Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
I WARNED HIM.
Juniper
“It was a great one today,” my sister says, outstretching her hand for another jar of jam.
“Yeah, it was. Hudson’s idea for mid-week markets was brilliant,” I reply.
Dolly beams, bringing her clasped hands beneath her chin. “He’s so amazing.”
I laugh and shake my head. Dolly knew she loved Hudson from the moment his boots hit the gravel out front years ago. And while Ivy and Trace had their own path, Ivy was right about them all along, knowing that together they’re the best versions of themselves.
No one can say Ellington women are indecisive. We know what we want. And we know how to get it.
I wanted my own jam business, and when I was seventeen, working at the Eat O Rama, I spent my first paycheck on a dozen boxes, a flat of strawberries and a few sacks of sugar. Fifteen years later, here I am.
But a business is not the only thing I want. It’s taken me a few years to realize that.
Peering around to make sure Hudson and Deuce aren’t within earshot, I drop my volume, talking quietly to my sisters while we clean up my booth. Trace lingers, but he’s attached to Ivy, so I know this will be as private as it gets. “Hey, you guys know how I hang out with Sterling Ford and Dash Foster, right?”
“No, Juniper, we had no idea that you’ve been meeting up with them multiple times a week for years,” Ivy deadpans, making eyes at me as her nostrils flare.
Dolly bumps her with her elbow. “Yes, we know. We also know you’re private about your romantic life, so we haven't been pushy. But if you’re ready to share,” she offers, stroking her fingers down my braid as her smile comforts me. “And you don’t need to full name them, Juni. We’re very aware of your besties.”
“Well… I’m just wondering… is it possible to date two people at once?” Adrenaline stings my cheeks after the words leave my mouth, and I force my eyes down to the flat of jars in my hands, too embarrassed to look at my sisters.
I can’t believe I’m finally addressing this.
Ivy stops me with a hand to my wrist, bringing our gazes together. “That deception would hurt them, Juniper.”
I shake my head, shocked at the idea she has. “No, no, no,” I clarify, “I mean, could I date them, like… together? ” Bringing a hand to my chest, I shake my head, hunting for the right words. “I don’t want to date them separately.” I lick my lips, glancing between Ivy, Trace and Dolly. “I want them both, together. ”
Trace’s lips curve into a sinister grin. He shakes his head. “I knew I liked you.”
Ivy elbows him. “Shut up, Trace.”
“Sterling didn’t come to the market today. He hasn’t missed one. Ever.”
“Ever?” Trace questions, still studying me.
“I don’t know why he isn’t here. And right as I was getting the courage to talk to him about all this. It almost feels like him not being here is a sign. You know, that it’s a bad idea,” I tell them, back to chewing the inside of my cheek as I mindlessly trace the rim of an empty sample jar.
“I like to believe in signs that support my narrative,” Dolly supplies cheerfully. “And Dash was here, right? If the universe didn’t want you to have both of them, then neither of them would have shown up. Right?”
I love how supportive she is, and how eager she is to help me get what I want. I consider what she’s saying, and I suppose if God, the universe, or whoever did not want me to have Dash and Sterling as my own, they’d quit dangling them beneath my nose.
And Dash was here today…
“Never mind,” I decide, suddenly acutely self-conscious of suggesting it aloud, especially in mixed company. Besides, do I deserve them? They’re my friends, my best friends even. But do I really deserve either one of them, much less both of them? Not one but two absolutely incredible human beings? No. I really don’t. “Dumb idea. Forget I said anything,” I say, collapsing my Juni’s Jams standing sign before slipping it into a carry bag.
“It’s not a dumb idea,” Ivy defends the dream on my behalf, helping me load my banner into my wagon of supplies. “A lot of people are in polyamorous relationships, or throuples. There’s nothing dumb about that.”
Sterling flashes through my mind, his bear-like chest and meaty hands, and that sweet, demure smile of his. Next I picture Dash, his neatly coiffed dark hair and the fitted cut of his uniform. “They’re out of my league, anyway. I mean, Sterling is like…” I shake my head, staring up into the miles of clear blue sky, hoping to find the right words drifting in the clouds. Nothing feels right. He isn’t hot. He isn’t handsome.
