Chapter 4
BINX
M onday morning dawns bright and sunny. The sky is blue, the fall leaves in my backyard are vibrant and glorious, and I have my kitchen cleaned and oatmeal muffins in the oven by nine a.m.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
That I’m forgetting something or overlooking something or… something .
“It’s because I’m not getting ready for work,” I tell Mr. Prickles, my pet thimble cactus.
I love furry pets, but my family has enough crazy animals, and I’m the designated pet sitter for all of them. I wasn’t sure I could find a pet that would be okay with occasionally sharing our space with a skunk, a horny squirrel, and a growing flock of turkeys.
Besides, Mr. Prickles is adorable.
And he’s a great listener, a fact he proves by continuing to hang on my every word as I explain, “For years and years, I would have been dressed in scratchy business clothes and out the door by now. I just need to learn to relax and enjoy my new schedule.”
Lydia, my tattoo mentor and new boss, closes her shop on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays, which means I now have a three-day weekend every weekend. I’ll also have either Friday night or Saturday night off. That’s part of the reason Lydia wanted to take on a partner, so she could go see her husband’s band play more often.
I’ll have so much more free time than I did before with only a slight decrease in pay, and that should turn around once I build a reputation and start booking regular clients who want larger pieces. I started tattooing actual people instead of melons and oranges about six months ago, but I’m still at the stage of my career where I mostly handle walk-ins and people wanting smaller stuff.
But I have a consult for a giant back piece for my friend, Pierce, from the gym next week. If he decides to go for it, that’ll be a bump in income for at least the next few months. With tattoos of that size, you can’t complete everything in one visit. You have to give the skin time to heal in between. Even the sleeve on my arm, which is much smaller than Pierce’s back, took three, five-hour sittings to get everything just right.
But it was so worth it. I love my tattoo, with the flowers swirling around my bicep and the skull tucked beneath pink-and-yellow peony petals.
My mother, however, hates the skull with the same fervor with which she loves Jane Fonda. She hates tattoos in general, but the skull really took it over the edge for her. Even when I explained that it was a memento mori—a reminder of death fine art painters have been incorporating into their work for centuries—she insisted I should have it removed.
She said it was “tacky and masculine and morbid.”
But I think being reminded of death every time I glance down at my arm is a good thing. It reminds me not to waste a minute of the precious life I’ve been given.
Which reminds me…
Grabbing my phone, I collect Mr. Prickle’s from his position on the shelf above the sink and head outside to soak up some autumn sun while weighing my options.
“On the one hand, it’s a big expense,” I say, setting Mr. Prickles in the center of my outdoor table before curling into a cushioned chair and drawing my thick robe tighter around me. It’s barely fifty degrees, but I know winter will be here before I know it, and coffee on the back porch will be a thing of the past until spring. “But on the other hand, it’s thirty percent off.”
I turn my cell, showing him the email that popped into my inbox last night. It’s from a company offering rock-climbing tours that I started following a few years ago, mostly to support Wendy Ann’s friend, Lilac, who started the venture right after college. Part of what I love most about rock climbing is the chance to be alone with my thoughts or in the company of one or two good climbing friends. The thought of joining a ten-to-twelve-person tour, with no idea who I’m going to be stuck in close quarters with for three days isn’t a selling point for me.
But I’ve been dying to check out the Golden Spire bluffs down south, and they’re on private land. The area is only accessible through a tour or by making reservations over a year in advance.
“Thirty percent off, and I could mark the bluffs off my list without having to plan ahead,” I tell Mr. Prickles. “You know I hate planning ahead.”
Mr. Prickles chuckles a little at that.
What can I say? He knows me.
But Wendy Ann knows me even better and Lilac, the owner of Rock Out Climbs, is one of her best friends. If anyone can get the “behind the scenes” scoop for me, it will be my little sis.
I punch Wendy Ann’s contact on my phone and put my cell to my ear, not surprised when she answers after the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say in response to her cranky-sounding hello. “How’s Monday treating you so far?”
