CHAPTER SEVEN
I ‘m straight. It wasn’t the first time those two words had become a thorn in my side.
Do you think I’m straight?
There was only one way to find out, and my methods were scientifically proven, to a degree. Kissing caused a chemical reaction. I just had to kiss Amelia to discover the truth. No. She would soon leave. She didn’t belong in Magnolia. My head told me to ignore the rush of chemicals stirring up a whole world of problems. I could do that. I had the will power to do that. Will power was my middle name.
Actually, it was Amara, which meant “bitter”, which didn’t bode well. My parents didn’t have access to the internet in the early nineties, so I would allow them some grace.
I pulled up my stripey green pyjama shorts. They were two sizes too big, but the soft cotton complimented the summer months. I reached for my favourite grey mug from the kitchen cabinet. It was the only one left standing from a four-piece set I’d purchased two years earlier, and I cherished it. Only regular coffee drinkers will understand the importance of a solid cup that sits comfortably in your hands. Despite hours of internet research, I still had no suitable replacements. I threw on a basic grey hoodie and scooped the letters up from the counter.
The cool breeze lifted the tiny hairs on the back of my neck as I secured my usual spot on the porch. I was absolutely a porch sitter. It was a southern thing, a time-honoured tradition some might say. It was often the best part of my day, watching the sun rise, smelling the cool damp grass, watching the birds search for tiny bugs. It might be outdated; many households chose to spend their evenings sat in front of the TV now, but to sit on the porch and simply do nothing brought back fond childhood memories. It was calming for me. For a short period of time it didn’t matter that the world was in turmoil, or that I didn’t quite have everything figured out. I would let the stillness settle in and soothe any stresses that threatened to overwhelm me.
There were two chairs on my porch, and I did wonder what it would be like to wake up to the same person every day and to gaze out at the world alongside another pair of eyes. The rocking chair creaked beneath me as I leant back lost in thought. Katherine often teased me about my inability to forge a bond with someone beyond friendship. I questioned what made me that way. There was a tinge of loneliness in my heart. I could feel it, a yearning for a connection I had been unable to find since returning to Magnolia, or ever.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the laughter. I could almost feel the warmth of another person’s hand in mine, but I was torn between my desire for companionship and my fear of being vulnerable. I feared getting too attached to someone that might one day decide they didn’t want to be on my porch.
My mom blamed my high school girlfriend, Vanessa. She was on the student council, outgoing, academically bright, and sleeping with the point guard on the boys’ basketball team. It didn’t come as a huge shock; I’d learnt of her promiscuous ways months before it came to light, but my mom invested a lot of energy in Vanessa. She was absolutely overcompensating for the fact I’d just come out as gay, and she was totally “okay” with it, so okay that she invited Vanessa to every family gathering, every fancy dinner, every impromptu BBQ, and for some reason several of her house showings—work experience she claimed.
Katherine blamed my post-high school girlfriend, Daisy. She was sweet, ambitious, confident, and three months pregnant with the local gas station attendant’s child. The timings didn’t match up, despite her efforts to do the maths.
Brittany blamed the long succession of unsuccessful three-date wonders. It wasn’t their fault. My dad blamed my inability to leave the job at the station. It was a factor he’d struggled with throughout his career. It caused two almost divorces and a brief six-month trial separation, but after retirement, he and my mom found a way to make it work.
It came to a point where I had to accept that I was the problem. Over the past ten years I had created a sense of guardedness. I was fearful of opening up. I coped by using sex as a form of release. It was a superficial connection, a temporary high that allowed me to fulfil my physical needs without any risk emotionally.
I put it down to my need for a sense of control. When Imogen asked me for date number four, I declined. When Julia asked for more than a monthly casual encounter, I cut ties. When Scarlett asked me to leave town for a weekend away with her family after three dates, I politely informed her of my work commitments and refused to return her phone calls. I tried to be respectful. I tried to approach every situation with caution and transparency, but it always ended the same way. The risk of getting hurt outweighed the reward of being in a relationship.
Why did Amelia’s face appear in my mind when I pictured a porch companion? What was it about her in particular?
She smelt delightful, so sweet and warm. It was a soft musk and vanilla type scent that I was desperate to enquire about. She had the most wonderful bouncy hair. It seemed to defy gravity with each individual strand swaying with her movement, and she had these golden undertones that caught the light at precisely the right angle. Of course, there was her smile. Every time, an infectious wave of warmth radiated from her mouth. The upturn of her lips was gentle, flirtatious, and joyful all at once.
It wasn’t just physical appearance; if I delved into the essence of who she was, she was confident and alluring, almost magnetic. She was kind. She showed genuine care and compassion for others. She was passionate, driven, and intelligent. I picked up on her curiosity to learn almost immediately.
I shook my head. It wasn’t healthy to obsess. Is that what I was doing now? I couldn’t afford to obsess over Amelia. The two biggest concerns were present, she didn’t live in Magnolia, and she was “straight”.
But—she’s beautiful. My mind countered.
Regardless, it could never work.
