Chapter 3
Three
FELIX
T reading water, I realize I may have swum a bit further from shore than was sensible. I'm tired, panting, and still have to swim back…and the shore looks a lot farther away than I feel comfortable with.
But I mean, what are you supposed to do at the beach by yourself? I tried my damndest to relax, really I did. I even read a few chapters of The Sackett Brand before I got too hot and restless, at which point I waded in and splashed around the shallows for a few minutes. Eventually, however, the drive to accomplish things —that ceaseless, nagging, driving, frustrating engine inside me that rules my every waking moment—pushed me to swim away from shore. At first, it had been simply about moving my body, enjoying the cool, clear water, and the sunshine. But then, inevitably, it became a competition with myself.
And now here I am, a good half mile from shore, and I'm a bit concerned about my ability to make it back.
Like an idiot.
I roll to my back with my head facing shore and backstroke leisurely toward land. When I crane my head and twist to check my progress, however, not only have I not made forward progress, I've managed to travel sideways. I alternate between breaststroke and sidestroke. I try a regular crawl, but that's fuckin' exhausting, so I go back to alternating between breaststroke and sidestroke.
Eventually, the shore seems closer, and the vague burn of panic in my gut recedes to a nagging ache of embarrassment. I mean, shit, I'm a Three Rivers boy, born and raised. I grew up swimming in the big water, so you’d think I’d know better—and I do, intellectually. Distances are deceiving once you’re in the water: what seems like a short swim from shore or the deck of a boat is suddenly a lot fucking farther once you're in the water with no one around to pick you up.
Every limb burning and weighing a thousand pounds, I finally feel lake bottom drag against my toes, and I gratefully slog the rest of the way to shore.
I'm so exhausted that I'm dizzy, panting like I…well, swam a mile. I rub my face and scrap my wet hair back as I drag my stupid ass ashore and to my towel, which I promptly collapse upon.
"Fuckin' dumbass," I growl at myself, out loud, and then adopt a mocking tone of voice. "Oh yeah, let's go to the beach, it'll be fun, they said. Let's swim halfway to fucking Wisconsin and almost die , they said.”
I hear a snort from my right. Startled, I glance in that direction and see the goddess with the silver eyes and white hair. Amber? No. Cooler than that. Ember. The one with the vintage orange VW and the most amazing tits I've ever seen.
Which are on prominent display at the moment. She's wearing a vivid blue bikini whose color contrasts with her tanned golden skin and white-blond hair. The top is wholly insufficient for the task of containing her monster boobs—it's basically a bit of string wrapped in a complex web around her chest, neck, and shoulders, with two triangles barely the size of a palm covering her nipples and a few inches of skin around them, leaving the rest beautifully exposed. She's lying on her back, so they drape to either side, pulling at the top so the breast nearest me is nearly falling out, showing a hint of areola—a sliver of pale, pretty pink.
The bottoms are just as spectacularly revealing—she has one knee propped up and tilted inward, rolling her hips slightly toward me. The bend at her hip creates a crease into which the string vanishes, hinting at the shape of her pussy, showing off the whole of her bare leg—which I quite vividly remember glimpsing the last time we met; it’s long and thick and round and smooth, muscular and toned.
"You're staring again, Kayce," she says, smirking at me.
"Name's Felix," I grumble, shutting my eyes to tear them away from her mesmerizing body. "And I can't help it. You in that bikini…fuckin' hypnotizing."
Pink stains her cheeks. "What, this ol' thing?"
I cover my eyes with my hands as if to shield them from the sun, because I'm helpless against the siren song of her nearly nude body. “Yeeeeeahhhhh,” I drawl. "that ol' thing."
I hear a cackle from the other side of Ember—the dry, papery laugh of an old woman. "She's somethin', ain't she, son?"
I lift up on an elbow and look, with some difficulty, past Ember. Wrinkled, weathered skin is my reward for trying to see who's talking to me—an old woman on her belly, cheek on her hands, a purple bikini string untied to get sun on her back.