He’s so much more than any of that.
“And Dash…” I start, but again, how do you do justice in describing a man like him? I end up shaking my head as I swipe my hands down my apron. “Besides all that,” I say, admitting something that’s been bouncing around my brain for the last few weeks. “Men know what they want. If Sterling or Dash wanted to date me, they would have made a move by now. We’ve been hanging out for ages.” I shake my head. “Years.”
Trace says nothing, and neither does Ivy. And Dolly, my usual beam of perpetual hope and happiness, only smiles.
I’m right.
If they wanted me, they’d have asked me out by now. One or both.
But neither has.
After taking my booth supplies back in the barn, I head inside, snagging a late lunch while I check my list of deliveries. Three times a week I make deliveries for those who order from my website, and today is one of those days.
I only have three stops, but one is on the edge of town, so I load my van with a few flats of jam and head to the farthest stop first. With my windows down and 90s music roaring from my speakers, I enjoy the fifteen-minute drive to the edge of town on Old Soulsby Road. The road, lining a ravine, drops down at least fifty feet, to a largely desolate area. Cacti and succulents are everywhere, and though I’m still in Bluebell, it always feels like the desert out here. My van’s worn axles squeal during the tight turns on the country road, and just as I’m about to check the address one last time, I spot a truck pulled over in the upcoming turnout.
It’s not rare for someone else to be out here, as this is the road that connects Bluebell to our sister town, Oakcreek.
But the mere presence of another human isn’t what has my nostrils flaring, dirt flying up around my wheels and clouding my side mirrors, as I stomp the brakes with all my might. My eyes still on the man, I reach over the console, grabbing whatever I can, not even fully pulled off the road. Within seconds, my door is open and my feet are on the ground.
The man, who has yet to notice me, continues to do the thing that made me stop.
There’s a beautiful golden dog in the bed of the truck, hooked to a rope leash. He yanks the leash, driving his fist in the dog’s back each time the animal refuses to move toward the tailgate.
“Get the fuck out!” he screams, whaling on the dog repeatedly as he struggles to drag him out of the truck bed. “Get out of the truck, you fucking asshole!” he shouts. The dog curls into the plastic bed liner, whimpering, clearly scared to get out, but equally scared to stay. Poor baby.
“Hey!” I shout, closing the distance between us with each aggressive stomp of my boots, my heart hammering. No one treats animals like this. There is no acceptable reason for it. And there is no forgiveness in it, either.
The man turns to face me, sweat glistening on his forehead, malice pinching his dark eyes.
“Mind your business, you dumb bitch,” he shouts, rewrapping the end of the rope around his hand, giving it another hard yank. The dog slides forward in the back of the bed, his nails grating, coughing and gasping from how tight the rope holds his throat. The poor baby can hardly breathe. “Get the fuck out!” he screams again, this time coming to the side of the truck bed to lean over, punching the dog in the head with his closed fist.
No, no, no.
No.
My ears burn, the corners of my vision grow dark as a familiar energy sweeps over me. “Do not touch that dog again,” I warn. It’s in all of our best interests if he walks away now. Unstoppable darkness creeps up my legs, searing through my veins. I know what’s about to happen if he doesn’t listen.
If he leaves now, I can channel it or defuse it. Or at least try. The it being the all-consuming, blinding wave of energy that possesses me in times like these.
“Sir,” I mutter, unmoving while somehow also gaining on him, the world around me slowly twisting into a muted, dark blur. “Do not touch that dog again.”
With beady eyes pinched, he faces me, thin lips twisted in defiance. With our gazes locked, he raises his closed fist, and hits the dog again. He yelps so loudly my spine straightens.
I warned him.
I really did.
I didn’t want this to happen again. And definitely not like this.
But that doesn’t matter now.
This is happening.
My arm burns with foreboding; my hands throb in anticipation. Anger continues to cloud my sight, causing the scene to taper, leaving the dog beater’s face in a tiny pinhole of clarity.