Brittany appeared at the end of the drive. She propped her bike against the fence. The vintage turquoise frame had unusual curves and chrome accents. She waved, a big grin on her face as she pulled a paper bag from the basket between her handlebars.
“Hey, bestie.” She took a seat to my left.
“I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
“I thought I’d drop in. I knew you were on a late shift, so where else would you be other than sat on your porch like a grandma,” she jested.
“Am I that predictable?”
“Oh, absolutely, but it makes you easy to track down.” She smirked.
“What you got there?” I nodded towards the paper bag at her feet.
“This is a special surprise for you.”
“For me?” My eyes widened. Brittany handed me the bag. A small batch of homemade cookies were wrapped neatly inside a piece of parchment paper.
“Are these—”
“Your favourite.” She beamed.
The smell of warm butter and sweet vanilla had my stomach crying out for a bite. The edges were perfectly crisp, but I knew from experience that the melt-in-your-mouth centre would be nestled with chocolate chips and soft dough, and—
“They’re still warm.” I inhaled.
“I’ve been promising you for a few months now, so I’m sorry for the wait.”
I broke a cookie in two. “It’s not too early, right?”
Brittany shook her head, her outstretched hand waiting to indulge with me.
“Have you thought anymore about the café?” I asked.
I took a bite. The satisfying crunch followed by the tender, creamy centre was like an orgasm in my mouth.
“I don’t think I can run a thrift shop and a bakery, Riley. It’s a lot of work. ”
“It just seems a shame to only allow me to experience these cookies,” I mumbled. “Although, I am very grateful... wow.”
Brittany’s grandmother left her a stack of recipes when she passed, everything from chocolate chip cookies to apple pie bites and cheesecake brownies. She made them on occasion for her friends and family, but I had tried to convince her to take over Mrs. Baker’s old café to no avail.
“They’ll have to remain family recipes for now. Has Katherine had any more thoughts about what to do with the building?” Brittany asked.
Formally Baker’s Coffee House was owned by my sister, but she’d been trying to convince me to take it off her hands since the news of her second pregnancy. Her dream of being a small-town florist was soon replaced with the reality of being a mom with two children under three.
“Aside from you opening a bakery, no.”
“Damn, nothing like putting a girl under pressure.” She swallowed hard. “Hey, maybe your new love interest might want to follow in her grandma’s footsteps? She wouldn’t even need to change the sign. Fix it of course, but it could be worth a conversation.”
“She isn’t a new love interest, Brit.”
Did I want her to be? That part I was still struggling with. It wasn’t a bad idea. Amelia used to own her own coffee shop. It would be continuing her grandma’s legacy, but she’d never officially known her grandma, so that part was tricky.
“There would be no need to change all the mugs,” I said, suddenly aware of how much Amelia had loved the hand-painted mugs. “Huh. ”
“What are these?” Brittany picked up the letters from the small wooden table between us.
“Nothing.” I snatched them back, overly protective over a love story I barely understood.
“Are they love letters? Is Amelia writing you love letters already?” she teased.
“They’re not love letters to me, but they’re love letters, yes.” I placed them neatly back on the table, careful not to place them in the firing line of my inevitable coffee spillage.
“Interesting. Do tell.” Brittany picked at the remainder of her cookie, legs crossed posture slumped; she was in this conversation for the long haul.
I caught her up on what we knew so far about Caroline and Frances and what I speculated based on minimal facts. I had a good intuition, developed through years of dealing with deceptive people, and I felt confident in my assumptions.
“When I pulled up earlier, you were in your own little world,” Brittany pointed out.
“I was taking in the morning.”
“I waved at you from down the street, and you didn’t see me until I got to the end of your pathway.”
“What’s your point?”
“Is all this talk of love making you wish you, maybe, had someone to love? Maybe a specific bouncy-haired brunette with gorgeous eyes?” She smirked.
“Don’t.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be unusual for you to want to feel like Caroline and Frances felt. It’s normal to put yourself in their shoes.”
Is that what this was? Dissecting the letters and reading pages upon pages of unwavering love was making me crave what they had .
“There’s nothing happening between me and Amelia. She’s straight. So there’s your proof,” I blurted out.
“Pfft, and I’m a dolphin on the weekends. Straight, bi, gay, pan, asexual, it’s all subjective. I thought I was straight in high school. I thought I was gay in college, and quite frankly after this past weekend when I met that gorgeous trans man for a date, I might even be pan. The idea that you have to be put in one box and stick to it for the rest of your life is so outdated,” Brittany said.
“You always have an answer for everything,” I jabbed. I did tend to agree with the majority of what she said, but she didn’t need to know that.
“I do. It’s a gift.” She stuck her tongue out.
We spent the following thirty minutes discussing our next trip to Gulf Shores. The crystal-clear turquoise waters and white sand beaches made Gulf a popular vacation spot.
Brittany got up to leave.
“Brit,”
“Yeah?” She turned back.
“Do you think I’m incapable of love?” It was a fully loaded question to which I knew she would give an honest answer.
“No.” She placed her hand on her chest. “I think you just need to open your heart and be unafraid.”
