	 day.	 Sometimes	 he	 brings	 my	 lunch	 and	 then

works,	 but	 he	 always	 informs	 me	 when	 dinner	 is

ready.	 Afterward,	 I	 always	 come	 downstairs	 to	 eat

his	 stinky	 tuna	 casserole,	 his	 crunchy	 dry	 meatloaf,

his	 tacos	 made	 with	 store	 bought	 rotisserie	 chicken,

his	 sub	 sandwiches	 that	 could	 feed	 four	 men,	 or	 his

pasta	 that	 he	 tops	 off	 with	 my	 favorite	 Rao’s	 sauce.

If	 the	 girls	 are	 here,	 we	 all	 eat	 together	 and	 he

openly	 refers	 to	 me	 as	 babe	 and	 kisses	 me



637

whenever	 he	 pleases,	 but	 he	 never	 takes	 it	 further.

His	 hand	 doesn’t	 reach	 under	 my	 shirt	 to	 cop	 a	 feel

and	 he	 never	 lets	 his	 lower	 extremities	 brush

against	 me.	 He’s	 making	 me	 insane	 with	 wanting

him.

When	 we	 do	 finally	 meet	 at	 the	 end	 of	 the

workday	 for	 dinner,	 I’m	 dying	 to	 hear	 his	 voice	 and

have	 him	 talk	 to	 me	 about	 anything.	 I	 find	 his

observations	 on	 amendments	 to	 an	 IRS	 code	 for

businesses	 in	 particular	 to	 be	 a	 real	 turn	 on.	 I	 don’t

care	 if	 he	 is	 talking	 about	 wood	 varnish,	 rotating	 his

tires	 or	 the	 weather	 report,	 I	 just	 need	 to	 be	 near

him	 and	 hear	 his	 voice.

Carson	 is	 playing	 for	 keeps	 and	 my	 heart	 is

tugging	 me	 towards	 him.	 Everything	 I	 was	 taught

and	 all	 that	 I’ve	 perpetuated	 about	 keeping	 a

distance	 from	 men	 is	 being	 tested	 daily	 and	 hourly;

my	 feelings	 for	 Carson	 are	 breaking	 down	 the

defenses	 in	 my	 brain.



The	 day	 before	 my	 show,	 Carson	 doesn’t	 show

up.	 By	 lunchtime,	 I’m	 worried.	 Maybe	 Archie	 is

right	 and	 I	 waited	 too	 long.	 My	 phone	 pings	 with	 a



638

text	 from	 Carson. Something	 came	 up.	 See	 you	 at

dinner.

I	 sigh	 with	 relief.	 He’s	 coming,	 but	 not	 until

dinner.	 Carson	 has	 rendered	 my	 brain	 useless.	 I

think	 about	 him	 moving	 around	 my	 house,	 cooking

in	 the	 kitchen,	 eating	 dinner	 with	 me	 and	 talking

about	 his	 shop	 or	 his	 clients,	 the	 furniture	 designs

he’s	 working	 on	 and	 about	 the	 sex	 I’m	 not	 getting.

The	 kind	 of	 sex	 that	 addles	 my	 brain	 and	 fil s	 my

heart	 with	 a	 gush	 of	 love	 for	 Carson. I	 love	 him! 	 My

brain	 screams	 this	 over	 and	 over.



I	 shower	 and	 change	 into	 clean	 jeans	 and	 a

flouncy	 cream	 blouse	 with	 a	 scoop	 neck	 which	 hits

me	 at	 the	 hips.	 I	 play	 with	 my	 hair,	 making	 long

waves	 with	 the	 curling	 iron	 and	 I	 put	 on	 some

mascara	 and	 a	 dusting	 of	 a	 light	 eye	 shadow.	 I	 wear

my	 favorite	 black,	 knee-‐high	 boots	 over	 my	 jeans

that	 also	 give	 me	 a	 two-‐inch	 boost.	 Nothing	 Carson

would	 notice	 since	 he’s	 six	 four,	 yet	 it	 makes	 me

feel	 sexier	 to	 walk	 on	 longer	 legs.	 I	 put	 on	 my	 wool

coat	 and	 grab	 my	 purse,	 car	 keys	 and	 a	 portfolio

case.



639

“Wish	 me	 luck,”	 I	 say	 to	 Bert.	 He	 licks	 his	 chops

and	 plops	 back	 down	 on	 the	 bottom	 step	 so	 he	 can

greet	 me	 when	 I	 return.



As	 I	 drive	 through	 the	 snow,	 rumbling	 up	 the

snow-‐packed	 road	 to	 Carson’s	 house,	 it	 occurs	 to

me	 that	 he’s	 probably	 not	 there.	 The	 “something”

was	 most	 likely	 work-‐related	 and	 I’m	 wasting	 my

time.	 My	 worries	 are	 eased	 somewhat	 when	 I	 see

Carson’s	 truck	 in	 front	 of	 his	 house.	 Then	 a	 new	 set

of	 fears	 set	 in.	 What	 is	 he	 doing	 home	 when	 he

should	 be	 at	 work	 or	 at	 my	 home?

My	 heels	 sink	 and	 crunch	 in	 the	 snow	 as	 I

make	 my	 way	 to	 the	 door.	 I	 hesitate,	 my	 finger

hovering	 over	 the	 doorbel .	 I	 push	 it	 and	 exhale.	 I

hear	 voices	 and	 wonder	 how	 many	 people	 are

behind	 the	 door.	 Before	 I	 can	 consider	 crunching

my	 way	 back	 to	 the	 car,	 the	 door	 swings	 wide	 open

and	 Carson	 is	 inches	 from	 me,	 towering	 like	 the

giant	 I	 found	 intimidating	 on	 my	 first	 day	 in	 Hera

except	 he’s	 shirtless.	 His	 jeans	 hang	 lower	 than

usual,	 a	 sign	 that	 he’s	 going	 commando.	 Combine



640

that	 with	 the	 angles	 and	 planes	 of	 his	 brawny	 arms

and	 torso,	 and	 I’m	 rendered	 speechless.

I’m	 in	 love	 with	 one	 of	 those	 beautiful	 god-‐like

men	 I	 used	 to	 assume	 were	 brainless.	 He’s	 anything

other	 than	 brainless,	 though.	 He’s	 the	 only	 guy	 I

have	 lusted	 over	 who	 enjoys	 listening	 to	 me	 rattle

on	 about	 function	 theory	 and	 computational

testing.	 How	 have	 I	 gotten	 so	 lucky	 as	 to	 have	 the

biggest	 and	 hottest	 star	 in	 my	 little	 galaxy?

He	 is	 surprised	 to	 see	 me	 and	 it	 takes	 a

moment	 for	 him	 to	 quickly	 scan	 all	 my	 body	 parts

with	 concern	 as	 if	 I	 might	 be	 injured	 before	 he

understands	 that	 I’m	 there	 to	 see	 him.

“Jess.”	 A	 smile	 breaks	 across	 his	 face.	 He	 steps

back.	 “Come	 in.”

I	 walk	 in,	 clutching	 the	 portfolio,	 my	 nerves

threatening	 to	 revolt	 on	 me.

“Did	 I	 interrupt	 something?	 I	 heard	 voices.”

“I	 was	 talking	 to	 Dylan	 on	 the	 computer.	 That’s

why	 I	 stayed	 home	 this	 afternoon	 and	 couldn’t

come	 to	 your	 place.	 The	 facility	 monitors	 all

outside	 communication,	 so	 he	 has	 to	 sign	 up	 for

computer	 time	 for	 live	 chats.	 We’re	 finished,



641

though.	 Come	 in,	 give	 me	 your	 coat.”	 He	 finishes

unbuttoning	 my	 coat	 for	 me	 and	 hangs	 it	 up	 in	 the

hall	 closet.	 Dying	 embers	 are	 glowing	 in	 the	 living

room	 fireplace	 and	 I	 see	 his	 open	 laptop	 on	 the

coffee	 table.

“How	 is	 Dylan?”	 I	 ask	 as	 Carson	 picks	 up	 the

key	 on	 my	 necklace.	 His	 mouth	 curves	 before	 he

lets	 the	 key	 drop	 from	 his	 hand.

Carson	 pauses	 and	 looks	 down,	 a	 moment	 of

reverie	 for	 his	 sibling.	 “He	 sounds	 really	 good.

Dylan’s	 good	 at	 fooling	 people,	 but	 this	 time	 he

sounds	 genuinely	 good.”