“Mom woke me up at four-thirty doing aerobics over my head,” she says. “And I haven’t heard back about any of the applications I put in last week.”
“It’s still early. Just relax and do something to keep your mind off the waiting. Like, say… Oh, I don’t know, maybe a favor for your favorite sister.”
She harrumphs. “You’re not my favorite anymore.”
“What? Why?”
“You didn’t come over for dinner last night,” she whines, though I told her that I’ve been skipping Sunday dinners. It’s just easier not to fight with Mom if I’m not around her all that much. “I was alone with Mom and Dad and all our happily married siblings. It was awful. I felt like a third wheel times ten.”
“We only have six married siblings. Plus Mom and Pops, that’s seven. Seven happy couples, mwuah-ha-ha,” I say, doing my best Count impression from Sesame Street.
“Well, it felt like ten, and half of them were cranky and hungover from the wedding reception and the other half were giving the first half shit for being hungover. And then Christian cheated at Monopoly and Mel pounced on him like a spider monkey and Freya the ferret tried to bite his balls because she thought he was a threat. Then Keanu Reeves got into the garbage again while we were all distracted.”
“That dog and garbage,” I mutter. “He has a problem.”
“He does,” she agrees. “He ate something that made his butt smell terrible and got one of the foil wrappers from our baked potatoes stuck on his head. Barrett and I had to chase him around the pasture for almost an hour to get it off. It was exhausting.” She sighs. “I didn’t get to sleep until almost eleven for the second night in a row.”
I hum sympathetically. “Poor thing. Being expected to stay up past ten o’clock at the doddering old age of twenty-three? That’s awful.”
“It is awful,” she says, but there’s laughter in her voice as she adds, “I have to get out of this house and away from Mom’s crack-of-dawn exercise fetish before I become even more lame than I am already. I’m going to see if I can find a sublet or something short term to rent until I find out where I’m going to be working. Then I’ll worry about explaining my move to Mom and Dad if I find something.”
“Sounds smart,” I say. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear of anyone who’s looking for a roommate.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome, and you can repay me by calling your friend Lilac and asking who’s going on her Golden Spire climbing tour this week, the one that’s thirty percent off. I don’t start at the tattoo studio until next Wednesday and the good weather is supposed to hold for a while. I’d be interested in joining the fun as long as there aren’t any Craigs or Petes on her list.”
Wendy Ann laughs. “Craigs or Petes? Why Craigs or Petes? There are way worse names. Chad, for example. Brad and Thad are also bad.”
“Agreed, but it’s not about the name in general. It’s about a particular Craig and Pete who run in the rock-climbing circles around here. They never shut up. It’s just a constant, stream-of-consciousness chat fest. And when they’re not talking, they’re blasting 90’s bro rock on their portable speaker. The one and only time I did a climb with them, I wanted to stab my ears out.”
“Ah, gotcha,” Wendy Ann says. “I’ll shoot her a text and ask. Do you want me to have her save you a spot if Craig and Pete aren’t on the list?”
“Yes, please, that would be great,” I say. “Would you want to come, too? I know you don’t have a lot of experience with climbing, but I could help you. This climb isn’t supposed to be that hard. It’s famous for the views and the hot springs along the way, not the difficulty.”
“Thanks, but no,” she says. “I’m still sore from carrying flowers up to the tent on Saturday.”
“You only carried four arrangements. And they were the small ones.”
“Exactly. Grad school wasn’t great for my physical fitness. The brain is strong, but the muscles are weak.” Her voice brightens as she adds, “But I think you’ll have a great time. Let me touch base with Lilac and get back to you.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, smiling at Mr. Prickles, who seems pleased by this development as well.
Or maybe he’s just enjoying the sunshine.
“You’re welcome and…Binx?”
“Yeah?” I ask, my ears perking up at her tone. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s good. I mean, mostly good. I just…I love you. You know that, right? And that I’m always on your side no matter what?”
Touched, I say, “Yes, weirdo. And same. Oh! If I land a spot on the trip, why don’t you come stay at my place while I’m gone? You can get some time away from Mom and Dad, and I know Mr. Prickles would appreciate the company.”
