CHAPTER TWENTY FALLON #2
Sully snatches the cushion. “Of course I want to use it. These seats are an absolute joke.” Sully slowly stands and sets the cushion on his seat, only to sit back down. He shifts a bit, and satisfaction passes over his face. He eyes Sawyer again. “So, you’re dating my granddaughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods and turns back to the stage. “I approve.”
I chuckle while Sully flits through the program. “You hear that? You have met the requirements to win my grandfather’s affection. A cushion—who knew?”
Sawyer takes my hand in his. “I did. You know the saying ‘happy wife, happy life’? Well, ‘comfy behind, comfy mankind.’”
“How long have you been sitting on that rhyme?”
“Longer than I care to admit.”
Just then, Roy steps out onstage in costume and greets the crowd by parading around, hand flitting against the air like the queen of England.
“What in Jesus Christ’s name is this?” Sully asks, leaning forward, as if that will give him a better view of the beautiful catastrophe up onstage.
“Is he wearing torn pantyhose?” Sawyer asks, his lips close to my ear, which of course spreads goose bumps across my skin.
I nod. “Yes, he’s been wearing them around for a month now.”
Roy comes to a stop stage center and holds his hands in front of him, palms pressed together in prayer pose, thanking the not-so-energetic crowd.
He’s really milking this moment, and I don’t blame him.
He’s a sturdy, rotund, hairy—very hairy—man wearing a blonde wig with accompanying bangs and fiercely owning the housedress that hits him midshin.
The purple and pink plaid of the housedress—ahem, muumuu—doesn’t distract from the runs in his pantyhose, nor does it divert your eyes from the purple Crocs he’s wearing.
Not sure they had Crocs in the sixties, but it wouldn’t be a Canoodle play if it was completely authentic.
Just like the time in Romeo and Juliet when Romeo pulled out his phone to use as a flashlight instead of a lantern.
Or when Singin’ in the Rain was chosen, and the tap dancing was far too advanced for everyone, especially the exertion-demanding “Moses supposes” number, so they wheeled in a TV—like they used to do in elementary school, the sacred TV that would give you a five-minute glimpse of what’s going on in The Voyage of the Mimi —and they played the actual movie during the dance scenes while the actors clapped next to the TV.
I’d never felt so embarrassed for another human before that.
So, the Crocs, just a minor risk of authenticity. But we have the entire play to go.
“Good evening,” Roy calls out. “Thank you for joining us tonight. We have quite the play for you tonight, full of song and dance.” His deep voice really does a number on your brain as you stare up at him in full-on drag.
“But before we get started, we’d like to acknowledge the brilliant choice of play by our mayor.
” He gestures stage right, and Faye walks on with Miss Daphne Lynn Pearlbottom perched on a pillow, wearing a brightly colored pink and green fascinator and looking less than amused.
Frankly, it’s surprising that she’s not scrambling to go hide somewhere, but this is her public duty, and she’s been trained for things like this.
“Whoa, I didn’t know the mayor was going to be here,” Sawyer whispers and then straightens up, adjusting his shirt. “You should have told me—I would have worn a suit and tie.”
I chuckle while Faye parades Miss Daphne Lynn Pearlbottom—yes, you have to use her entire name—around as the crowd quietly claps using two fingers and their palms. The fancy clap: perfect for feline mayors, so their constituents don’t scare them away.
“What’s happening?” Sawyer asks.
“Just a typical Saturday in Canoodle—get used to it.”
He crosses one leg over the other and wraps his arm around my chair, pulling me in close. “I can very much get used to this.”
Smiling to myself, I lean into his hold and relax as the weirdness of my beloved town unfolds.
“Why is Phil cooking?” Sully says as he stomps into the living room, a scowl etched into his face.
“He offered to cook for us tonight,” I say gently.
Sully glances between me and Sawyer. “Is he any good?”
“I’ve fed myself for the last seventeen years,” Sawyer says over his shoulder, stirring a pot on the stove, “so I’d say I’m pretty decent, since I’ve been able to live this long.”
“Is that sass you’re giving me?” Sully asks.
“Yup,” Sawyer answers without even pausing to think about it.
This has been my life, these two, bantering back and forth.
From the outside looking in, some might think you should be gentler when talking to an Alzheimer’s patient, but what we’ve found is that Sully enjoys the barbing.
It makes him feel whole. He doesn’t like to be treated like some helpless, pitiful creature.