“Great.	 Everyone	 is	 rooting	 for	 Dylan.	 I	 bet	 he

has	 made	 friends	 there.”

Carson	 smiles,	 yet	 seems	 apprehensive.	 I’m

giving	 off	 mixed	 signals	 again.	 My	 knuckles	 turn

white	 as	 my	 grip	 on	 the	 portfolio	 increases	 and	 I

begin	 to	 crush	 the	 cardboard.

“Hey,”	 he	 says	 and	 takes	 the	 portfolio	 from	 my

hands.	 I	 bend	 down	 to	 remove	 my	 boots.	 My

recent	 pedicure	 shows	 off	 bright	 red	 toenails	 and

baby	 soft	 feet.	 In	 the	 excitement	 to	 see	 him,	 I

forgot	 to	 put	 on	 socks	 and	 I’m	 glad.	 Carson	 takes	 in



642

a	 slow	 breath	 as	 he	 watches	 my	 toes	 when	 I	 arch

my	 foot	 from	 the	 boot.

“I	 brought	 you	 something.	 I	 hope	 you	 like	 it.”

He	 turns	 his	 focus	 to	 the	 portfolio.

“A	 gift?	 You	 made	 this	 for	 me?”	 His	 mouth

curves	 into	 a	 lopsided	 grin.

I	 nod.

Carson	 opens	 the	 case	 and	 takes	 the	 painting

out.	 He	 lets	 the	 portfolio	 fall	 to	 the	 floor	 as	 he

holds	 the	 painting	 with	 both	 hands	 and	 studies	 it.	 I

can’t	 read	 his	 solemn	 face.	 Maybe	 including	 Dylan

in	 the	 piece	 was	 a	 mistake	 and	 Carson	 is	 uncertain

whether	 I	 am	 secretly	 holding	 a	 torch	 for	 his

brother.

“This	 is—”	 He	 stops	 mid-‐sentence	 when	 his

voice	 catches	 and	 a	 sadness	 crinkles	 around	 his

eyes.

“I’m	 sorry.	 Does	 it	 upset	 you?”

“No.	 I’m	 astonished,”	 he	 says,	 studying	 the

painting.	 “You	 captured	 the	 part	 of	 me	 and	 Dylan

that	 means	 the	 most	 to	 me.”	 He	 looks	 at	 me	 and

then	 again	 at	 the	 painting.	 “You	 got	 it.”



643

“So	 you	 really	 like	 it?”	 I	 can’t	 hold	 my	 smile

back.

“Are	 you	 kidding?	 I’m	 framing	 this.”	 He	 walks

over	 to	 the	 coffee	 table	 and	 sets	 the	 painting	 down

to	 admire	 it	 from	 a	 distance.

I	 stay	 by	 the	 door	 and	 put	 my	 fists	 up	 to	 my

chin,	 anxious	 to	 finish	 what	 I	 came	 to	 do.

“Are	 you	 going	 to	 come	 in?”	 he	 asks,	 turning

back	 to	 me.	 “You	 can	 sit	 down	 and	 relax.	 I	 don’t

bite.”	 That’s	 not	 entirely	 true	 when	 I	 think	 back	 to

him	 taking	 a	 few	 nips	 against	 my	 butt	 cheeks.

“I	 have	 something	 I	 want	 to	 tel 	 you.”	 I	 clip	 the

words	 out	 and	 can’t	 hide	 my	 uneasiness.

“Ah.	 This	 sounds	 serious.”	 Carson	 comes	 back

to	 me	 by	 stepping	 on	 the	 couch	 and	 flying	 over	 the

back	 of	 it,	 landing	 at	 my	 feet.	 He’s	 my	 personal

super	 hero,	 shirtless	 of	 course,	 so	 I	 can	 marvel	 at

his	 beauty.	 “This	 is	 about	 you	 and	 me.”

“Yes.”	 I	 hold	 my	 elbows	 across	 my	 chest	 and

let	 my	 gaze	 wander	 down	 to	 his	 chest	 which	 is	 eye

level	 for	 me.



644

He	 puts	 two	 fingers	 under	 my	 chin	 and	 lifts	 my

head	 up	 to	 meet	 his	 gaze.	 “Say	 it.	 Whatever	 it	 is.

Say	 it,”	 he	 demands	 and	 releases	 my	 chin.

“Okay.	 Here	 it	 is.	 I	 push	 back	 because	 I	 am

scared	 about	 many	 things,	 mostly	 because	 I’m

young	 and	 stupid	 when	 it	 comes	 to	 men.	 Because	 I

was	 with	 your	 brother	 and	 I	 thought	 that	 made	 me

unworthy	 of	 you.”	 Carson	 grimaces	 at	 that.

“Furthermore,	 I	 really	 didn’t	 believe	 that	 anything

good	 would	 come	 out	 of	 being	 with	 you	 because	 I

was	 so	 afraid	 of	 being	 hurt.	 It	 felt	 like	 I	 was	 giving

you	 a	 power	 over	 me,	 but	 the	 truth	 is,	 I	 feel

stronger	 when	 I’m	 with	 you.	 When	 you	 tel 	 me

those	 beautiful	 things	 about	 myself	 like	 tel ing	 me

I’m	 fearsome,	 I	 feel	 the	 same	 way	 about	 you.	 I	 do

feel	 the	 same	 way	 about	 you	 in	 every	 way	 possible.”

Carson	 moves	 closer	 to	 me	 and	 settles	 his

hands	 firmly	 on	 my	 waist.	 “Say.	 It.”

“I	 love…	 I	 love	 you.	 I	 love	 you,	 Carson.”

“Yes,	 you	 do.”	 He	 smiles	 and	 leans	 in	 to	 give

me	 a	 tender	 kiss.

I	 take	 a	 breath	 and	 struggle	 to	 say	 more.



645

“You	 have	 something	 else	 to	 say.	 It’s	 okay,	 tel

me.”

“I’m	 also	 terrified	 that	 I	 fel 	 in	 love	 with	 you

too	 fast.”

“Fast?	 It’s	 taken	 you	 months!”	 Carson	 smiles.

“It	 goes	 against	 everything	 my	 parents	 taught

me	 about	 being	 a	 practical,	 responsible	 person,”	 I

ramble.

“You	 make	 it	 sound	 like	 loving	 someone	 is	 the

same	 as	 paying	 your	 phone	 bil .	 Should	 I	 be

concerned?”	 Carson	 squeezes	 my	 waist	 and	 moves

his	 palms	 up	 my	 back	 before	 giving	 me	 another	 soft

kiss.

“No,	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 be	 concerned.	 I	 don’t

want	 to	 be	 without	 you,”	 I	 whisper	 between	 kisses.

“It’s	 too	 empty	 when	 you’re	 not	 near	 me,	 it	 hurts

when	 you	 stay	 away	 from	 me.”

“Same	 here.”

“Carson?”

“What?”	 he	 asks,	 brushing	 his	 lips	 against	 mine.

“I’m	 not	 as	 strong	 or	 as	 smart	 as	 you	 think	 I	 am.

Don’t	 break	 me.”



646

“Never.”	 He	 holds	 me	 tightly.	 “We’re	 going	 to

make	 each	 other	 very	 happy.	 You	 and	 me,	 babe.”

“You’re	 the	 first	 man	 I	 have	 ever	 been	 in	 love

with.”	 I	 curl	 into	 his	 embrace,	 my	 heart	 racing.

“I’m	 also	 the	 last.	 And	 you	 are	 the	 only	 woman

I	 can	 imagine	 loving	 forever.	 So	 we’re	 even.”	 He

picks	 me	 up	 with	 an	 arm	 under	 my	 legs	 and	 behind

my	 back.	 I	 wrap	 my	 arms	 around	 his	 neck.

“What	 are	 you	 doing?”

“Kiss	 me,”	 he	 commands	 before	 he	 carries	 me

up	 to	 his	 bedroom	 without	 ever	 removing	 his	 lips

from	 mine.

When	 he	 sets	 me	 down	 on	 the	 floor	 in	 the

master	 suite,	 he	 kicks	 the	 door	 closed.

“Lock	 it,”	 I	 say,	 thinking	 of	 Talia	 showing	 up.

Carson	 laughs.	 “Talia	 is	 stil 	 in	 Poland.	 Take	 all

of	 your	 clothes	 off.	 Every	 last	 stitch.”

I	 remove	 my	 blouse	 and,	 when	 Carson	 sees	 my

black	 lace	 bra,	 he	 begins	 undressing	 me	 himself.