"She is at that, ma'am," I say.
“Ma'am, he says," she cackles, not looking at me. "One of the old breed, with honest-to-goodness manners ." She twists her head to crack an eye in my direction. "Oh, I know you. You're one of Carson Crowe's boys. Felix, is it?"
"Yes, ma'am," I answer, surprised. I recognize her, but can't put a name to her. "I admit you have the better of me. I know I know you, but I'm not great at remembering names."
"Faye McFarlane. I taught art up at the high school. I retired, ohhhhh, when you were in ninth grade, I think? Over ten years ago, now. Of course, when I say retired, I mean fully retired. After my Thomas retired, I cut back my hours, but that was twenty years ago. I was gonna fully retire, but then Thomas passed and I had to do something with myself, so I only fully retired, what was it…ten years ago, now? Twelve?"
"Well, ma'am, I'm thirty-two. I graduated fourteen years ago."
She lifts a bit further, forgetting she'd untied her bikini top, showing me a dangerous amount of her breasts. "You sure?" She glances down. "Whoops! Bet you wish that was her, huh?"
Ember rolls her eyes. "Faye, do not encourage him. I've met him twice for all of ten minutes, and he's spent most of that time staring at my chest."
Faye holds her top to her chest and laboriously sits up, turning her back to Ember. "Do me up, would you, missy?" While Ember is tying, Faye winks at me over her shoulder. "I mean, I can't say I blame him. Lotta real estate to see, if you know what I mean."
I completely fail to suppress the snicker of laughter.
Ember frowns at Faye, and then at me. "I feel ganged up on. Should I put my dress back on?"
Faye turns to face us both. "No one's ganging up on you, Ember." She tosses her visor aside, rummages in the huge bag at her side, and comes up with an orange life preserver, the kind that used to be ubiquitous in tin fishing boats for decades.
Ember snickers. "Jesus, Faye, what else you got in there?"
Faye makes a face, shrugging. "Oh, you know, this and that." She works herself to her knees, and then half-kneeling, and then upright. "Whew, that was rough. Gotta do more of those mobility exercises Doc Murthy gave me. The chair yoga ain't cuttin' it. I'll be damned if I'm gonna end up on a Life Alert commercial."
“Going for a dip?" Ember asks.
Faye shakes the big, thick orange flotation device. "Gonna float a bit. If the current takes me and I don’t come back, let the lake have me."
Ember blinks at her. "Faye, I can't tell if you're joking or not."
“Me either!" Faye cackles. She gives me a wink. "And don't stare at my ass, Felix Crowe! I'm an old woman."
I choke on laughter as she wades out into the water, settles the life jacket under her shoulders and head while lying on her back, using the chest portion as arm rests, and kicks away to float lazily in the shallows.
"Jesus, Ember," I say, shaking my head. "Where the fuck did you dig up that nutty old fossil?"
Ember rubs her face with both hands. "We met at the Korner Kustard." She smiles as she watches Faye paddle this way and that with her hands only a few feet out from shore. "She reminds me of my grandmother. I dunno…I like her. She's funny as fuck and unpredictable."
“Yeah, no shit she’s unpredictable,” I mutter. "So, how's the bus running?"
She shrugs. "Fine. She's a fickle old beast, my Pumpkin, but she's home."
I glance at her, searching her face; and look, I know I've spent most of the time I’ve been around her staring at her tits, but she really is a stunningly beautiful woman. Even, symmetrical features, a graceful jawline, elegant throat, high, sharp cheekbones, deep, wide, bright silver eyes, and that fucking amazing white-blonde hair, currently in a loose braid down her back.
I tear my gaze away before I get gigged for staring again. "Can I ask about that?"
She shoots me a sidelong look. "About what?"
"Living in the van."
"Bus," she corrects.
I chuckle. "Sorry, bus."
She sighs, gazing out at the horizon. "It's a long story." She meets my eyes. "I thought you weren't gonna ask unless I felt like telling."
