Chapter 10
Lily
Istare at the crumpled flyer I tossed in my passenger seat moments ago.
The paper was stuck to my windshield after I came out of the gym.
Annoyed with my wet hair sticking to my forehead in the chilly air, I snatched it, glanced at the title, and balled the paper in my fist. But now, those words tap in time with the rumble of my stomach, and I reach for it while the air continues to blow full blast in an attempt to dry my hair.
Smoothing the wrinkled page, I spread it out over the steering wheel, and my mouth waters at the stocky lettering at the top.
PINEbrOOK CHILI COOK-OFF
The growling in my stomach rages again. Figures Mitch would cut my hours in half just as the holiday season approaches.
I was banking on those additional hours to pay for more gas, maybe even a few nights in a motel now that it’s getting colder—but no.
He had to hire his cousin’s daughter, who flirts her way to fat tips and can’t make coffee to save her life.
At first, I thought it might be because of my episode several shifts ago.
The one where I emerged from the bathroom looking gaunt and pale.
Yeah. Mitch sent me home early, afraid I was coming down with something.
Couldn’t tell him that a particular chilling phone call is what did me in.
Luckily, I haven’t had any more phone calls since that one, and I’ve convinced myself it was a prank.
With the cutbacks my opportunities to swipe my meals from the diner are sparse, and although I hate to admit it, this chili cook-off has four letters that speak to me … or my belly. FREE.
Truth is, I’m more unsure than ever. I’ve been fighting for my time here in Pinebrook, and part of me wonders if I should move on.
I’ve never made so little in any of the places I’ve been, and although living out of my car is my preference, having extra cash on hand to stay in an Airbnb or hotel at times used to be nice. Here I’m barely scraping by.
The economy has tanked, which means it might be time to get creative. I’m not above anything that pays out actual money, even handing out flyers in a chicken suit.
I’m not sleeping enough, though. Consumed by memories and endless words that occupy my mind each night—sleep is a distant friend at this point. Pretty sure it shows on my face, too.
I twist, reaching into my back seat for my water bottle and a hair tie to pull my damp hair up into a messy bun.
A strand of dyed hair falls out and I huff it away before tucking it behind my ear.
Looking down, I examine my outfit. Dark wash jeans with a hole in the knee and a long-sleeved plain black shirt don’t necessarily feel like something one would wear to a chili cook-off.
In my mind’s eye, it’s all red plaid and brown work boots.
Speaking of boots …
I shuck off my cheap slip-on shoes and grab my black Chelsea boots from the passenger floorboard.
Then, careful to avoid blowing the horn in the well-populated gym parking lot, I maneuver them on, completing my outfit.
A huff escapes me, but I continue to get ready, applying minimal makeup.
As I put the final touches of mascara on my lashes, gold peeks out from under my shirt, and I frown, pulling the necklace free to stare at the raven.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
His cold hand grips mine as he pulls me through the woods. The fog settles near the ground, and I trip, almost losing my balance on a tree root, but strong arms catch me, his leather jacket crinkling underneath my weight.
“I got you,” he says, hauling me up only to push me against the nearby oak.
I gasp when his lips tentatively touch mine and my stomach flutters in response. I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. A few boys from school are just that … boys. Whereas he … well, he treats me like a woman.
I’m sixteen, but I know I want to spend my life with him. My best friend Kalin says I’m too young to know what I want, and that he’s too old for me. I’m sure my brothers would kill me if they knew I was dating someone their age.
But of all the girls at school, he picked me.
Noticed me. Took an interest in me. His messy dark hair, that shimmers with a blue tint like a galaxy far, far away, always falls into his face.
He’s not like every other man around this small town who wears polos or plaid with sun-kissed skin from the southern sun.
No. He’s fair, pale even, with dark eyes that track each movement I make.
He’s dangerous, maybe. Exciting, definitely.
There’s a confident surety to him, and I feel like I’m figuring out who I am. He’s the kind of guy I’ve been warned about. The one that parents wait at the door or set curfews for. The one that will suck you into their world and crush you before you can realize what’s happened.
But he makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room, tells me he’s obsessed with me and could never let me go.
It’s maddening and thrilling all at once.