She laughs. “Your pet cactus? Is he still alive?”
“Alive and kickin.’ Or pricklin’, as he likes to say, and he really does enjoy company around the house, so you’d be most welcome.”
She snorts. “And you call me a weirdo. Have a good day. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear from Lilac. Oh, and don’t be late to the shower. They only rented out the bar for two hours, so they want everyone there on time tonight.”
I blink faster, sputtering as I hurry to catch her before she hangs up, “Wait, what? What shower? Tatum isn’t due for months. And we already had a shower for Phoebe. Do we have to do one for every baby? Because I think that’s going to get excessive. Drew and Tatum like raw dogging way too much.”
“Ew. Why do you always find the grossest way to talk about sex?”
I grin. “I do not. I could have said something way grosser. You want to hear?”
“No,” she says quickly. “And it’s not a baby shower. It’s for Starling and Christian.” She pauses, adding when I respond with confused silence. “Their combo wedding shower and bachelor/bachelorette party? The one they’ve been planning for months?”
I frown harder. “What? This is the first I’m hearing about any of this.”
“No, it isn’t. You said you would bring Jello shots.”
I sit up straighter, my stomach sinking as this begins to sound familiar. “Oh no. Was this discussed on poker night back in July?”
“Yes, the one where you took Christian for two hundred bucks and Starling had a fit because the deposit for the bar was due the next day, and they’d just dropped a bunch of money on the wedding venue, too.”
I curse.
“I can’t believe you forgot,” Wendy Ann says.
“Of course I forgot. I was focused on poker. Besides, they should have sent out an event reminder or something.”
“They did. Twice. It’s in the family group text.”
“I left the family group text,” I say, standing to pace around the deck. “You know I hate group projects.”
“A family text isn’t a group project, but I hear you. The notifications are a lot. But you didn’t have to leave. You can just mute the conversation and check in on it once every few days or so. That way you stay connected without being bombarded. So, what are you going to do about the Jello shots? Even if you make them right now, they won’t be firm by five o’clock, will they?”
“No, they will,” I say, dragging a hand down my face as I realize my lazy morning just took a turn for the hectic. “I won’t be able to do the layered ones with different colors, but I can get basic shots done. I just have to run to the store for supplies and get my ass in gear. Talk later, okay? At the party, I guess? And will you text me the exact time and address?”
“Will do,” Wendy Ann says. “And I’ll drop those old bell-bottoms you wore for spirit week in high school in your mailbox on my way to babysit Sara Beth and Phoebe.”
My forehead snatches back into a frown. “What? Why?”
“It’s a costume party, of course. I mean, it’s Christian and Starling, what else would it be? It’s a summer of love, hippy theme, and they wanted everyone to prepare a 1970’s soft rock classic for karaoke.”
I groan. “I mean, I’m all for goofy fun, but 1970’s soft rock? What is that even?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to google it while I’m watching the girls for Tatum. She’s taking a final for her early childhood education class. I should probably head out now, actually. She was hoping to leave early so she would have time to study without Phoebe latched onto her boob. She’s struggling with the whole weaning thing, I guess.”
“Okay, okay, head out and I’ll see you later,” I say. “And thanks for dropping those bell-bottoms off. I definitely don’t have time for costume hunting at this point.”
We say goodbye, and I launch into motion, toting Mr. Prickles back inside before throwing on sweats and a hoodie and jogging out to my truck. I hit the grocery store first, grabbing a few different kinds of Jello and face paint from the Halloween aisle, so I can draw a peace sign on my cheek later and call myself “ready to hippie.”
Then, I cruise over to the “bad” side of town—though Bad Dog really doesn’t have many rough areas inside the city limits—to the only liquor store open before ten a.m. I’m grabbing lemon vodka and dark rum when I hear a familiar voice from the next aisle over.
“Stop it,” the woman coos with a soft trill of laughter. “It’s not a big deal, darlin’. I don’t mind at all. You know I work just a few doors down from the liquor store. I’ll bring the vodka and other stuff over this afternoon around four, when I’m done with my last client. Tell your mama not to worry.”
