Page 51 of Craving Consequences

“Bless her sweet, little heart, poor thing has no parents to guide her properly into theworld.”

“What would her poor mother think if she knew what her daughter has become?”

I’d become the town whore before noon, and can I even defend myself? I spent the night wrapped up in two men.

No point dwelling on my choices when I have much bigger problems.

Gingerly, I lower my protective shield and pry open one eyelid. The sharp strobe of light has it fluttering closed before I force it open wider. Then both of them. I blink through tears and brain matter oozing from my running nostrils, and stare down the blindingly white driveway ... at my car.

I blink, confused, then squint closer.

The battered, burgundy vehicle sits alone and mocking in plain view of whoever may be passing by. Not many, by my calculations. Maple Crest is fairly isolated with only a handful of houses built along the cul-de-sac. Lachlan’s — unfortunately — happens to be near the bottom.

Praying no one saw it yet, already formulating a response if someone did, I scramble across scorching pavement on my tiptoes in the direction of my getaway. Despite the early morning, the sun is an angry fist dangling from the clear sky. The sharp, dry heat brushes skin already damp with sweat as I yank open my driver’s side door and slide in behind the wheel. Trembling fingers hooks into the visor and the keys drop into my lap with a deafening jingle that has my teeth grinding.

Thank you, God.

I don’t look back. I can’t.

Because if I do, I might see them standing in the doorway with their dark, hooded eyes and chiseled features, and I’m not ready to face further humiliation until I’ve had a shower.

The sun is just beginning to stretch across the sky as I roll through Jefferson’s quaint, too-perfect streets. Light spills over the rooftops like honey, coating the whitewashed storefronts and brick-lined sidewalks in a golden glow. Window boxes drip with petunias. Wind chimes tinkle lazily in the muggy breeze.

Old man Perkins stands outside his barber shop in a wide hat, sweeping the front in leisurely strokes like he’s got nowhere to be and all the time in the world.

A small line is already cued outside Jefferson’s First Bank, crisp envelopes in hand. Candace Ferguson, the queen bee of our small town — and Mayor Ferguson’s wife — stands at the center of her flock as they move as one towards Mama May’s diner in their pretty sundresses and masterfully coiffed hair.

Mothers push strollers, running errands. Sue and Tyler Smithson sit in their usual post in the town cul-de-sac with their morning coffees and bag of bird seeds.

Smiles are exchanged. Doors held open. Conversations start with laughter and end in whispers the second backs are turned.

That’s Jefferson.

Always smiling. Always watching.

A picturesque pit of snakes.

And this morning, I know they can smell it on me. The sweat. The sex. The shame. I can feel the weight of invisible eyes dragging across my skin as I pass, even if no one’s really looking. This place is a machine built on reputation, and every cog in its engine runs on speculation. If you give it something to chew on, it will eat you alive.

But Jefferson is home. Has been since the day I was born. I don’t know anywhere else. It’s where my parents were born. Where they met and got married. It’s where I lost them that stormy February as they were crossing over Ole Miller’s Bridge just outside of town. Their bodies lie at the Whispering Pines Graveyard. Side by side forever.

But I have no deep love or loyalty to the town. Aside from Lauren, my friends are acquaintances. People I wave to in passing. Occasionally ask about their days. Their families. But we continue on our ways when the obligation is done. And I’m not sad about it. I don’t feel lost or adrift. I don’t feel like anything is missing in my life ... at least, I didn’t used to.

My fingers tighten around the wheel as I’m reminded why there’s a cavernous void in my gut.

The sudden and brutal urge to burst into tears lodges in my throat and I have to breathe through it. I have to ease my foot off the gas and blink back the rush of tears. The betrayal is adagger twisting in my chest, re-agitating the wound left behind by Lauren’s knife.

The second I make it through the hub of downtown, the crisp lawns of Silver Pines Road, I nudge the gas a little harder. My Honda Civic accepts the command and takes the curve into Willows Bend with too much enthusiasm, but I’m on the home stretch. My house is just at the end. I can see the white picket fence I painted over last month. I zip past the other structures nearly identical to mine, a mix of cap cod and colonial designs with the same fresh coat of paint, and swerve neatly up the driveway. My finger stabs the garage door remote with the turn, and I roll slowly into the neat interior.

I don’t dare to breathe until the door closes behind me, shutting out the world and securing me safely inside. I don’t even kill the engine right away. I sit in the car, hands on the wheel, heart in my throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut, like that might erase the pain and trauma welling up in my chest. I can feel the noose pull tight around my throat, cutting off the hot, muggy air trapped in the garage. The urge to vomit has me shoving the door open and throwing myself out of my seat. Cold concrete scratches my feet as I race to the door and shoulder my way into the silence of my home.

I barely make it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach hit the porcelain bowl.

Violent, heaving sobs tear through me until I’m not sure if I’m crying or choking or ripping apart from the inside. My knees hit the tiles with a hard thud, the pain barely registering as I grip the rim of the toilet like it might anchor me.

It’s not about Bron.

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