His	 hands	 pul 	 down	 my	 jeans	 and	 panties	 and	 then

he	 unclasps	 my	 bra,	 palming	 the	 mounded	 skin

beneath	 before	 the	 bra	 falls	 to	 the	 floor.	 His	 jeans

fly	 off	 and	 his	 mouth	 is	 instantly	 on	 my	 breast;	 I



647

gasp	 from	 the	 heat	 of	 his	 mouth	 and	 the	 sensation

that	 ripples	 through	 my	 body.	 I	 go	 boneless	 and	 he

carries	 me	 to	 the	 bed.	 He	 reluctantly	 reaches	 for

the	 condoms	 in	 his	 nightstand.

I	 put	 my	 hand	 on	 his	 arm.	 “Carson,	 I	 went	 on

the	 pil .	 I	 decided	 to	 go	 on	 the	 pil 	 so	 I	 can	 be	 with

you.”

“Excel ent,”	 he	 chokes	 out.

His	 cock,	 long	 and	 hard,	 rubs	 against	 my	 bel y

as	 he	 kisses	 me	 gently	 and	 slowly.	 He	 lavishes	 his

talented	 tongue	 down	 to	 the	 sensitive	 zones	 on	 my

neck	 and	 I	 moan	 as	 I	 close	 my	 eyes.

“Babe,	 keep	 your	 eyes	 open.”	 He	 pul s	 me	 up

to	 the	 headboard	 so	 my	 head	 is	 on	 the	 high	 pil ows.

I	 look	 down	 to	 see	 Carson	 spreading	 my	 legs	 and

kissing	 at	 the	 top	 of	 my	 thigh	 before	 licking	 into	 my

wet	 center.	 I	 moan	 his	 name	 and	 encourage	 him	 to

keep	 going.	 When	 he	 sucks	 on	 my	 special	 spot,	 my

hands	 fist	 in	 his	 hair	 and	 I	 buck	 into	 his	 mouth.	 He

doesn’t	 slow	 down.	 Tongue,	 circle,	 tongue,	 suck,

repeat.	 I	 come	 in	 a	 dizzying	 frenzy	 of	 moans	 that

end	 with	 me	 shouting	 his	 name.

“Damn,”	 I	 whisper.



648

I	 am	 stil 	 with	 pleasure	 which	 paralyzes	 every

cel 	 and	 limb.	 Carson	 props	 himself	 above	 me.	 “You

should	 see	 your	 face	 after	 you	 come.	 You’re

gorgeous.”

I	 smile	 lazily	 as	 my	 eyes	 close,	 enjoying	 the

rapture.

“No,	 look	 at	 me,”	 he	 says,	 straining	 over	 me

with	 his	 own	 need.

I	 stare	 into	 his	 eyes	 as	 they	 glitter	 with	 love

and	 bliss.	 He	 rubs	 himself	 against	 my	 clit.	 “You’re

so	 wet.”

I	 replace	 his	 hand	 with	 mine	 and	 stroke	 his

cock,	 rubbing	 it	 against	 me.

“Jesus.	 Shit.	 It’s	 been	 so	 long	 that	 it’s	 going	 to

make	 me	 come.”	 He	 pul s	 my	 hand	 away	 and	 lies

down	 next	 to	 me.	 His	 cock	 rests	 on	 my	 thigh	 as	 he

begins	 kissing	 me	 hard.	 I	 taste	 myself	 on	 his	 tongue.

I	 begin	 to	 stroke	 him	 as	 we	 kiss	 and	 a	 guttural

moan	 escapes	 from	 him.	 I	 get	 up	 and	 push	 him	 on

his	 back.	 “My	 turn,”	 I	 say,	 pinning	 his	 biceps	 down,

a	 purely	 symbolic	 gesture	 since	 the	 muscles	 in	 his

arms	 are	 too	 wide	 for	 my	 hands	 to	 grasp.



649

I	 get	 between	 his	 legs	 and	 hold	 his	 length,

running	 my	 tongue	 up	 and	 down	 the	 shaft,	 taking

extra	 time	 to	 circle	 the	 tip	 so	 it	 releases	 its	 creamy

fluids.

“Babe,	 stop,	 I’m	 going	 to	 come	 if	 you	 keep

doing	 that.	 I	 can’t	 hold	 on	 and	 then	 it	 wil 	 be	 over

too	 quickly,”	 Carson	 says	 this	 between	 his	 panting

moans.

“Carson,	 I’m	 not	 going	 anywhere.	 We	 have	 all

day	 and	 night.”	 I	 put	 him	 in	 my	 mouth	 and	 watch

his	 expression	 glaze	 over	 with	 surrender.

I’m	 certainly	 no	 expert,	 but	 I	 put	 everything	 I

know	 into	 worshipping	 his	 cock.	 I	 suck	 and	 take	 as

much	 of	 him	 as	 I	 can	 into	 my	 mouth,	 hoping	 that

he	 doesn’t	 feel	 cheated	 that	 there	 isn’t	 enough

room	 for	 all	 of	 him.	 My	 jaw	 aches	 between	 the

ferocious	 sucking,	 licking	 and	 stroking.	 Carson’s

hands	 move	 from	 balling	 the	 comforter	 in	 his	 fists

to	 holding	 my	 head	 and	 pushing	 me	 as	 far	 onto	 him

as	 possible.

Carson	 comes,	 shouting	 my	 name,	 and	 I	 feel	 a

little	 self-‐satisfaction	 in	 that.	 I	 swallow	 the	 spurts	 of

semen	 and	 take	 breaths	 while	 I	 can,	 so	 I	 can



650

continue	 my	 assault	 on	 his	 favorite	 appendage.

When	 he’s	 empty,	 I	 bend	 over	 his	 thigh	 and	 wipe

my	 mouth	 on	 the	 comforter	 before	 I	 kiss	 my	 way

up	 his	 torso	 to	 relax	 against	 his	 side.	 His	 arm	 pul s

me	 in	 snug	 against	 him	 and	 he	 kisses	 me	 again	 so

our	 tongues	 share	 everything—every	 fluid—a

marking	 of	 territory,	 taking	 possession	 of	 each

other	 in	 the	 most	 primal	 way.

“I’m	 the	 only	 woman	 you’ve	 had	 in	 this	 bed?”

My	 fingers	 flit	 lightly	 across	 his	 chest	 in	 dancing

circles.

“Yes.	 Are	 you	 going	 to	 stay?”	 He	 sounds

cautious.	 I	 don’t	 blame	 him.	 Given	 his	 unstable,	 sad

family	 history	 and	 my	 ability	 to	 put	 myself	 and	 my

career	 choices	 above	 all	 else,	 he	 must	 stil 	 have

reservations	 about	 me.	 “Your	 show	 may	 launch	 a

whole	 new	 sphere	 of	 clients	 who	 want	 your	 art.	 To

be	 successful	 in	 that	 business	 you	 need	 to	 be

tenacious	 and	 you	 may	 want	 to	 live	 in	 the	 city

again	 to	 maintain	 contacts	 and	 work	 ful 	 time	 on

your	 painting.	 Have	 you	 thought	 of	 that?”

“I	 thought	 you	 were	 opposed	 to	 me	 moving

back	 to	 the	 city?	 Are	 you	 trying	 to	 get	 rid	 of	 me?”	 I



651

try	 to	 sound	 flighty	 and	 sweet	 the	 way	 a	 girlfriend

would	 behave.

“No.	 You	 know	 I	 want	 you	 to	 live	 here,	 but	 I

want	 to	 make	 sure	 you’ve	 worked	 out	 all	 the	 issues

in	 your	 head.	 If	 you	 change	 your	 mind	 and	 end	 up

leaving,	 it	 wil 	 destroy	 me.”

I	 lift	 my	 head	 up	 and	 lean	 on	 my	 arm	 to	 look	 at

him.	 His	 blue	 eyes	 against	 the	 backdrop	 of	 his

chiseled,	 handsome	 face;	 his	 prominent

cheekbones	 and	 strong	 chin	 make	 him	 look	 too

beautiful	 to	 be	 a	 sad	 person.	 He	 is	 blessed	 with

beauty	 and	 intel igence	 while	 he’s	 also	 very	 serious

about	 me.	 I	 wish	 he	 had	 made	 that	 clear	 from	 day

one.	 I	 wish	 he	 had	 been	 the	 Blackard	 to	 ask	 me	 out

first.

“You	 don’t	 really	 trust	 me,”	 I	 say.