He wants the give-and-take. It’s why he loves hanging out with Tank and the boys, because they don’t treat him any differently.
But we’ve noticed Sully has been grumpier lately, and it’s showing right now.
Since we finished the renovations a week and a half ago, his mood has definitely declined.
Sawyer plans on doing some yardwork in the next few days, and he’s going to bring Sully with him. We hope that helps improve the grump.
“Well, I’m not eating your swill,” Sully says.
Sawyer spins around with a wooden spoonful of his homemade mac ’n’ cheese and takes a large bite. “Are you sure?” he says, his mouth full. “It’s really good.”
“Where did you find this fool?” Sully asks me as he charges toward his room again. “An absolute animal.”
“See you for dinner,” Sawyer calls out.
“Yeah, see you at dinner,” Sully mumbles before shutting the door to his bedroom.
Chuckling, I walk up to Sawyer and smooth my hand over his back and under his shirt as I lean into him. He curls his arm around me and pulls me in close while pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “He doesn’t want to admit, but I know, deep down inside, he loves you,” I say, rubbing his warm skin.
“Oh, I know. I’m the light of his life.” He sets the wooden spoon down on the spoon rest and turns off the stove before facing me and leaning against the counter. “Just like I’m the light of yours.”
I snort and shake my head. “You are so full of yourself.”
“And yet your hands are under my shirt.”
“Because your skin is always so warm.” I bring my hands to the front of his shirt and drag them up past his abs to just below his pecs.
“Watcha doing there?”
I drag my finger over his nipple, and his eyes narrow on me. “Just feeling around.”
“Feeling around for what? Lose something in my shirt that I’m not aware of?”
“Uh-huh, just can’t pinpoint what it is,” I say, running my fingers over his other nipple.
He lets out a low, guttural hiss as his hands fall to my hips. “Babe, stop, you’re going to make me hard, and I’m not about to have dinner with your grandpa while sporting a boner.”
“I think it might be fun.” I playfully smile up at him, but he stops my hands and fishes them out of his shirt.
“For you, but not for me.” He removes my hands.
“Sawyer—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” he says. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’m pretty sure you know what I’m going to say.”
“That you think I’m an ogress and that’s why we haven’t had sex yet—the mere thought of putting your hands on me disgusts you?” I ask.
He frowns. “Stop it with that shit.” He has not been tolerant of my joking, but I don’t know how to accept his denial of a physical connection without making light of it. He lifts my chin up, and our eyes meet, his beaming with sincerity. “Because I want to make sure you’re ready.”
It’s the same answer every single time, and I’m not sure if he’s asking if I’m ready... or if he’s ready.
“I’m ready, Sawyer. I’m more than ready.
We’ve spent so much time together these past couple of weeks that I don’t think I could be more ready for anything else.
I want you, and I think I’ve showed that time and time again.
” Insecurity wraps around me as I look away. “Maybe you don’t feel the same way.”
Grumbling something under his breath, Sawyer picks me up. I let out a surprised gasp as he spins me around and places me on the counter, only to spread my legs and move in close, resting his hands on my hips.
“Why are you questioning me?” he asks. His grip on me is domineering, possessive, like he’s claiming me, right here on the counter. “I want you, Fallon. I do.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re using me as an excuse to not get intimate, and I’m wondering if it’s you who’s not ready. Which would be fine, but I’d like you to be honest about it.”
“Why would you think that?” he asks.
“Because the whole Annalisa and Simon thing.”
“I told you I haven’t been in love with her for a while.”
“Doesn’t mean you still don’t have some messed-up feelings from the whole situation.”
The press has died down drastically surrounding Annalisa, Simon, and Sawyer.
The public has lost interest in the jilted couple because you can only hear the same sob story so many times.
And Annalisa—according to Jaz, who has been relentlessly keeping up on the drama—has worn out her welcome in the spotlight.
There were talks that Annalisa and Simon were going to get their own reality show, but because Annalisa has taken on some negative press with her complaining and some less-than-stellar tweets, the show has been canceled.
But even so, he might still have complicated feelings toward the entire situation.
I’m wondering if that’s the reason he hasn’t wanted to get intimate.
The most we’ve done is kissing, and maybe a little groping from me while sitting on his lap, but that’s it.
Nothing more, and I’m going to lose it soon.
He shakes his head. “No. I have zero feelings toward the wedding. I honestly stopped caring a while ago.”
“Are you sure? Because we haven’t really talked about it much.”