I duck down, discreetly peeking through the space between the shelves, to see massive breasts straining the front of a bright pink sweater, and wrinkle my nose.
Yep, it’s Pammy, all right.
Pammy, who worked as a touring stripper for ten years before returning home to open a hair and tanning salon.
Pammy, who looks like she escaped from a 1980s rock video, complete with the orange tan and frosted blue eye shadow.
Pammy, who is as hyperfeminine as I am “just one of the guys” and who was spotted at Bubba Jump’s with Seven a few weeks back. Maybe it was a date, maybe it wasn’t, but my friend, Zan, told me Pammy was using Seven’s body like a stripper pole, and that there was zero room for the Holy Spirit between her boobs and his face.
Now she’s cooing to someone on the phone about dropping off vodka for his “mama” this afternoon…
I only know one person who would need the extra-large bottles she’s shifting into her cart—Bettie. Which means she was talking to Seven, and she just called him “darlin’.”
Fighting a wave of physical sickness, I stand up, pressing a fist to my mouth.
No. No, no, no! This can’t be happening. Seven can’t be falling for Pammy. I mean, Pammy is okay, I guess, but she’s not right for him. Not even close. She spends way too much time on primping and makeup and hair, and there’s no way she could rock climb or lift weights with nails that long. Working on fixing up motorcycles is out, too. She wouldn’t want to get her soft little hands dirty.
Maybe that’s what he likes about her, that she’s not a dude with boobs.
“I am not a dude with boobs,” I mutter beneath my breath, torn between slinking away and staying to eavesdrop. A part of me is dying for further clues as to what exactly is happening between Seven and Pammy, but the other part doesn’t want to know.
What if he tells her he loves her?
What if she says it back?
How will I ever be okay again? And how could Seven even think about developing feelings for someone else when we spent twenty minutes in a tree together Saturday night sharing our favorite tree house memories from when we were kids? After he laughed at my story and ruffled my hair, and then the hair ruffle turned into his face moving closer to mine and another almost-kiss that left me breathless?
He loves me , not Pammy. I know that the way I know that lemon vodka elevates a yellow Jello shot and that rum is the only choice for the cherry ones.
“Aw, you’re so welcome, sweetheart. Yeah, you too,” Pammy says. “See you soon.”
Sweetheart…
It’s not the “L” word, but it’s way too close for comfort.
I have to do something. I have to take action now, before it’s too late.
After checking out, I hurry to my truck with my supplies, a plan serving itself up on a silver platter as a text from Wendy Ann pops through on my dashboard. The digital voice reads her message, assuring me that there will be no losers on the tour and that my space is reserved.
When the A.I. asks if I want to respond, I say yes, and ask—“Is there room for one more? I might see if Seven wants to go.”
Wendy Ann doesn’t respond right away, but I assume that’s because she’s following up with Lilac, or wrangling children, and put it out of my mind. It isn’t until I show up at the shower dressed in skintight orange and brown bell-bottoms that smell of moth balls to see Seven behind the bar with Bettie mixing drinks, that I remember my plan.
I wonder why he didn’t mention that he was bartending at my brother’s shower, but there’s no time to get to the bottom of that mystery right now. I head off to find my sister, wanting to know if there’s room on the tour before I mention it to Seven—preferably in front of Bettie, who I know will offer to babysit. She’s always telling him that he works too hard and needs to make time to play while he’s still young enough to do the grueling physical things he enjoys.
I don’t think Seven is running out of time for that anytime soon—he’s in incredible shape, proven by the number of women ogling him as they flip through the karaoke app looking for songs—but I’m not above using Seven’s mom fears to my advantage.
And I’m not above packing my skimpiest bikini for the hot springs while Seven and I are off on that climbing trip.
Or maybe I’ll forget my bikini altogether and go with some lacy lingerie…
If I’m going to make one last play for Seven before he’s snatched up in the gravitational pull of Pammy’s giant boobs, I intend to make it a serious one.