Maroon, scarlet, crimson—so many shades of red fog my vision as I swing, bringing the jar of Strawbarb preserves down on his head, over and over. Preserves go everywhere.
It’s my food service jar, which means it’s big. Heavy. Full of carefully cooked fruits, sweetened with sifted and measured sugar, stirred to perfection, heat sealed with precision, the jar shatters in my palm, bits of jam-coated glass flying like confetti. Still, a large portion of the jar remains intact, and I use it to continue punishing the man.
Only when I succumb to my chest full of flames do I relent and drop to my knees, palms pressed to the dirt as I work on steadying my breath. After a moment gasping on my knees, my senses return, and I’m able to see beyond fifty shades of red.
Chest heaving, my hands pressed firmly into the unmoving ground in an effort to regulate my senses, knees dug into the sun-warmed gravel beneath me, I glance up at the yellow dog standing before me. With his wet nose, he nudges my shoulder and cheek until I get to my feet.
“Poor baby,” I croon, a soft breeze moving through, kissing my skin, damp with sweat, leaving me chilled. Unease shudders all around us as I smooth my hand along the dog’s soft fur, leaving a streak of red along his back, contrasting his golden hue. My palm aches, so I smooth it against my leg, trying to clear it of dirt and debris, to assess the damage. Only, I can’t figure out which streaks of ruby are jam or blood, and my vision hasn’t quite settled yet.
“C’mon,” I tell the dog, who stands patiently next to me, his leash in my hand. I walk him to my van, and drag open the sliding door to let him inside. Collecting his face in my hands, I press a kiss to his snout. “You’re safe now. I’ll be back.”
The heavy doors closing echo through the nearby ravine. Looking across the horizon, impending evening scattering flecks of orange along mountaintops, I apologize to the beautiful land bordering Soulsby Road.
I apologize as I traipse over to the motionless man in the dirt, because I know what I’m going to do. Sucking in a breath, I curl my hurt hand beneath him and grunt as I roll his lifeless body to the edge. With my boot poised on his butt, I give one strong nudge—the last of my energy. Dust clouds snowball as he rolls, landing with a hard thud, the noise echoing in finality. Blinking down, my heart rate still in panic, sobs tear free from my tightened chest.
Uncontrollably wild, from the depths of my soul, body-rocking sobs.
I don’t like when it happens this way. It makes me feel like even more of a monster. Controlled, private—that’s how I like it if it has to happen.
A car rushes through, taking the tight turn of the curve too fast, snapping me from my haze. After collecting broken bits of the jar, I toss them into the ravine and kick the driver’s door closed on his truck.
Then I get in my van, the golden dog coming to rest his head next to me on the console. Petting him, sifting my fingers through his luscious, soft coat, I assure him he’s safe. That we will be okay.
The truck can’t stay there. His body can’t stay there. My jam jar is down there. My hand is— I bring my hurt hand in front of the wheel to check it while using the other to guide my van in a tight turn, heading back to the heart of Bluebell. The hand I used to strike the man is mangled. And my tire tracks are out there for anyone to photograph.
Panic stings my sensibilities as I drive back into town, following the speed limit so as to avoid attention.
“Okay, think. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It's gonna be okay,” I coach myself, a job I’ve grown comfortable doing. You have to be strong when you have hobbies like I do.
I make a mental plan to head home, wash the van, shower, then take care of my hand. It helps me if I picture my plan. As I steady my hand on the wheel, the evening streetlights flitting past as I curve my van onto the main street of Bluebell, I envision my house.
Then it dawns on me.
Today was the mid-week market. That means Hudson and Dolly will have company. Deuce and Ev at the least, but it’s usually more. They host a dinner on Wednesdays, and if I show up now, I’ll be sure to get noticed. They eat on the patio. There is no way for me to get out of my van covered in blood and dirt with a bloody dog and go unnoticed.
I chew my lip as fresh tears cascade my cheeks. It occurs to me just then as I pass Goode’s Diner and Ink Time that I really fucked up.
I can’t pull that man from the ravine. There’s no way.
I need help.