Page 3 of Almost Had You

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I lie, watching covertly as Clover holds her dress in place as she slides into the backseat of her father’s Lincoln Navigator.

Bent slings my bag into the bed of his Rikki’s Electric truck. It’s white and well-loved. Maybe that’s why I left—the difference between me and my best friends from childhood, and even the difference between my father and me. I wanted something more. Something different. The challenge. The thrill of the unknowns after you work devil hard for something.

Looking around at all of the people here to support me, I realize how much I love them, and this place, and with one last brief glance at a modest cut, iron-clad, purple dress, I also recognize how I’ve changed.

Chapter Two

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Clover

MY LIES AREso windy I keep the windows rolled down no matter the temperature. Add them to the fact I’m forced to endure my mama and daddy talking about Mercer Ballentine in a closed space, and I’m basically a volcano about to erupt. The ride home from the airport is only four minutes, but it feels longer when you’re trying not to say things that will give something away.

You can drive from one side of Greenton to the other in nine minutes and fifteen seconds if the traffic lights stop you, even less if they don’t. We are a blip on a map. Not even a dot. We’re an exit sign on the interstate and a town so old and crusty it seems we’re stuck in the nineteen eighties with flashes of modern life.

“He sure grew into a strapping man, now didn’t he?” Mama parrots. I’m not sure if it’s directed at me, but I’m not going to answer. Mercer is more than strapping. He’s a gaggle of muscle. A wall of Southern charm. An annoying feeling in my stomach that makes me sweat thinking about him. I don’t need to talk about how strapping he is. I saw it in all its glory.

Daddy clears his throat. “It’s required for his job, Susanne. He has to haul buildings off people and such. Muscles are part of the job description. It’s not that impressive.”

“You’re describing a Marvel Superhero, Daddy, not a military man.”

My mother claps giddily. “Not just any military man, A Navy SEAL. Clover, are you going over to the Dizzy Rocket for a drink?” Her wishes are completely transparent, and I’m not surprised she was listening in on our conversation inside the airport lobby. Making sure the family and Daddy always look good is everyone’s job, hers especially.

My mind is on a million other things, so I let it slide off my back. “Yes, I agreed to a drink with Mercer. I’m going to pick up my car when we get home and head over. I need to help Tannie plan the festival after, so I won’t be there for long. One drink.” I’m not helping my best friend, Tannie do anything, but that’s a meager lie in the big scheme of things.

Dad pulls into our long driveway that curls into a formidable circle. “When Clover is ready, we have several suitors who will make fine husbands.”

My breaths come quicker, and that floppy feeling in my midsection creeps up to my throat. “I don’t want to talk suitors or men right now. Mercer is just a friend. He’s always been a friend. Since childhood. You know that. He’s nothing more. A drink isn’t going to change that.”

“Good girl,” Daddy says, putting the car into park—a firm grip on the steering wheel. My mom huffs from the heat as she hops down from the passenger side of the blacked-out SUV, and I follow suit. The large water fountain in the center of our drive is spitting water twenty feet high. It’s a circular garden my mama spends most of her time in. The water is dyed light pink to match the flowers she has planted in there right now. One Christmas the water was dyed green and I accidentally fell in. My skin was stained a Grinch green color for a week straight. I lost a beauty pageant because of it. I’ve also never walked close to that mother trucking fountain since.

“Oh, Clover,” my mother calls as I rush to my garage bay on the far end of the drive, catty-corner to the house.

I glance over my shoulder. “Yeah, Mama?” She’s standing, eyes shielded as she surveys her squirting pride and joy.

She pauses, looks over at my father, rolls her eyes, and says, “Tell everyone we said hello. Be a good girl and don’t drink too much. The Wellsley name is on the line.”

“You don’t have to remind me of a fact I was born knowing, Mother. It’s always on the line.” A weaker woman would crack under the pressure they’ve put on me my entire life. And maybe I have cracked and I’m just doing it in a backward kind of way.

“Maria is cleaning your house, darling. Make sure you take off your shoes at the door when you get home from DR later.” Seven million. The probable number of times she’s said this phrase or a variation of this phrase since I was old enough to understand what it means. It’s Saturday the day Maria always cleans.

I swallow hard, trying to contain the tirade I’d like to scream if I were a different person. “Of course,” I reply, nodding. “Cleanliness is as close to godliness as we can get.” I used to believe it, but sometime over the course of the last decade, I just started saying it because I always have. It’s what is expected of me.

Mama nods and links arms with my daddy as they approach the entrance to the manor. It is an old plantation house that they renovated and expanded before we moved in when I was four. There are fifteen thick columns out front because the Bridgeton’s next door has fourteen. There are parts of the house that I’ve barely explored, an entire wing my father calls hiscave. It takes seven full-time staff members to keep everything running smoothly. It’s all I’ve ever known and yet I know it’s not what I want for myself.

I’m right smack dab in the middle of an existential crisis, waiting for whatever sign God wants to give me before I detonate into shards of lace, proper manners, and a bride unwilling. I toss my oblivious parents another goodbye and punch in the code, my birthday, to open the garage bay door. I grab the extra set of keys that hang on a hook on the wall and start my car, last year’s Christmas present. Kit, the handyman, is parking my father’s SUV so I wait, tapping my nails on the leather steering wheel, for him to back it into the garage next to mine. Pulling out into the driveway, I take a deep breath as the pink fountain catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

There is no escape in a small town. Secrets spread like a silent breed of ivy, wrapping around every tree, every building, every person. I’m forced to be the woman everyone else thinks I am. It’s not all bad, don’t get me wrong. I’m fortunate I have parents that care and a trust fund that guarantees I never need to work a day in my life. That means I’m jealous of what it feels like to have to do things. What am I missing? Girls with curls want straight hair. Girls with straight hair want curls. I want the freedom that comes with being able to dictate my own destiny. I pull into the DR parking lot and park next to Tannie’s red BMW.

I flip down my mirror as I try to calm my thoughts and pull the Clover Wellsley everyone expects to the surface. A caricature of my real self. Tannie opens the passenger door of my car and slides in, perching her Chanel bag in her lap. I gave it to her as a present for her birthday last month.

“How was it? How does he look?”

I slide the gloss brush against my bottom lip. “Who do you mean?”

“Oh, my God, you are such a space cadet these days. Mercer. How does Mercer look, Clover? I couldn’t make it to the airport, so I didn’t catch that first glimpse, you lucky girl, you.”

“He looks like Mercer. Like he’s always looked. Like his muscles ate his brain,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all. A little support would be nice.”

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