"That was about the box in particular. This is more of a general 'what's your deal' sort of question."
The bright fire in her eyes dims a bit, weighed down by the burden of sorrow. “Honestly, Felix, I'm enjoying my first day at the beach in a long time—since…" she cuts off with a shake of her head and an audible gulp. "In a long time. So, I guess if you don't mind, I'd rather not go there."
"I can respect that," I say. "Didn't mean to bring up anything painful. I'm sorry."
She points a sharp, quizzical look at me. "I appreciate the understanding."
My heart pounds in my chest as another, very different question percolates inside me. "How about over dinner?"
She peers at me with a carefully blank expression. "Are you asking me out, Felix Crowe?"
"Yes, I am, Ember…" I trail off, hoping she'll fill in her last name.
"James. My name is Emberly James."
"Emberly, huh?" I say, grinning at her.
She rolls her eyes at me. "Do not call me Emberly."
"No?"
"Nope."
"So?" I ask, prompting her to answer my initial question.
She doesn't answer, but the nature of her silence is thoughtful. I couldn't say why it feels that way, but it does, so I let the silence reign until she breaks it.
"Felix, I…" she sighs.
"Forget it," I say. "Don't worry about it."
Rejection stings worse than that time I threw a rock at a hornet’s nest. Swallowing the burn in my throat, feeling like a world-class fool, I shoot to my feet, scooping my slides, book, and shirt into the towel I was sitting on. I grab my cooler and head for the stairs.
"Felix, wait, hold on." I hear her feet squeak-crunching in the sand behind me. "It's not like that. I just—I'm not—I don't—"
I pause to let her catch up. Her hair has come loose from the braid, a long tendril sticking to her plump, pink lips. "You don't owe me any explanations, Ember. You're not ready, you don't want to, you're just not into me, whatever. Doesn't matter. It's cool. I get it. Enjoy the beach."
My hand, clearly possessed by some other entity besides my brain, steals out and tucks the flyaway tendril behind her ear.
The action seems to freeze her in place, eyes wide and fraught, the corner of her lower lip caught in her teeth. Fuck, I'd give anything to taste those lips, to tug that lip out of her teeth and kiss it, taste it.
Not gonna happen.
I growl my frustration and hurt, a soft, quiet, sighing rumble. "See ya 'round, Ember James."
I ascend the steps, having to remind myself not to stomp up them like a petulant teenager.
"Felix!"
I'm too hurt to answer, so I ignore her.
I do get it, though. I haven’t exactly left the best impression, letting myself stare at her like some fucking creep. It's just been so long since I've felt anything like this that I let myself buy into the notion of hope for a minute. But nah. Not for me.
What the fuck ever.
She'll probably move on soon anyway.
I reach my FJ40, toss my shit onto the front passenger seat, and climb in. The engine catches with a hint of a rattle and a bit of belt squeal. I listen to the engine for a minute, deciding whether I want to carve out my already limited free time to work on it.
Nah. It's good for now.
I pull a U-turn and head south back to town; just as I cruise past the opening of the stairs, I see Ember top the rise, panting. She sees me driving away and looks distraught. She palms her forehead, and I look in the rearview mirror to see her mouthing a series of curse words, most of which, if I'm reading her lips right, are "fuck."
Part of me is yelling at me to turn around and see what she has to say, but I just can't. The instinct to avoid more hurt is too strong. It took a lot of fucking guts for me to ask her out in the first place. I just don't have it in me to try again so soon.
It's hard not to dwell on the past as I cruise south.
Hard not to dwell on Amy.
I know I have no place acting all butthurt about rejection—Amy didn't reject me. She responded—appropriately—to my shitty behavior. There's no excuse for what I did. I mean, sure, you could reasonably argue that there were extenuating circumstances. I don't now and never did blame her for breaking up with me and leaving town to get away from me. I get it—I deserved it.