He	 puts	 his	 hand	 on	 the	 back	 of	 my	 head	 to

pul 	 me	 in	 for	 a	 sweet	 kiss.	 “I	 do,”	 he	 says.	 “I

believe	 your	 intentions	 are	 good,	 but	 sometimes

that	 isn’t	 enough.	 If	 you’re	 not	 one	 hundred

percent	 sure	 of	 being	 here,	 you	 may	 change	 your

mind.”



652

“So	 you	 think	 I’m	 fickle.	 In	 other	 words,	 you

don’t	 trust	 my	 emotions.”

Carson	 grimaces	 and	 shakes	 his	 head.	 “I	 love

you	 and	 I	 want	 you	 to	 share	 the	 same	 degree	 of

love	 I	 have	 for	 you.”

“I	 came	 here,	 nervous	 as	 hel ,	 and	 told	 you

that	 I	 love	 you.”	 I	 don’t	 like	 sounding	 pouty,	 but	 I

don’t	 know	 where	 he’s	 going	 with	 this.

“Fucking	 ‘bout	 time.	 Thank	 you	 for	 that.”	 He

smiles	 and	 kisses	 me	 again.

“Everyone	 gives	 me	 a	 hard	 time	 about	 my

plans	 and	 these	 rules	 of	 order	 I	 have	 set	 up	 for	 my

personal	 goals,	 but	 you’re	 worse.	 You	 keep

changing	 the	 rules.	 You	 want	 me	 to	 stay.	 I	 stay.	 You

want	 me	 to	 love	 you.	 I	 love	 you.	 Now	 you	 question

if	 my	 degree	 of	 love	 is	 great	 enough	 to	 keep	 me

grounded	 or	 keep	 us	 together?”

“I’m	 not	 doubting	 you.	 Shit.	 I’m	 sorry.”	 He

kisses	 me	 again,	 deeper.	 “Tel 	 me	 where	 you	 see

yourself	 in	 the	 future.”

“Ah.	 The	 future.	 I	 don’t	 have	 a	 crystal	 ball.”

“Tel 	 me	 what	 you	 want,	 Jess.”



653

“I	 want	 harmony.	 I	 want	 my	 art	 and	 I	 want	 to

be	 with	 you.	 I	 want	 both	 and	 I	 want	 it	 to	 be

harmonious.	 Is	 that	 a	 cop	 out?”

“No.	 I’l 	 take	 it.”	 Carson	 smiles.

Carson	 moves	 on	 top	 of	 me,	 holding	 my	 hands

and	 pinning	 them	 down	 on	 either	 side	 of	 my	 head.

His	 leg	 pushes	 mine	 apart	 and	 he	 positions	 himself

at	 my	 sex.	 He’s	 already	 hard	 and	 eager	 to	 resume

his	 quest	 to	 keep	 me	 in	 his	 bed.

My	 eyes	 begin	 to	 drift	 closed	 with	 arousal.

“Look	 at	 me,	 Jess.	 Look	 at	 me.”

I	 stare	 right	 into	 those	 steely	 blue	 eyes	 as	 he

teases	 my	 body	 with	 the	 tip	 of	 his	 cock,	 light

thrusts	 dip	 into	 my	 wet	 folds	 before	 fil ing	 me	 up

completely.	 Since	 my	 hands	 are	 trapped	 and	 I	 can’t

touch	 him,	 I	 arch	 up	 so	 he’l 	 use	 that	 perfect

tongue	 on	 me.	 He	 sucks	 and	 bites	 my	 nipples	 and

then	 finds	 that	 good	 spot	 inside	 of	 me	 that	 he

caresses	 with	 his	 length	 in	 a	 sideways	 motion

which	 brings	 me	 to	 an	 early	 climax.	 The	 orgasm	 is

short,	 though	 explosive.	 I	 bring	 my	 legs	 up	 and

wrap	 them	 around	 Carson	 and	 it	 sends	 me	 off	 on



654

another	 round	 of	 spasms;	 smaller	 in	 intensity,	 but

deliciously	 long.

“Don’t	 stop	 looking	 at	 me,”	 he	 says	 with	 a

raspy	 voice.

“You	 are	 so	 demanding,	 Blackard.”	 However,	 I

keep	 focused	 on	 his	 eyes	 that	 bore	 into	 me	 with

love.	 Carson	 keeps	 rocking	 me	 through	 my

pleasurable	 moans	 until	 he	 gets	 even	 harder	 and

rubs	 against	 me	 in	 a	 way	 that	 makes	 him	 come

with	 violent	 thrusts	 and	 grunts.

He	 releases	 my	 hands,	 but	 stays	 inside	 of	 me

and	 lets	 the	 bottom	 half	 of	 his	 body	 weigh	 me

down.	 He	 holds	 himself	 up	 on	 his	 forearms	 and

positions	 his	 hands	 in	 my	 hair.	 “I	 just	 want	 you	 to

be	 mine,”	 he	 says.

“You	 have	 me;	 body	 and	 soul,	 and	 all	 the	 parts

in	 between.”





655





Forty-‐Three



The	 gallery	 is	 spectacularly	 crowded.	 Most

people	 are	 here	 for	 Martin	 and	 Yvette,	 who	 have

representation	 in	 several	 major	 cities	 in	 Europe	 as

wel .	 They	 are	 the	 artists	 with	 the	 star	 power,	 but

I’m	 thril ed	 to	 ride	 behind	 on	 their	 coattails.	 Tom	 is

working	 the	 crowd,	 introducing	 the	 artists	 to

potential	 buyers.

I	 do	 my	 best	 to	 talk	 about	 my	 paintings	 and

answer	 questions	 like	 a	 seasoned	 pro,	 however,

people	 take	 one	 look	 at	 me	 and	 start	 peppering	 me

with	 questions	 about	 my	 age	 and	 education.	 Tom	 is

rather	 proud	 of	 that	 and	 uses	 it	 to	 our	 advantage.	 I

feel	 a	 little	 like	 a	 sideshow	 circus	 freak,	 but	 then	 it

is	 sel ing	 paintings.	 The	 little	 red	 dots	 start	 going	 up

next	 to	 my	 paintings	 on	 the	 wall	 and	 a	 little	 bel

inside	 my	 head	 tinkles	 like	 when	 an	 angel	 gets	 its

wings.



656

Imogene	 has	 put	 my	 red	 mane	 up	 in	 a	 high,

loose	 twist,	 so	 the	 curls	 stil 	 fan	 out	 casually,	 but

my	 neck	 is	 exposed,	 showing	 off	 a	 glittery,	 vintage

rhinestone	 necklace	 with	 pearls,	 rosary	 beads	 and

a	 hundred	 year-‐old	 locket,	 courtesy	 of	 L	 &	 I

Creations.	 I	 wear	 Carson’s	 necklace	 triple	 wrapped

around	 my	 wrist	 along	 with	 Aunt	 Ginnie’s	 diamond

stud	 earrings,	 a	 black	 wrap	 dress,	 black	 tights	 and

my	 black	 boots.	 I	 have	 an	 understated	 glamour

thanks	 to	 Imogene	 who	 didn’t	 want	 me	 to	 look	 like

the	 amateur,	 over-‐eager	 artist.

Everyone	 I	 know	 from	 Hera	 is	 in	 Tom’s	 Chelsea

gallery.	 Everyone	 except	 Carson	 who	 said	 he’d

meet	 me	 here.	 That	 is	 a	 little	 disappointing.	 I

wanted	 to	 walk	 into	 the	 gallery	 with	 him	 on	 my

arm,	 but	 he	 said	 he	 had	 something	 important	 to	 do

before	 the	 show.

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 are	 walking	 arm	 in	 arm

with	 Leo	 and	 Jeremy.	 I’ve	 already	 introduced	 them

to	 Kate	 and	 Marissa	 who	 immediately	 found

common	 ground	 and	 hilarity	 in	 what	 young	 women

their	 age	 share.	 Archie,	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 are

wandering	 by	 the	 various	 pieces	 together,	 chatting



657

and	 sipping	 champagne.	 They	 look	 right	 at	 home	 in

a	 New	 York	 gallery.	 Bonnie	 and	 her	 crew	 from	 the

diner	 are	 here	 as	 is	 Carson’s	 staff	 from	 Blackard

Designs.	 Even	 Harvey	 made	 time	 to	 come	 see	 my

show.	 Not	 that	 I’m	 expecting	 him,	 but	 if	 Sushi	 Dan

happens	 to	 show	 up	 before	 Carson,	 I’l 	 really	 be

livid.

