Page 29 of More With You

“So, I figure you won’t know how you feel ‘til you meet the girl,” Ms. T adds. “You might see her with her papa and feel your heart melt in a way that makes you want to rip his clothes off when you’re alone again… or you won’t feel a thing. That’s when you’ll know if it’s somethin’ you can weave into your life, or if it’s somethin’ you need to cut out before you’re too tied into it.”

I knew there was a reason I’d come to Ms. T. Maybe it’s all the books she’s read, or just the depth of her life experience, but her words always put me right, like she’s analyzing the text of my life for me and making sense of it. This isn’t a conversation I can have with myself or by myself, and I’m not sure it’s a decision I can make by myself, either. I need to steer into the skid, so to speak, to not only give myself a hope of a happier future, but to find out if this fear inside me can be overcome. It’s ingrained, alright, but how deep?

“I’ve got to talk to him, don’t I?” I sigh, dreading it already. Why couldn’t things just be easy and simple between us? Then again, there’s another saying that people say for a reason: “Nothing worth having comes easy.”

Ms. T nods slowly. “When you’re ready. Don’t go in, all guns blazin’, jabberin’ a mile a minute like a jaybird in a Joshua tree. That’s only gonna get you more muddled. Take a couple of days, work out a list of what you need to know, what you’d like to know, and what he needs to know, and then text him up… or whatever it is you kids do these days.” She smiles warmly, and it makes me wonder why she never had children. But it’s not polite to ask that, so I stay quiet. “If he’s worth keepin’ around, he won’t mind waitin’ a while.”

“And if Levi or his parents get to him while I’m sorting through my thoughts?” It’s still weighing on my mind; the prospect of them sinking their fangs in while I’m keeping my distance.

Ms. T snorts. “I have a feelin’ that they want to try and scare you off themselves. Levi showin’ up at your place of business today was just another threat. That said, Cybil and Levi are as sly as a couple of foxes. I just hope they see you for the pearl you are and keep their schemin’ to a minimum!”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” I smile and get to my feet, feeling suddenly wobbly. The home brew has well and truly kicked in and I know I’m not driving anywhere. “How does Mr. T feel about driving a rusty old Honda back to my cottage? I’ll pay for a cab so he can get back.”

With a puff of amused breath, Ms. T walks to the counter. “I got you tipsy; I’ll be paying for my husband. Your money’s no good here, unless you’re buyin’ books.” She grins and, with an almighty bellow, she yells for her husband, who appears from out back a few moments later.

“You called, my darlin’?” He sweeps around the counter and cups his wife’s face, really taking a long look at her, before planting a sweet kiss on her nose. Maybe it’s the whiskey or the state of my own love life, but it’s one of the most organically romantic things I’ve ever seen. You can tell they do this in the comfort of their own home. It’s not a performance, just for me.

Ms. T bats him away playfully. “I need you to take Miss Summer back home.” She beckons to me, and I toss her my keys. “When you get there, you take a cab right on back to me, where I’ll have me some fine smooches waitin’ for you.”

“How can a man resist?” Mr. T chuckles and, with a firmer kiss to her lips that gets him a light smack on the backside, he heads out to my car.

“Thank you, Ms. T.” My throat chokes as I say it, knowing how lucky I am to have walked into her shop during my first weeks here. “Seriously, thank you.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t you mention it, hon. Just remember, there’s always a price for my famed hospitality.”

“And that would be all of the juicy details?” I arch an eyebrow, and she nods with a laugh.

“The good, the bad, and the plain awkward.”

I sigh and move toward the door, throwing my last comment over my shoulder, “Believe me, I think there’ll be plenty of all three—enough to satisfy your addiction to gossip until next year, at least.”

“Door’s always open, Summer,” she says, more seriously.

I smile in gratitude, before walking out to my car. As I leave, the jingle of the bell above the door stirs up that familiar sensation of comfort and contentment, and though I don’t know if everything is going to be alright, I’m ready to face my next mountain. If I can just get to the top of it, maybe I’ll be able to see what lies ahead.

BEN

I saw her today, but she didn’t see me. I sketched her from memory, after I saw her drive by the booth, but I don’t think she’ll like what I drew. I have to draw what I’ve seen, but I keep staring at the stupid picture, cursing myself for doing that to her. Now, I can’t forget the dark circles under her eyes or the slightly swollen look to her face or the wildness of her hair, like she shoved it into a ponytail in a hurry. It’s right here, in front of me, etched in pencil and colored with the watercolors I had in the booth. The rest of my paints are in my other bag, at home, so no one messes with them while I’m not on shift.

If I were to draw the way she looked, running to me on the bridge, or her scrunched up expression when I told her about the crawfish heads or the silhouette of her, gazing out at the horizon, or even the quiet sadness of her opening the door to me last night, it wouldn’t look like this. She’d be painted in radiant colors, my pencil sketching eagerly across the paper, instead of jarring with every stroke and line. But this is a better reminder of what I never want to happen again, if given another chance. I’ll look at it and make sure I keep light in her eyes and a smile upon her face, even when things get difficult.

For now, I think there’s another picture I should draw. One with a space for her, if she decides she wants to be in it.

11

SUMMER

It’s late, I’m stone-cold sober, and back in the same position on the couch where I woke up last night. My phone taunts me with a black screen and I know I should go to bed to put an end to the madness of staring at it, but I can’t yet. My mind is too awake, flip-flopping through every possibility.

Just text him! My heart screams.

Don’t you dare! Wait until he texts you! My head counters.

I twist around onto my back and stare up at the rafters, spying a ribbon of old spiderweb that’s floating eerily, like a small strand of whatever ghosts are made from. I should grab a duster and get rid of it, but that would require movement, and I’m content in my wallowing pit for now. No, it’s not a wallowing pit; it’s more of a thinking ditch, which is so flooded with thoughts that it’s gotten too slippery to climb back out.

Just then, a knock sounds through the living room. I jolt upright, my head snapping toward the front door that no one uses. No one but Ben, last night. Only, the knock is lighter, as if the person out there is conscious of not waking me with the thud of their knuckles.

He came back… I sense him, like I sensed him yesterday. A human storm, blowing in unannounced.

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