But tell that to my heart. It doesn't seem capable of understanding that. All my heart knows is that Amy ran away from me, and I've never really recovered, emotionally.
Asking Ember out was a big step for me. Not that I expect her to understand that, obviously. And look, I can do basic math, okay? A box full of male clothing labelled “donate” plus that deep, fierce sorrow I've seen in her? I know exactly what that points to—she lost someone she loved. I don't need the details to know that much. So I truly do get that she may not be ready. But again, tell that to my heart. All it recognizes is that I took a swing and got rejected.
Sure, maybe it was a shock to her. Maybe she needed more time to process. Maybe I jumped the gun by running. But one thing I know about us humans is that our trauma triggers are not bound by logic or governed by reason.
The drive home flies by in a blip—I pull into my driveway and barely remember the drive here. I put the four beers I didn't drink back in the fridge and hop into the shower.
When I get out, I've got a voicemail from my brother. "Yo, bro. We back. April has plans with her family, so I'm free if you wanna meet at The Cellar for some brewskis. I'll be there in like an hour."
I text him back:
Me:
See you at the Cellar in an hour. But do me a favor and never use the term brewksis ever fucking again you toolbox.
He replies almost immediately:
Riley:
Looking forward to some brEWSKIS, brOSKI.
Me:
I hate you.
His reply is the tongue-sticking-out emoji. I send him a middle finger.
* * *
A little over an hour later, we're bellied up to the bar at the Cellar, sipping River Rock Amber—a beer from Three Rivers' only brewery and my personal favorite beer.
"So." Riley takes a sip, swallows with a satisfied sigh, and shoots me a look. "You're in a pissy fuckin' mood."
I nod. "Yup."
"Wanna talk about it?" he asks. "Or just drink our beer in silence and ignore our emotions like real men."
I snort. "Subtle, Rye, real subtle."
"Hey, I'm worse about it than you are."
"True."
"Because you're a pansy." He grins at me, telegraphing the fact that he's teasing.
"You're not helping," I grumble.
"No?" He makes a huh, weird face. "I thought some fun brotherly banter would be just the ticket to improving your mood."
"Not this time."
He makes a show of scanning the bar. "Wanna get in a fight? That table of dudes in the corner over there looks like they could throw down."
"Tempting," I say in a dry, sarcastic drawl. "But no. I'm good."
He snorts his irritation. "So, what? You just wanna sit here, drink beer, and brood silently? Then why the fuck am I here? You don't need me for that."
"Because I don't like drinking alone," I say.
He sighs. "Well, Fee, if you want my company, you gotta crack that shell a bit. I'm way too charming to waste my time with your broody ass."
This gets a sniff of amusement from me. "A build on Aspenview sprang a leak and flooded the whole basement."
Riley waits a beat or two. "And?" When I don't fill the space, he snorts. "That's not enough to put you in this kinda mood, Fee. Work setbacks and fuckups are part of the biz. You've always been able to deal with shit like that calmly. That's what makes you so fuckin' good at your job. I'd lose my temper and knock a motherfucker out day one."
This gets a real laugh out of me. "Well, that much is true."
"So?" He elbows me. "Hit me with the real deal, Fee."
I contemplate. For all his devil-may-care attitude toward most things in life, deep down, Riley does have a good heart.
"Fuck. Fine. But Rye, this stays between you and me. I don't want this shit spreading to the crews."
He nods. "I got you. Now spill. Talk to little bro."
“Met a girl a few weeks ago. I was out at my property, clearing some trees, and when I left, she was broken down in the middle of the road. Nearly hit her ass—and I mean literally."
He nods, rolling a hand. "Okay, and…?"
"She's fuckin'…" I shake my head. "A heart-stopper, Rye. Haven't felt that kind of attraction to anyone since…well, in a long fuckin' time."
"How'd you fuck it up?" he asks.
I frown at him. "The fuck does that mean? How did I fuck it up? How do you know I did?"