Finally,	 my	 head	 is	 drawn	 to	 the	 door	 of	 the

gallery	 and	 I	 see	 him.	 Everyone	 sees	 him.	 Heads

turn	 when	 the	 tall,	 sexy	 man—my	 guy—steps	 into

the	 gallery.	 My	 heart	 stops,	 squeezes	 and	 then

bangs	 loudly	 in	 my	 chest.	 I	 am	 trembling,	 awash

simultaneously	 with	 relief	 and	 joy.	 He	 is	 wearing	 a

black	 leather	 jacket,	 a	 black	 T-‐shirt,	 jeans	 and	 boots.

He	 shaved,	 although	 his	 hair	 is	 pushed	 back	 in	 its

usual	 mop	 of	 sexy.	 Just	 the	 way	 I	 love	 him.

He	 looks	 around	 the	 room,	 not	 noticing	 the

pretty,	 leggy	 models	 and	 all	 the	 other	 people	 in	 the

room	 before	 his	 eyes	 lock	 on	 me.	 His	 mouth	 curves

and	 he	 stalks	 towards	 me.	 I	 swoon	 watching	 my	 tall,

hunky	 boyfriend	 come	 for	 me	 with	 a	 swagger	 and	 a

smirk	 that	 puts	 me	 on	 the	 moon.



658

“Hey.”	 He	 smiles	 and	 slips	 an	 arm	 behind	 my

back	 before	 he	 kisses	 me	 on	 the	 lips.	 “Nervous?”

“Very.	 I	 wish	 we	 drove	 in	 together.	 My

stomach	 was	 so	 nervous	 when	 I	 got	 here;	 I	 thought

I’d	 throw	 up.”

“You	 never	 had	 a	 problem	 speaking	 at

conferences	 and	 you	 don’t	 have	 to	 give	 a	 lecture

here.	 Relax	 and	 enjoy	 the	 ride.”	 His	 deep	 voice	 is

very	 soothing.

“This	 is	 different.	 Talking	 about	 numbers	 is	 one

thing.	 Talking	 about	 my	 art;	 it’s	 personal	 and

subjective.”

“Ah,	 Ms.	 Channing	 is	 out	 of	 her	 element,”	 he

teases	 me	 and	 picks	 up	 my	 twitchy	 right	 hand.	 Both

of	 his	 large,	 warm	 hands	 envelope	 my	 hand	 and	 he

looks	 at	 it	 with	 purpose	 then	 at	 me.	 “You	 don’t

have	 to	 prove	 any	 theorems	 or	 yourself.	 I	 was	 here

earlier	 today	 and	 spoke	 to	 Tom	 while	 they	 were

setting	 up.	 You’re	 going	 to	 be	 fine.”

“You	 were	 here?”

“I	 told	 you	 I	 had	 to	 come	 in	 early	 before	 the

show	 to	 do	 some	 business	 and	 I	 stopped	 by	 to	 see

the	 paintings.	 I	 saw	 most	 of	 them	 at	 your	 house,



659

but	 I	 wanted	 to	 see	 the	 set	 up	 before	 the	 crowd

came	 in.	 Tom	 gave	 me	 a	 personal	 tour.”

“Hmm.	 I	 guess	 you	 already	 know	 him	 since	 you

bought	 my	 other	 paintings	 last	 year,	 right?”

“Yeah.”	 He	 kisses	 my	 hand	 and	 puts	 it	 down	 at

his	 side,	 keeping	 it	 clasped	 in	 his.

“Oh	 farfegnugen,”	 I	 mutter,	 looking	 past

Carson	 to	 the	 gallery	 entrance.

“What?”	 Carson	 asks,	 laughing.

“My	 parents.”

Carson	 turns	 and	 we	 both	 witness	 the

attractive,	 wel -‐dressed,	 middle-‐aged	 couple	 stop

to	 look	 at	 one	 of	 my	 paintings.

“Wel ,	 aren’t	 we	 going	 to	 go	 talk	 to	 them?”

Carson	 uses	 his	 free	 hand	 to	 touch	 my	 earlobe	 and

inspect	 the	 diamond	 stud.

“Yes.	 Can	 we	 wait	 a	 moment,	 though?	 They’re

looking	 at	 my	 paintings	 and	 I	 can’t	 judge	 their

expressions.	 Can	 you?”

Carson	 looks	 back	 at	 my	 parents	 who	 float

through	 the	 crowd,	 studying	 my	 paintings	 with

complacent	 facades.	 “Do	 they	 always	 look	 so

serious?”



660

“Yes,”	 I	 say,	 but	 then,	 I	 thought	 the	 same	 thing

about	 Carson	 before	 he	 let	 me	 see	 his	 light-‐hearted

side.

“Do	 you	 think	 they’l 	 like	 me?”	 he	 asks,

watching	 them.

“Do	 you	 really	 care?”

“It	 would	 be	 nice	 if	 your	 parents	 like	 me,	 sure.

It	 wil 	 make	 holidays	 easier,	 but	 I’m	 not	 going	 to

worry	 about	 it.	 Too	 much.”

“No.	 They	 probably	 won’t	 like	 you.	 They	 don’t

like	 most	 people.	 I	 don’t	 even	 know	 if	 they	 like	 me.”

“They	 love	 you.	 That’s	 why	 they	 are	 here,”

Carson	 reminds	 me.

“Yes,	 they	 love	 me	 as	 their	 child,	 but	 I’m	 not

sure	 they	 like	 me.	 They	 obsess	 too	 much	 on	 my

faults	 and	 it	 makes	 it	 hard	 for	 us	 to	 talk	 in	 a	 friendly

way.”

“You	 don’t	 have	 any	 faults.	 They’re	 insane.”

Carson	 squeezes	 my	 hand	 and	 smirks.

“Right.	 I’ve	 got	 all	 the	 right	 moves.	 How	 can

my	 parents	 not	 see	 that?”	 I	 scoff.



661

“Let’s	 get	 to	 it,”	 he	 says,	 leading	 me	 by	 my

hand	 to	 my	 parents.	 I	 like	 that	 he	 treats	 it	 as	 a

team	 effort.

“Jessica,”	 my	 mother	 exclaims	 when	 she	 sees

us	 approach.	 She	 gives	 me	 a	 peck	 on	 the	 cheek

before	 standing	 back,	 putting	 a	 comfortable

distance	 between	 us.	 She	 is	 dressed	 impeccably	 in

a	 grey,	 fitted	 dress	 that	 complements	 her	 short

blond	 hair	 and	 lovely	 face.	 For	 someone	 who

eschews	 pop	 culture	 and	 trends,	 she	 looks	 very

pretty	 and	 trendy	 as	 wel 	 as	 looking	 a	 decade

younger	 than	 her	 fifty	 years.	 My	 father	 looks	 fit	 and

handsome,	 a	 math	 professor	 who	 resembles	 an

investment	 banker.

“Jess,”	 my	 father	 says	 in	 his	 authoritative,

professor	 voice.	 He	 kisses	 my	 forehead	 and	 I	 smel

his	 aftershave.

There	 are	 no	 hugs	 or	 tight,	 smiling	 embraces

about	 how	 long	 it’s	 been	 even	 though	 we	 live	 only

a	 two-‐hour	 drive	 apart.	 My	 parents	 are	 not	 touchy

feely	 in	 anyway,	 although	 in	 this	 second,	 maybe	 for

the	 first	 time,	 I	 see	 that	 they	 love	 me.	 Maybe	 it’s

because	 I	 recognize	 love	 now.	 Their	 faces	 flush	 and



662

their	 thin,	 stern	 lips	 curve	 slightly	 upon	 seeing	 me

and	 maybe	 knowing	 that	 is	 enough	 as	 far	 as

parents	 go.

Yet	 I	 know	 it’s	 not	 enough	 as	 far	 as	 I	 feel	 about

Carson.	 I	 want	 the	 thril s	 of	 being	 in	 love;	 the

giddiness,	 the	 laughter,	 the	 sparkly,	 lust-‐filled	 eyes

and	 the	 outward	 passion.	 I	 want	 to	 shout	 and	 jump

with	 joy	 when	 I	 see	 Carson,	 the	 same	 way	 my

insides	 turn	 into	 a	 bounce	 house	 when	 I	 think

about	 him.

Carson’s	 left	 hand	 squeezes	 my	 hand	 as	 if	 he

knows	 what	 I’m	 thinking.

