Page 31 of Sugar Coated Lies
What would my life have been like with them still in it?
Would I be a college graduate?
Would I have moved back to Honeycomb to be with them?
Would I have moved to Atlanta with Sadie?
I don’t like to go down those paths. I’ve made it this far by living in the present and not dwelling on what might have been. It’s why I don’t mind keeping busy, working overtime, and never having a second to myself. Too much alone time can be dangerous. Besides, thinking like that won’t change anything other than making me feel worse. So I don’t. Distraction is the key to survival.
Would I like to win a gift card for a day of pampering? Hell, yes. But I’d also feel guilty, knowing Grandpa is here, alone, his family gone except for me, his mind confused and uncertain.
I could never relax and enjoy something like that unless he could enjoy something special, too.
I get my sheets, blanket, and pillow from the chest and make my bed on the couch.
My muscles moan in thanks for the horizontal break. I yawn and could see myself falling asleep easily, but an idea came to me while I was in the shower earlier and I want to see it through.
It’s silly. I haven’t done this since I was in high school. I take that back. Sadie and I cyber-stalked a few people when we were in college—a professor’s assistant she wanted to know more about and a mysterious student who rarely showed up to class, always wore sunglasses, and had the bone structure of a famous actor who played a vampire on TV. There is no way it wasthatguy, but it was fun trying to figure out who he was. We never did.
My idea to cyber-stalk Daire first hit me after Tennessee’s threat. Now, I want to know the kind of women he dates. There have to be photos of him with exes. I only hope this doesn’t change my opinion about him. I don’t trust what you see or read about people on social media. You can’t know the truth from a picture, yet it’s so easy for the imagination to create scenarios based on a simple image. I suppose that’s how tabloids and reporters make their money, creating fiction from some facts.
I GoogleDaire Prescott Livingston III.
Images flood my phone. One is of three versions of Daire: him, his younger brother, and someone I can only assume is his dad. Sports coats, khaki pants, nice watches. They look like southern politicians.
Several pictures belong with articles about the farm and how it’s one of the oldest and most established pecan farms in the US, as well as a major distributor. Unlike many people, his search is clean. Mostly business. Nothing from his college days or frat years. There is one picture at a football game at UG, but it's blurry and there are like thirty guys crammed together with their faces painted. Other than that, I can only find two pictures of Daire with women. Both are at events, a fundraiser and a banquet.
In each, he’s in a suit, looking like a celebrity or a model. In each photo, the girl stands at his side like a date and his arm is around her waist. They’re smiling at the camera, not at each other. Nothing screams love or lust for each other. If they weren’t holding each other’s waists, they could be perceived as work colleagues. One girl is a blonde similar to Tennessee, and the other has light brown hair. They are unmistakably beautiful, with perfect figures, hair, gowns, and the works. I always wondered if women like that are taught at an early age to pose and smile just right, like they’re privy to a secret the rest of us don’t know.
I yawn again and bring up pictures I snapped of the recipes from the café, studying them with heavy-lidded eyes. When another yawn claims me, I set down my phone and give into my sleep.
* * *
The next thing I know,Carol is standing in front of me.
“Everleigh?” She holds a coffee in one hand. “Honey, I think you forgot to set your alarm.”
It takes my brain a moment to process. Carol has a key. She let herself in, made coffee, and I slept through it.
I shoot upright. “I’m going to be late.” I climb from the couch. “No offense, Carol, but I need you to move. Now.”
She scurries out from between the chest and the couch. I jump up, shove the bedding into the chest, and haul-ass to the bathroom.
My hair sticks out in every direction.That’s what happens when you go to bed with it wet. I don’t have curly hair—a gentle wave, perhaps—but this is bed-head waves personified, like I’m auditioning to be a playboy bunny from the sixties.
I don’t have time to rewash it, which is the only thing that flattens it, so I add a little more makeup to match the style. Winged black eyeliner and mascara on one eye. On to the next…
Knocking sounds on the front door.
Shit. It has to be Daire. I tense and listen for Carol. I hear Grandpa grumble and know she’s busy with him. Well, damn.
The knocking sounds again.
Can’t leave him waiting. I burst out of the tiny bathroom in my tank top, no bra, and skimpy sleep shorts, one eye done in makeup, the other not, and my hair…he’s going to think I’m a freak.
I open the door. “Hi,” I say, a little winded.
He stands there with his hand raised to knock again. Dressed in fitted jeans, a black pecan farm polo shirt that accentuates his muscular tanned arms and slim waist, and his always stunning face, he looks as out of place as his BMW does in a trailer park.