"Because you only get broody and dicky like this when you do something dumb," he answers. "You were fucking impossible to live with back when the whole Amy shitshow went down."
"Fuck you," I say conversationally. "I didn't fuck it up. I fixed her bus and went on my way. She's…she's got baggage. Heavy shit. Don't know what, but I have some ideas."
"Well shit—don't let that stop you. You've got heavy baggage of your own, bro. Everyone does."
"Dude, I know. But after we talked earlier, I decided I'd go to the beach."
"Ooh, nice. Where'd you go?"
"Secret Beach."
"And let me guess…she was there?"
I nod, take a big slug of my beer. "Sure was. Wearing this tiny blue bikini that showed off her…" I cup my hands in front of my chest, blowing out an awed breath with a shake of my head. "Anyway. She looked fucking stunning. I was swimming, and when I got to shore, there she was. And you'll never guess who she was with? And mind you, she's not a local."
He shrugs. "If I’ll never guess, then why bother trying? Albert Einstein?"
"He's been dead for like fifty fuckin' years, man. So, no."
Riley frowns. "Fifty? Are you sure? Isn’t it more?"
I throw up my hands. "No, fuckstick, I don't know when Albert goddamned Einstein died. Jesus, way to focus on the wrong thing."
He laughs at my outburst. "Jesus, whatever happened, it really threw you for a loop. You need to chill, my guy."
I glare at him. "Fuck you."
He just laughs. "Who was she with, Fee? Get on with the story already. God, you suck at storytelling."
"Faye McFarlane."
He frowns, thinking. " Her ? Good lord , she's still alive? She was ancient when we were in school."
"Well, now she has pink and purple hair and a septum piercing. She told me not to stare at her ass."
He boggles at me. "Were you? I mean, no judgment, bro, but I didn't realize the geriatric thing was your scene."
"I'm gonna kill you."
"What? It's a fair question."
"No, Riley, I was not staring at the ass of an old woman."
"Well, at least there's that—and I admit, I am glad to hear you still have some standards left, after…what? A decade of celibacy?”
I slowly turn my head to level a death glare at him. "Why did you think it would be a good idea to tell you any of this?" I ask. "I have not been celibate."
“Right," he says with a snort. "You shut down after Amy and never came up out of the hole."
"Can you stop talking about motherfucking Amy?" I snap. "And I have had sex since then."
"Bullshit."
"Rye, I have."
"Your hand doesn't count. Nor does a sex doll."
I let out a long-suffering sigh. "Jesus, you're a dick." I rub my face with both hands. "With real people—I have had sex with real live women."
"Who?"
"Tourists, mainly."
He frowns at me. "When? You work all day, every day."
"God, I do not, Riley."
"You do too!" He finishes his beer and slides it toward the bartender, tapping the rim. "Name the last time you clocked out from all work, personal and private, before seven at night."
I roll my eyes. "Whatever."
"You can't because you never have."
“Tinder, okay?" I snarl at him. "I have a fucking Tinder account. After work, I'll browse Tinder, find someone, message her, and hook up."
"At home?"
"No, at their hotels, usually."
"How frequently do you do this?" he asks.
I shrug. “Not very. Just to…I dunno. Take the edge off. It's not…" I sigh, finish my beer, and nod when the bartender signals another. "It's not…satisfying. It is fun, and feels good. But…random hookups aren't my thing anymore.”
He laughs. “That's why you gotta do what I do."
I blow a raspberry. "Okay, sure."
"I don't like one-night stands either. I like a nice, short-term quasi-relationship. We both know it ain't gonna last, so we let it all hang out, have fun, and when it runs its course, whatever. On to the next. It works."
"Is that why Cole has to put you in the drunk tank every month or two?" I ask.
He chuckles. "I admit, it's not a foolproof system." He gestures at me with the full beer the bartender places in front of him. "On with the story. What did the tourist with the giant bazingas do to piss you off?"