“Carson,	 this	 is	 my	 mother,	 Michel e	 Channing.”

“Mrs.	 Channing.”	 Carson	 shakes	 her	 hand

while	 his	 other	 hand	 holds	 mine	 in	 a	 vise	 grip.

“And	 this	 is	 my	 father,	 Robert.”

“Mr.	 Channing.”	 Carson	 shakes	 his	 hand,	 too.

“Congratulations,	 Jessica.	 A	 fine	 show	 and	 your

work	 is	 so	 unusual,”	 my	 father	 says.

“But	 do	 you	 like	 it?”	 I	 ask,	 trying	 to	 decipher

his	 comment.

“I	 suppose	 I	 thought	 you’d	 have	 more

traditional	 compositions	 similar	 to	 the	 portraits	 you



663

used	 to	 do	 in	 high	 school,”	 he	 says,	 not	 answering

my	 question.

“No,	 this	 is	 what	 I	 expected.”	 My	 mother

surprises	 the	 hel 	 out	 of	 me.	 “A	 girl	 who	 spends	 her

life	 studying	 numbers	 and	 science	 isn’t	 going	 to	 do

anything	 traditional.	 She’s	 going	 to	 do	 the

unexpected	 and	 I	 suspect	 there	 are	 a	 lot	 of

interesting	 ideas	 in	 that	 head	 of	 yours.	 I	 like	 the

messages	 you	 put	 into	 your	 paintings,	 Jessica.	 You

have	 a	 lot	 of	 passion	 and	 it	 shows.”

A	 happiness	 I	 haven’t	 felt	 with	 my	 parents	 in	 a

long	 time	 reappears	 like	 an	 old	 memory,	 but	 this

unexpected	 delight	 leaves	 me	 mute.	 Without

waiting	 for	 me	 to	 respond,	 my	 mother	 turns	 her

head	 to	 examine	 Carson.	 I	 can’t	 imagine	 what	 she

thinks	 of	 the	 towering,	 attractive	 eye	 candy	 next	 to

me;	 her	 once	 geeky	 prodigy	 of	 a	 daughter.

“Carson	 Blackard,”	 my	 mother	 says	 with

recognition	 in	 her	 tone.	 “You	 were	 such	 a

responsible	 young	 boy.	 More	 like	 a	 little	 man	 back

then,	 so	 grave.”

Carson	 gives	 a	 very	 reserved	 smile.



664

“Wel ,	 those	 were	 difficult	 times	 for	 all	 of	 us.

How	 are	 you	 and	 your	 brother	 doing?”	 she	 asks

and	 if	 my	 mother	 was	 the	 huggy	 type,	 I’d	 give	 her

good	 one	 for	 remembering	 the	 Blackard	 boys.

“We’re	 both	 doing	 wel ,	 thank	 you.”	 Carson

isn’t	 nervous	 like	 me.	 He	 looks	 very	 confident

meeting	 my	 parents.

Then	 my	 mother	 glances	 at	 our	 hands	 tightly

clasped	 around	 each	 other’s	 fingers.

“Are	 you	 two	 dating?”	 she	 asks,	 looking	 from

Carson	 to	 me.

“Mom.”	 I	 laugh	 lightly.	 “When	 have	 I	 ever

really	 dated?	 Seriously.	 We’re	 not	 dating,”	 I	 say	 and

Carson	 shoots	 me	 a	 deadly	 look.	 I	 ignore	 him	 and

turn	 back	 to	 my	 mother.	 “Carson	 and	 I	 live	 so	 close

to	 each	 other	 that	 we	 don’t	 need	 to	 date.	 I’m

ninety-‐nine	 point	 nine	 percent	 sure	 I’l 	 be	 marrying

him	 someday,	 though.”	 I	 blurt	 it	 out,	 confident	 that

it’s	 the	 right	 thing	 to	 say	 because	 it’s	 the	 truth.	 My

mother’s	 composure	 droops	 a	 little	 when	 her

mouth	 falls	 open	 at	 the	 same	 time	 that	 my	 father

gives	 an	 uncomfortable	 cough	 and	 Carson	 barks	 a

little	 laugh.



665

My	 mother	 looks	 confused.	 “You’re	 not	 dating,

but	 you’re	 going	 to	 get	 married?”

“We’re	 together,”	 I	 clarify.	 “Boyfriend	 sounds

like	 such	 a	 juvenile	 term.	 Carson	 is	 more	 than	 that.”

“Oh.”	 My	 mother	 regards	 Carson	 again,	 trying

to	 sum	 him	 up	 based	 on	 what	 she	 remembers

about	 the	 sad	 little	 boy	 who	 tried	 to	 take	 care	 of

his	 family.

“Blackard,”	 my	 father	 says	 gruffly.	 I’m	 pissed

that	 he	 addresses	 Carson	 by	 his	 last	 name.

“Yes?”	 Carson	 is	 polite.

“No,	 I	 meant,	 Blackard	 as	 in	 the	 furniture.

That’s	 your	 company,	 correct?”	 my	 father	 asks	 and

I	 sigh	 with	 relief.

“Yes,	 I	 have	 a	 furniture	 company	 and	 another

business	 that	 does	 renovations.	 I	 also	 have	 some

home	 construction	 projects	 going.	 Sustainable,

green	 homes.”	 Carson	 states	 it	 as	 simply	 as

possible	 even	 though	 he	 has	 earned	 a	 solid

reputation	 in	 his	 business	 and	 could	 elaborate,

perhaps	 even	 brag	 if	 he	 weren’t	 so	 modest.	 I’l

have	 to	 start	 bragging	 for	 him.



666

“I	 read	 an	 article	 about	 you,”	 my	 father	 states.

“Let	 me	 think,	 what	 magazine	 was	 that?”

“Should	 we	 take	 a	 walk	 around	 and	 see	 Jess’s

work?”	 Carson	 puts	 an	 end	 to	 the	 discussion	 about

himself.

Carson	 never	 lets	 go	 of	 my	 hand.	 We	 fol ow	 my

parents	 around	 the	 gallery	 like	 they	 are	 two	 bored

tourists	 who	 feel	 obliged	 to	 look	 at	 every	 painting

on	 display.	 They	 compliment	 a	 few	 pieces,	 some	 of

which	 are	 mine,	 but	 for	 the	 most	 part	 they	 regard

everything	 with	 a	 silent	 scrutiny.	 My	 father	 did

have	 a	 good	 laugh	 when	 he	 saw	 Grenade	 Girl.

“Jess,	 this	 one	 reminds	 me	 of	 you,”	 he	 says

with	 the	 first	 smile	 of	 the	 evening.	 My	 mother

reads	 the	 caption	 and	 winces	 before	 moving	 on	 to

another	 painting.	 Carson	 sneaks	 a	 kiss	 on	 my

temple	 when	 he	 sees	 my	 troubled	 face	 observing

my	 mother.

“I	 suppose	 it	 could	 be	 worse,”	 I	 whisper	 to

Carson.

“It	 could	 always	 be	 worse.”	 Carson	 laughs.

“How	 do	 your	 parents	 look	 when	 they	 are	 pleased?

Do	 they	 smile	 much?”



667

“Not	 that	 I’m	 aware	 of.	 Maybe	 this	 is	 them

being	 pleased.	 I	 don’t	 know	 anymore.”

“They’re	 here.	 That’s	 what	 matters.”

Tom	 walks	 by	 us	 and	 flashes	 ten	 fingers	 at	 me

with	 a	 big	 smile	 on	 his	 face.

“What’s	 with	 the	 jazz	 hands?”	 Carson	 asks

when	 Tom	 is	 gone.

I	 laugh.	 “He’s	 sold	 ten	 of	 my	 paintings	 so	 far

tonight.	 Not	 bad.”

“You’re	 hot	 shit.”

“It	 feels	 pretty	 good,”	 I	 say.	 “It	 would	 be	 better

if	 we	 weren’t	 hanging	 with	 my	 parents.	 They’re	 like

the	 walking	 dead.	 Look	 at	 our	 friends	 across	 the

room.	 They’re	 laughing	 it	 up	 and	 having	 fun.”

“Take	 it	 easy.”	 Carson	 keeps	 his	 voice	 low.

“Your	 parents	 don’t	 know	 what	 to	 make	 of	 your

new	 career	 path	 and	 having	 me	 next	 to	 you	 isn’t

helping.	 You	 should	 tel 	 them	 you	 want	 them	 to

visit	 you	 at	 the	 house	 sometime	 soon.”

