Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Clay
Lou doesn’t look under the bed or show the slightest interest in snooping around. Maybe because I keep her busy and wear her out whenever we’re upstairs in the apartment.
“You’re not done yet?” Lou asks, stepping inside the bathroom and staring at my half-shaven face. The bathroom is too small, so she went into the bedroom to get dressed, and I kept an eye on her the entire time. Not out of any fear of her looking under the bed. I just can’t keep my eyes off her.
“Taking the time to shave properly isn’t going to be the reason we’re late.
” Personally, I’d prefer not to go at all.
The potluck fundraiser was rescheduled after last week’s storm to give the community time to clean up.
“The real reason we’re going to be late is the same reason that you’ve got stubble burn on your thighs. ”
“Your face is incredibly rideable,” she says, plucking up one of the serums. She doesn’t even glance at the label as she dabs some on her fingers and rubs it onto her cheeks.
“Give me that,” I say, setting down my razor to take the serum away from her. I set it on the other side of the vanity while she pouts. “You don’t need it,” I say to console her. “You’re what? Mid-thirties?” I’d knock five years off my guess to be polite, but I want to rile her up.
She gasps. “I’m twenty-nine, you asshole.”
Twenty-nine?
I groan. Gina and Milo are mid-thirties. I’d assumed she was closer to their age than Benji’s. I never pictured a younger woman being the one for me. I never pictured anyone, really.
There’s nothing to do but put the bottle back on the vanity in front of her.
Her face scrunches, and if I weren’t holding a straight-bladed razor to my face, I might be in danger of a kidney shot. But then she laughs. “Either this shit works, or you’ve got a portrait aging badly in some attic somewhere.”
I set the razor down again and wipe my hands off so I can cup her face. “Your skin—everything about you—is beautiful. You don’t need these products, but if you want to use them, you may. Or we can buy you some of your own.”
She turns her head to kiss my palm. “I know I have great skin. But thanks for letting me waste your expensive products.”
“I’m thirty-seven.” She should probably know, given she’s only twenty-nine.
“I know. I went through your stuff, remember? Stole your shirt, your cigar—sorry about that, by the way—and peeked at your ID.”
Of course she did.
Lou begins her make-up routine while I finish shaving.
“The only thing making this potluck bearable is you,” I tell her as we leave the bar a little while later.
She laughs and pats my arm. “Soon you’ll be organizing community fish fries and cribbage tournaments.”
Doubtful. My skepticism must show on my face, because she laughs again.
We take my car. She wants to drive, so I hand her the keys.
The potluck is at the local school, where tables around the gymnasium perimeter are laden with a variety of food.
There’s a line of smoking grills outside, and picnic blankets dot the grassy field around the school.
Tables and chairs are set up for people who need them, and a surprising number of children dart about.
I carry the massive tub of pasta salad—Rita’s recipe, naturally—that Lou and I made and follow her into the gym, where she directs me to a table filled with other carb-based “salads”.
“Do not touch that,” she says, pointing to a massive bowl of what might be potato salad.
It’s a shocking shade of yellow and dotted with—“Are those raisins?”
“Don’t loom over it like that!” Lou hisses, slapping my arm, then dragging me away. “She’ll see you and you’ll end up with a massive plate full of food you’ll be seeing again in a few short hours.”
A woman who might be in her sixties or might be in her forties is looking at us a little too closely. She takes half a step toward us, separating from the group she had been on the periphery of.
Presumably, this is the woman responsible for the culinary atrocity. I loop my arm around Lou’s waist, forcing her to match my pace on the escape.
Lou stops us at the door and stuffs some bills into the donation box, smiling and chatting with the older Black man standing next to the table.
Something about whatever they’re raising money for.
I’m not paying attention, but I’m prepared.
The wad of cash I try to stuff through the narrow slot as Lou walks away almost doesn’t fit, but I give it a good shove, and it goes in.
I tip my chin at the man—Carl, I think Lou said—and hurry to catch up to Lou.
I didn’t count the cash when I grabbed it out of the bag while Lou was in the bathroom. There wasn’t time.
I should tell her about the cash. If that goes well, I could tell her about the will.
But not today.
We stop outside because the bubbly grocery store clerk, Cheryl—she of the pineapple party pontoon—wants to express her horror at the tree taking out the camper.
Then she smiles up at me, eyes sparkling.
“Anabelle made more of that cherry pie you like so much. It’s become rather popular.
She hadn’t made it in years, so she’s glad you requested it. ”
Lou turns slowly to look at me, her eyebrows arching up.
“That’s…great,” I say. Fucking small towns. A man requesting a particular dessert because he’s developed a craving for a food he associates with a particularly sexy bar owner should remain a secret between him and the grocery store baker.
“I’ll be sure to have her set one aside for you,” Cheryl says, excusing herself when she spies someone else.
“Don’t,” I warn Lou as she slips her arms around me. I pull her close as she smiles up at me with those red lips I’m now extremely familiar with. “It turns out, cherries are addictive.”