“How?”
“You could start by asking Amelia out on a date,” Brittany teased.
“I thought you might say that.”
“What’s the worst thing that could ever happen to you? Serious question,” Brittany asked.
“Erm, I could die?” I said, unsure if that was the correct answer.
“What else? ”
“I could get seriously ill or injured.”
“What else?”
“I could lose a loved one?”
“Exactly. Notice how all three of those things say nothing along the lines of, I could get my heart broken by a woman?”
“Huh,”
“It’s emotionally devastating to have your vulnerability exposed, to feel betrayed, to lose trust in an individual, but—” Brittany paused.
“It isn’t the worst thing that could happen,” I finished.
“Exactly. So, if it isn’t the worst thing, it doesn’t make it any less hurtful, but it does put things into perspective when you’re sat on your porch dooming yourself to a life of unloved misery.”
She had a point.
Brittany made a heart shape with her fingers. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
My porch was my place of solitude. The external pressure and expectation that came with being the town’s lieutenant would always be present. I’d become somewhat numb to the harsh conditions I faced, but the constant need to put on a facade of strength and composure would eventually take its toll on anyone. It was the reason the force now spent so much time and energy on ensuring officers had access to the resources they needed. Mental well-being was a top priority.
My grandfather would’ve disagreed with the shift in perspective. Sheriff Wilson had a stern expression that could strike fear into the heart of any officer. He believed wholeheartedly in discipline and respect. In “his day” they didn’t need anything other than a keen eye and a firm hand to be a good officer.
My father was a good Captain; he took all the best parts of my grandfather, left the rest, and excelled. He was firm but kind. He was fearless but responsible. He was also witty and loyal. At his retirement party, over twenty individual colleagues offered to make a speech, each wanting to share their best memories of my father. It was a true testament to his character. As much as my boss, Captain Griffin, didn’t like to admit it, he was intimidated having to follow in his footsteps. The station was loyal to him. After three years, the pictures they’d hung on the wall in the canteen commemorating his forty years of service were still prominently displayed.
Do you remember when Captain Wilson—
Was a line I heard daily. When I was asked what I hoped to achieve with the force, the answer was simple. I hoped to leave a legacy. I hoped to have a career as impactful as my dad’s. I wanted to leave a lasting impression in the hearts and minds of the people I worked with and the residents of Magnolia. I hoped to one day hear the words, Did you work with Sheriff Wilson? She was great, huh?
Was it egotistical of me to want to leave a legacy? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t like praise, nor did I go looking for it, but part of me wanted to be memorable.
Would Amelia describe me as memorable?
The moment the thought crossed my mind, my phone erupted against the coffee table. I stretched forward so fast I almost pulled a muscle in my shoulder.
“Hi,” I said, wincing.
“Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Amelia said, politely.
“Not at all.”
“Are you working today?”
“Later this afternoon, but then I have a few days off.”
“Oh, it’s funny you should say that.” Amelia paused. “Are you doing anything with your time off?”
The truth—I was about to spend the next four days cleaning out the garage and planting some purple cornflowers, as recommended by Mr. Henderson on his latest inspection of my poorly managed garden. I also planned to drink my body weight in caramel butterscotch milkshakes whilst watching reruns of Jeopardy .
“Probably just watching reruns of Jeopardy .”
Amelia laughed. “I love Jeopardy !”
“Who doesn’t?”
“My best friend, weirdly, she doesn’t get the appeal.”
“It’s a cultural staple. I think you need new friends,” I joked.
“I agree.”
“I’m going to assume you didn’t just call me to talk about TV shows.”
“No. Have you had a chance to read the letters yet?” Amelia asked.
“No, but they’re right next to me. I’m going to start them this morning.” I placed my free hand on the stack of envelopes.
“Okay, well how would you feel about reading them on the road?” Amelia asked. I didn’t understand the context.
“On the road, like the road in front of my house?” I questioned .
“No,” Amelia laughed. “On the road, like pack an overnight bag and join me on a road trip to Texas?”
Amelia was asking me to take a road trip? I needed more understanding. Would we be alone? Did she plan to stop at a motel? How would I explain to Mr. Henderson I didn’t have time to plant the cornflowers? I was absolutely not going to turn down a road trip.
“Sure.” I shrugged to myself.
“Really?” Amelia squealed. “You’ll come with me?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I expected you to have plans, but this is great!” She squealed.
Should I have been more hesitant? Maybe, agreeing immediately was too eager.
Damn, I should’ve played it cool.
I was adamant Amelia had now been given a glimpse into my non-existent life. I basically had zero plans for my break from work because I wanted to curl up into a reclusive ball and test my general knowledge via quiz shows and crosswords.
I did have friends, I swear.
“Nope, no plans.” I cringed.
“Okay, let me work out the details, and I’ll call you later?” Amelia sounded extremely enthusiastic.
“Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
Of course you will because you’re a loser.
The reason I couldn’t hold down a relationship wasn’t because of some unknown trauma, no, it was simply because I couldn’t have a conversation with an attractive girl without making myself sound like a complete and utter turd hole.