“You’re	 shoulding	 all	 over	 me	 again .

Sometimes	 you’re	 very	 practical.	 My	 father	 wil 	 like

that	 about	 you.”



668

“I	 think	 he	 already	 likes	 me,”	 Carson	 says,

swinging	 our	 hands	 playful y	 back	 and	 forth

between	 us.

I	 sigh,	 enjoying	 the	 moment.

Before	 my	 parents	 leave	 I	 do	 offer	 an	 open

invitation	 to	 have	 them	 visit	 for	 a	 weekend	 or	 even

a	 dinner.	 My	 father	 seems	 amiable	 to	 the	 idea

while	 my	 mother	 smiles	 in	 one	 of	 those

noncommittal	 ways.



The	 exhibit	 hours	 have	 officially	 ended,	 so	 I

don’t	 have	 to	 keep	 performing,	 explaining	 my

paintings	 to	 inquisitive	 lurkers.	 We	 all	 leave	 the

gallery	 together	 and	 I’m	 riding	 on	 a	 thunderous

high,	 complete	 exhilaration	 over	 being	 part	 of	 the

show	 and	 having	 Carson	 on	 my	 arm.	 Our	 group	 has

grown	 to	 include	 friends	 of	 Marissa	 and	 Kate,	 the

Blackard	 employees,	 the	 employees	 from	 Bonnie’s

and	 some	 of	 my	 col eagues	 from	 5	 Alpha.

Archie,	 Lois	 and	 Eleanor	 beg	 off,	 choosing	 to

go	 dine	 at	 a	 quiet	 restaurant	 on	 the	 Upper	 Eastside

before	 they	 drive	 back	 to	 Hera.	 The	 rest	 of	 us

gather	 on	 the	 sidewalk	 with	 the	 chil y	 snowfall



669

nipping	 at	 us.	 It’s	 a	 beautiful,	 wintery	 evening	 in

the	 town	 that	 never	 sleeps	 and	 my	 friends	 want	 to

live	 it	 up.

“Let’s	 go	 to	 Cielo!”	 Marissa	 says	 to	 everyone.

Lauren	 and	 Imogene	 squeal	 with	 approval	 at	 her

choice	 of	 dance	 clubs	 in	 the	 meat-‐packing	 district.

“You’re	 finally	 legal,	 Jess.	 You	 need	 to	 dance

and	 celebrate	 this	 great	 night,”	 Kate	 adds.

I	 turn	 to	 Carson.	 He	 shrugs.	 “It’s	 your	 call.	 I’l

go	 dancing	 if	 that’s	 what	 you	 want.”

“You	 guys	 go	 without	 us,”	 I	 tel 	 them.	 “Carson

and	 I	 have	 dinner	 plans.”	 He	 arches	 an	 eyebrow	 at

me,	 but	 doesn’t	 complain.

When	 the	 group	 disperses	 into	 five	 separate

cabs	 to	 head	 off	 to	 the	 club,	 Carson	 and	 I	 are	 left

alone,	 walking	 on	 West	 25th	 Street.	 “Do	 you	 really

have	 dinner	 plans	 for	 us?”	 Carson	 asks.

“None.	 Sorry.	 It	 did	 not	 occur	 to	 me	 to	 make

reservations	 anywhere.	 I	 know	 it’s	 shocking	 that	 I

did	 not	 plan	 ahead,	 but	 I	 got	 caught	 up	 in	 the

excitement	 of	 today.	 Although,	 I’m	 finally	 coming

off	 my	 nervous	 high	 now.”



670

Carson	 chuckles.	 “Good,	 because	 I	 made	 plans

for	 us.”

“You	 did?	 Where?”

“I	 have	 a	 room	 booked	 for	 us	 at	 The	 Standard.

You	 mentioned	 once	 that	 you	 like	 the	 restaurant

and	 the	 High	 Line.”

“I	 love	 the	 High	 Line	 Park	 and	 I’ve	 always

wanted	 to	 stay	 at	 The	 Standard.	 It’s	 perfect,	 but

Carson,	 it’s	 so	 romantic	 and,	 as	 I	 recall,	 you	 were

the	 one	 who	 gave	 the	 speech	 about	 not	 being	 Mr.

Romance.”	 I	 elbow	 him	 and	 he	 puts	 his	 free	 hand

on	 my	 waist.

“I	 figured	 I’d	 be	 a	 pretty	 shitty	 boyfriend	 if	 I

didn’t	 at	 least	 treat	 you	 to	 something	 special	 on

your	 big	 night.	 Besides,	 you’re	 ninety-‐nine	 point

nine	 percent	 sure	 that	 you’l 	 marry	 me	 someday.	 I’l

take	 those	 odds.”

“Aww,	 shucks.	 Don’t	 let	 it	 go	 to	 your	 head.”	 I

pul 	 his	 head	 down	 and	 kiss	 him	 hard,	 starved	 for

his	 warm	 mouth.

“Damn.	 I	 should	 have	 offered	 this	 plan	 back

when	 I	 saw	 you	 in	 Archie’s	 office	 last	 June.	 It	 would

have	 saved	 me	 a	 lot	 of	 grief.”



671

“You	 and	 your	 goddamn	 shoulds. And	 yes,	 you

really	 should	 have	 asked	 me	 out	 then.”

We	 hail	 a	 cab	 and	 head	 to	 the	 meat-‐packing

district.	 As	 much	 as	 I	 love	 dancing,	 I	 want	 Carson	 to

myself,	 so	 we	 skip	 Cielo	 and	 head	 straight	 to	 The

Standard.	 At	 the	 restaurant,	 I	 go	 overboard	 on

clams,	 crab	 legs	 and	 Lobster	 Thermidor,	 however,

Carson	 keeps	 ordering	 food	 and	 I	 keep	 eating.

“Does	 this	 make	 up	 for	 all	 those	 chewy	 tuna

casseroles	 and	 crunchy	 pasta	 dishes	 I	 made	 you?”

He	 wipes	 a	 piece	 of	 caviar	 from	 my	 lip	 with	 his

thumb.

“Oh	 yes.	 This	 is	 heaven.”

“Save	 room.	 There’s	 more.”

“Not	 possible.	 I’m	 stuffed.”

“We’re	 going	 to	 walk	 in	 the	 park	 before	 it

closes	 and	 then	 we’l 	 go	 back	 to	 the	 room.”

“I	 didn’t	 bring	 an	 overnight	 bag.”

“I	 did.	 I	 had	 Imogene	 pack	 some	 things	 for	 you.

It’s	 already	 in	 the	 room.”	 He	 gives	 me	 a	 sly	 smile

and	 it	 warms	 me	 all	 over.

“Is	 that	 why	 you	 came	 late	 to	 the	 show?	 You

were	 arranging	 this?”



672

“That’s	 part	 of	 it.	 You’l 	 see.”



Our	 walk	 through	 the	 park	 is	 more	 of	 a	 chase

to	 beat	 the	 curfew	 before	 they	 lock	 it.	 I	 am	 slipping

and	 laughing	 in	 my	 boots.	 Carson	 picks	 me	 up,

cradles	 me	 in	 his	 arms	 and	 jogs	 to	 the	 end	 of	 the

park,	 amusing	 the	 other	 people	 strol ing	 through.

Our	 room	 is	 on	 one	 of	 the	 highest	 floors	 with

palatial	 views	 of	 the	 Hudson	 River.

“Who	 knew	 Jersey	 was	 so	 cool?”	 I	 stand	 at	 the

floor-‐to-‐ceiling	 window	 as	 Carson	 puts	 his	 arms

around	 me	 and	 rests	 his	 chin	 on	 my	 head.

“I	 have	 something	 for	 you	 and	 I	 don’t	 want	 you

to	 freak	 out,”	 he	 says.

I	 turn	 in	 his	 arms	 and	 look	 up	 at	 him.	 “Jesus,

when	 you	 put	 it	 like	 that,	 how	 can	 I	 not	 freak	 out	 a

little?	 What’s	 wrong?”

“Nothing’s	 wrong.”	 He	 laughs	 and	 goes	 to	 the

closet	 to	 retrieve	 a	 small,	 light	 blue,	 square	 box

with	 a	 white	 ribbon.

“Oh	 sweet	 pancakes!	 I	 know	 that	 box.	 You

went	 to	 Tiffany’s.”	 I	 jump	 back,	 pointing	 my	 finger

accusingly.



673

“You	 spend	 too	 much	 time	 with	 Lois.	 Settle

down.”	 He	 places	 the	 box	 in	 my	 palm.