She laughs, releasing me to take my hand. “Come on. Benji and Gina are over there.”
Benji and Gina might as well be in another town for how long it takes us to get to them.
A man named Martin stops us to tell Lou that he has some new clothes in his shop, set aside for her.
Ford stops us to talk about the storm and compare it to one twenty years ago.
Deirdre starts telling us about the tree that came down on her workshop, but gets distracted and floats off to another group.
It’s strange not having the bar between me and the locals.
My ventures into town have extended only as far as the grocery store—there didn’t look to be anything worth exploring beyond it—but nearly everyone here seems to know me.
I recognize most of them, or at a minimum, their drink orders.
Everyone wants to talk about the storm and the damage to their property or their neighbor’s.
A few lean in close after looking around to tell us that they’ve heard the local lawyer is under investigation for fraud.
Not exactly what I need since the man was involved in the sale of Gallo’s, but I covered my tracks well enough.
The sale would be unusual, but legal. Aside from the fact that Travis never owned the bar and sold Louisa’s half without her knowledge.
We cross paths with Kristen Donnelly. Her eyes go wide when she sees us holding hands, then she smiles at Lou and flashes her an embarrassed thumbs-up. Lou laughs awkwardly, ducking her head.
It had to happen sometime, I suppose.
Kristen has already walked away, but I bring Lou’s hand to my lips, and get a smile in return.
Eventually, we reach Benji and Gina. They’re sitting close on the picnic blanket, Benji whispering something in her ear.
There’s a blush on Gina’s cheeks, so we’re likely about to interrupt whatever constitutes a sweet nothing to Benji.
Thank god his voice is quiet enough for that to remain a mystery.
I expect Lou to drop my hand, but she doesn’t.
Gina glances up first and taps Benji’s knee to get his attention. When he looks up, he immediately notices our joined hands and smiles that wide shit-eating grin of his.
“When did this happen?” Gina asks, her smile as big as Benji’s.
The two of them are so disgustingly loved-up they’re clearly excited at the prospect of anyone else coupling up.
I glance at Lou for the answer to that question, but she’s looking at me.
“Recently,” I say, and we sit.
This is disturbingly like a terrible double date. Benji and Gina seem to exist in a world where at least some part of them must be touching at all times. They’re effervescent, practically finishing each other’s sentences.
Briar and Milo are working, apparently, but even having them here, glaring openly between all the secret, longing looks would be a breath of fresh air.
After a few minutes, Lou and Gina get up to grab some food for the four of us. Benji and I offer to do it, or at least to help, but they point out that as non-locals, we won’t know which foods to avoid. Apparently, there’s more to worry about than that questionable potato salad.
“So, you and Lou?” Benji asks once they’re gone, a grin on his face.
The two women have disappeared; otherwise, I’d be tempted to follow them to escape this conversation. I sigh and nod, bringing my attention back to Benji. “Yes,” I say dryly. “Lou and me. Don’t hold your breath waiting for a wedding invitation, though.”
Benji’s grin fades. “Because marriage isn’t something either of you wants, or because you don’t see it lasting?”
“Legally binding yourself to another human isn’t some marker of success for relationships, nor some final destination.”
His brows furrow, then he nods. “So you don’t think it will last?”
I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Most relationships don’t.”
Benji’s frown deepens. If today is his day for the collective himbo brain cell, then he’s working it overtime. “Just don’t self-sabotage. You deserve happiness and love.”
“Relationships aren’t my forte.”
Benji shrugs. “Be open and honest. Communicate.”
“How generic.” I’m about to launch deeper into a complaint about how things like honesty and communication regularly fail to work in the real world when someone catches my eye across the field, nearly hidden by some trees.
The man looks like Travis, but a family momentarily blocks my view, and once they’ve walked by, he’s gone.
That had better not have been him, considering what I paid him to stay away.
Gina and Lou come back with three massive plates full of food and four smaller plates, all empty. They arrange everything in the middle, forming a more exclusive potluck. Gina pulls biodegradable sporks from her pocket and drops them onto the empty plates.
I eye the food. And the pocket sporks. “So this is the best Havenwood has to offer?”
Gina brightly points out what everything is, who it’s from, and why it’s the best, with Lou adding the odd comment. Benji looks impressed. I wonder if Gina has any antacids in those cargo pockets of hers.
We eat and chat. I eat what I know to be safe—Mariah’s quinoa salad and the pasta salad Lou and I made. Random people stop by, mostly to talk to Gina. No one brings up the whole fake fiancé/secret husband thing.
“Oh, they talk about it,” Gina says with a rueful laugh when I ask. “But mostly not to my face. It’s okay, though. Sooner or later, someone else will do something gossip-worthy, and everyone will move on.”
“What counts as gossip-worthy in Havenwood?” I ask, and if my motivation is to keep Gina talking so I can focus on the woman sitting next to me instead of the conversation, no one could blame me. We might not last, but I’m going to make every moment count.