"I don't think she's a tourist, actually." I chew on the painful, embarrassing admission before I let it out. "I asked her out. She hesitated so I freaked out and ran like a bitch."
He stares at me. "You asked her out?"
"Yup."
"As far as I'm aware, you haven’t asked anyone out since…you know who."
"She's not fuckin' Voldemort,” I say.
"Well, I said her name and you bit my head off."
I scrub my face with both hands, sighing. “Yeah, sorry. I'm out of sorts."
"So, this girl, the not a local but not a tourist. She shot you down?"
I shrug, tip my head to one side. "I took it that way. She seemed to think better of it or regret it or something, but I was too committed to bugging out to find out."
"What does that mean?" he asks.
"She followed me up the stairs."
"And you didn't stop to hear her out?"
"No."
"Dumbass. Maybe she was just…blindsided. If you clocked the fact that she has some sort of baggage, maybe she's like you."
"Like me?"
"Yeah, you know." He leaves it at that.
“No, Riley, I don’t know."
"Too fucked up and scared or whatever to let anyone in."
"Like you're any better?"
“No, I'm not. I'm worse. Not the point because we’re not talking about me.”
I growl, burying my face in my hands. "Yeah," I say, the word muffled behind my palms. "I thought of that…after."
"Dumbass."
"I know. But…it was hard as hell to ask her out. And the way she hesitated. It wasn't, 'ohhhh, I'm thinking about it,' it was a 'yeah, I don't know about that.' Maybe I read it wrong. I don't know. But it sucked, because I…" I sigh, shaking my head. "I can't stop thinking about her."
"So quit being a puss. Hunt her down and try again."
I growl, and then slug back a big swallow of beer. "Yeah, maybe."
Riley claps me on the shoulder. "No, fuckwit, not maybe. Yes. Definitely . You haven't so much as looked at another woman since Amy, and hookups to get rid of blue balls don't count."
"Stop saying her goddamn name," I hiss.
"No. You gotta get over her, Fee." He grabs my cheeks and forces me to look at him, squishing my face. "Amy, Amy, Amy. Amy Henderson. Amy Eileen Henderson. Wait, she's married now. I looked her up a couple months ago—what's her married name?"
"Quincy," I mumble.
"Right, right, Amy Quincy. Amy Quincy. Amy Quincy."
I rip myself out of his grip. "Fuck off, Rye."
"No, Fee. You gotta get over her. That was a long time ago. It was a dumb mistake, and, not excusing you, but she wasn't innocent either. You've let it hamstring you. You've spent, like, a third of your fucking life hating yourself for a mistake you made when you were fucking nineteen. Forgive yourself and move the fuck on."
Rage, guilt, shame, confusion, pain…it's all a jumble inside me. I slam the rest of my beer, toss a pair of twenties on the bar, and shove my phone in my back pocket.
"Good talk, Rye. Thanks. See ya."
He shoves the cash into my hip pocket. "I got it, ya fuckin' shithead. Go on—run away and hide like you always do. Keep living your life stuck in the past on a single bullshit mistake."
“Yeah, maybe I will…dick."
By the time I get home, I feel bad, so I text Riley.
ME:
I know you were just trying to help. Sorry.
He answers a minute later:
Riley:
You're good. I get it. But for real, find Big Boobs and ask her out again.
Me:
Her name is Ember.
Riley:
Cool. I don't care what her name is. Just ask her out again.
Me:
I'm just pointing out that she has a name and features other than her boobs.
Riley:
Well you weren't exactly forthcoming with details other than having large mammary glands but point taken. Ask EMBER out again, and this time sack up and wait for her to answer instead of running away like a pathetic puss-bag.
Me:
Pro tip, bro, therapy is not a good career choice for you.
Riley sends a thumbs up, and then a middle finger, and then:
Riley:
ASK HER OUT. PUSSBAG.
I put the phone on the charger, pour myself a big whiskey on the rocks, and sit on the couch to look for something to watch.
I end up watching Yellowstone .
I don't see the resemblance.