“Carson,	 what	 are	 you	 doing?’

“You	 know	 what	 I’m	 doing,”	 he	 says,	 tugging

on	 the	 white	 ribbon.	 “Listen,	 my	 brother	 had	 the

right	 idea,	 but	 he	 was	 the	 wrong	 guy	 for	 you.	 Open

it.	 Now.”

I	 stare	 at	 the	 box	 and	 then	 at	 him.

“Jess.	 Now.”	 He’s	 very	 good	 with	 demands

because	 his	 sexy	 voice	 and	 gorgeous	 face	 make	 it

difficult	 to	 resist.

I	 pul 	 off	 the	 ribbon	 and	 drop	 the	 velvet	 box

into	 my	 palm.	 When	 I	 flip	 open	 the	 lid	 and	 gape	 at

the	 wide	 platinum	 band	 with	 diamonds	 all	 around

it,	 Carson	 drops	 to	 one	 knee	 on	 the	 floor.

“This	 is	 why	 Imogene	 had	 me	 pick	 out	 a	 ring

when	 she	 was	 looking	 at	 jewelry	 sites.	 I	 thought	 it

was	 for	 shits	 and	 giggles,	 but	 she	 was	 doing

research	 for	 you.	 That’s	 how	 you	 knew	 to	 buy	 a

band	 and	 not	 a	 solitaire.”

“I	 prepared.”	 He	 smiles.

“You’re	 really	 going	 to	 do	 this?”	 I	 ask,	 feeling

thril ed	 and	 scared	 at	 the	 same	 time.



674

“Yes,	 I	 am.”	 He	 takes	 the	 ring	 out	 of	 the	 box

and	 holds	 it	 out	 to	 me.	 “You’re	 not	 the	 only	 one

with	 plans.	 I	 came	 up	 with	 my	 own	 and	 I	 want	 you

to	 hear	 me	 out	 before	 you	 say	 anything,	 okay?”

I	 nod.

“I	 can’t	 be	 shown	 up	 by	 my	 little	 brother	 and	 I

know	 what	 you	 said	 about	 being	 too	 young	 for

marriage,	 but	 I	 decided	 I’m	 going	 to	 propose	 to	 you

anyway.	 A	 wise	 old	 man	 once	 told	 me	 that	 he

waited	 too	 long	 to	 propose	 to	 the	 woman	 he	 loved

and—”

“Oh	 God,	 not	 the	 Archie	 story.	 Carson,	 I’ve

heard	 that	 one.”

“Yeah,	 who	 hasn’t?	 Bag	 that	 one.	 Okay,	 how

about	 this?	 I	 want	 you	 to	 live	 with	 me.	 I	 want	 to

turn	 my	 home	 office	 into	 your	 studio	 so	 you	 can

paint	 out	 on	 that	 terrace	 you	 like	 so	 much.	 We’l

set	 up	 your	 computer	 equipment	 in	 the	 downstairs

bedroom	 and	 turn	 that	 into	 your	 office.	 You	 keep

Gin’s	 home,	 rent	 it	 to	 the	 girls	 or	 have	 them	 live

there	 for	 free,	 whatever	 you	 want.	 Naturally,	 Bert

wil 	 live	 with	 us.	 I	 want	 you	 to	 accept	 this	 ring	 now

and	 wear	 it.	 Then,	 for	 the	 next	 one	 thousand	 and



675

ninety-‐five	 days,	 we	 can	 say	 we’re	 engaged	 until

you	 feel	 ready	 to	 get	 married.	 I	 know	 you	 generally

like	 bigger	 numbers,	 especially	 seventy	 mil ion	 for

some	 reason,	 but	 how	 does	 one	 thousand	 and

ninety-‐five	 work	 for	 you?”

“Yes,	 I	 like	 that	 number.	 It’s	 a	 good	 one.”

“Are	 you	 saying	 yes?”

“I	 love	 you.	 How	 about	 thirty?”

“I	 love	 you,	 too.	 But	 thirty?	 The	 number	 thirty?

Are	 we	 talking	 about	 the	 same	 thing?”

“Yes,	 the	 number	 of	 days	 until	 we	 get	 married.

Dylan	 wil 	 be	 back	 home,	 so	 he	 can	 be	 your	 best

man	 and	 we	 can	 have	 all	 the	 important	 people

there.	 Our	 family.”	 The	 confidence	 surges	 through

me,	 dispel ing	 any	 and	 all	 doubts	 that	 have	 ever

crossed	 my	 mind	 about	 Carson.

Now	 it’s	 his	 turn	 to	 gape.

“Damn,	 that’s	 a	 really	 small	 number	 and	 you’re

good	 with	 that?”	 His	 mouth	 curves	 into	 a	 wide

smile.

“Yes.	 I	 love	 you,	 Carson.	 I	 want	 to	 marry	 you

now,	 not	 later.	 I’ve	 put	 in	 so	 many	 years	 of	 school,

studying	 and	 preparing	 while	 also	 putting	 off



676

happiness	 for	 work	 and	 academic	 accomplishments.

My	 parents	 and	 professors	 said	 my	 rewards	 would

come	 later.	 I’ve	 had	 a	 lifetime	 of	 laters.”

“Me,	 too.”	 Carson	 stands	 and	 puts	 the	 ring	 on

my	 finger.	 “It’s	 Mrs.	 Blackard	 in	 thirty	 days,	 baby.”

“That’s	 Babycakes	 to	 you.”

Carson	 embraces	 me	 and	 we	 kiss	 hungrily	 as	 I

begin	 to	 cry	 joyful y,	 tears	 of	 contentment	 pouring

out	 of	 me.	 “You’re	 happy,	 right?”	 Carson	 asks,

wiping	 a	 tear	 with	 his	 thumb.

“Unbelievably	 happy.”	 I	 laugh.	 “Never	 stop

kissing	 me.

“Never.”





677





Acknowledgements




Much	 love	 and	 gratitude	 goes	 to	 my	 family.

While	 writing,	 I	 ignored	 them	 a	 lot,	 often	 forgetting

meals	 and	 civil	 conversation.	 They	 are	 truly	 a

forgiving	 bunch,	 and	 despite	 my	 ability	 to	 be	 lost	 in

my	 own	 world	 most	 of	 the	 time,	 my	 family	 keeps

encouraging	 me	 to	 write.

To	 my	 friends,	 thank	 you	 for	 being	 so	 patient

while	 I	 ramble	 on	 about	 fictional	 characters	 as	 if

they	 are	 a	 part	 of	 our	 circle	 of	 friends	 -‐	 and	 for	 the

great	 input	 you	 all	 provided.	 I	 couldn’t	 ask	 for	 a

better	 support	 system.

To	 my	 wonderful	 editing	 team	 at	 C&D	 Editing,

Kristin	 Campbel 	 and	 Alizon	 Duckwall,	 thank	 you	 for

making	 Fearsome	 a	 better	 book.	 Your	 professional

skil s	 and	 virtual	 hand-‐holding	 were	 an	 absolute

necessity,	 and	 Serenity	 Val e’s	 keen	 eye	 added	 the

perfect	 polish.



678

To	 Aaron	 Campbel ,	 thank	 you	 for	 my	 cool

website	 and	 being	 patient	 with	 all	 of	 my	 inane

questions	 and	 ideas.

And	 to	 all	 my	 author	 buddies	 online	 and	 in	 the

real	 world,	 thank	 you	 for	 being	 so	 generous	 with

advice	 and	 support!





679





About	 the	 Author



S.	 A.	 Wolfe	 lives	 with	 her	 wonderful y	 loud,

opinionated	 children	 and	 husband.	 She	 is	 a

voracious	 reader	 and	 passionate	 about	 writing,	 and

when	 those	 two	 activities	 don’t	 keep	 her	 locked

away	 in	 her	 room,	 she	 loves	 hiking	 mountains	 as

much	 as	 she	 adores	 all	 the	 thril s	 New	 York	 City	 has

to	 offer.





680





The	 Fearsome	 Series:



FEARSOME	 (Book	 1)

FREEDOM	 (Book	 2)

FAITHFUL	 (Book	 3)



*These	 are	 all	 standalone	 novels.



JOIN	 MY	 MAILING	 LIST	 to	 learn	 about	 my	 new

releases:

www.sa-‐wolfe.com



Meet	 with	 me	 on	 social	 media:

https://www.facebook.com/sawolfe24

https://twitter.com/sawolfe_

sawolfe24@gmail.com





681