Even when he’s too rough with me, his temper getting the best of him …
he still tells me I’m the only one for him.
There will never be another. I preen at his words.
His hand comes to my throat while his teeth tug at my lips, and—
Ow! Did he bite me?
“Sh-shouldn’t we be getting back?” I ask, pulling my mouth from his.
“No.”
His hand squeezes my neck, and … it hurts.
“That hurts. Can we just—”
He gropes at my chest and my breath hitches, the lump in my throat impossible to swallow.
My stomach twists. I don’t want this.
I struggle, but I’m blocked by the tree. Desperate to move away, I pry at his hands, but his tall frame is no match for my petite size.
“P-please … Stop, please.” My voice shakes, betraying my discomfort as his hands roam places I’ve never been touched.
There’s a rip, and it echoes through the night forest that’s slowly blurring at the edges as panic sets in.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
“No.” I whimper, the hot tears slowly slipping down my cheeks while the rest of the unwelcome sensations hollow me out, becoming numb with each grab and squeeze.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be …
I jerk at the memory and drop the necklace into my shirt, slapping my hand over my chest as the rapid pounding in my chest slowly falters.
Reaching to start my car, I sigh, shrugging off the debilitating pain.
I glance at the flyer haphazardly thrown onto the seat next to me.
The chili cook-off starts in an hour, and because I can’t sit in this parking lot a minute longer, I speed off, reaching for my vape pen in the center console as I do.
The annual Pinebrook chili cook-off is bigger than I expected.
It’s more like a festival. Traffic has slowed to a crawl as detour signs riddle the main road through downtown Pinebrook.
They’ve blocked off a wide portion of Main Street with metal barricades, so I follow other vehicles weaving through the side streets, looking for parking.
There’s a spot several paces away, and I slide my old piece of shit car between a pristine BMW and a Mercedes, both with out-of-state plates. This entire event is probably a vortex for tourists, looking for something to do while they visit the smallish town of Pinebrook.
I clamber out, careful to avoid smacking my door into the car next to me, and squeeze through the narrow space between them as I make my way to the tents.
The November breeze is that crisp chilled air that reminds me of walking into the shade from being outside in the sun all day. The bite of it makes it perfect for chili, and my mouth waters the closer I get. I inhale a breath of the warm, spicy aroma suspended in the light wind.
Even though it’s still light out, amber and orange lights line the sectioned-off square, draping from tent to tent. Tables are lined up underneath and on them are simmering pots, each one decorated with cheerfully unique signs proclaiming their chili is the “best in the west.”
The crowd is fairly thick, with people wrapped in thin jackets and sweaters navigating the booths, with tiny cups of chili in hand and mini wooden spoons in the other.
A long table sits in the center of the square with a blue banner draped in front that reads: Judges.
While no one is seated, you can’t miss them in the crowd.
They’re the only ones in suits and ties or skirts and dresses, walking around murmuring phrases like “a hint of cumin” or “too much smoked paprika.”
Close by, live music—a cross between bluegrass and rock—filters through the chatter and sets a lively rhythm for the kids to dart around and dance to.
The event is free, but there’s a line for registration. Those who have already registered walk away with a clipboard and a list of those participating. Apparently, there’s an award for the crowd favorite.
Honestly, the entire thing seems like something my hometown Ruin, Mississippi, would do.
Of course, there’s more people in Pinebrook, but the tight-knit community vibes are spinning their web and nostalgia settles over me.
For a moment, I get lost in the atmosphere, my heart pounding as I remember another life, my family.
I huff out a breath—the puff turning into a wispy fog in the late fall air. My stomach growls, and I’m thankful to be only two couples away from registration, so I can finally dish up some chili.
When I make it to the front, a basket of warm cornbread muffins sits there.
“How many?” a middle-aged woman asks. Her coppery auburn hair is pulled into a practical braid that hangs over one shoulder, a streak of silver catching the lowering sunlight.
On the tip of her nose balances a pair of reading glasses that reminds me of a librarian as she flips through the clipboards.
A bunched chili-red apron is tied snugly around her waist, and a collection of pepper enamel pins is stuck sporadically around her name badge that reads Spicy Queen.