Chapter 43
The minute Jamie walks in my front door, I drag him to the couch and throw my arms around his neck.
“Hi there,” Jamie says into my ear. “I’m happy you called.”
His hands are all over me immediately, and before he’s even kissed me, he lifts my shirt up.
“You have a tattoo on your breast.” Jamie stares at the red raindrop that’s showing through the thin white fabric of my bra.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it back down. “Yes. It’s years old.”
Jamie runs his hand through his short blond hair until it stands straight up. “What’s it mean?”
Everything. But that’s not the right answer to tell a boyfriend. Okay, my…sort of boyfriend. My attempt at distraction from another man if I’m really being honest.
God, what is wrong with me?
I sit up and try to push away the feeling of emptiness inside me. The pain I’d temporarily forced myself to forget is rushing back far too quickly.
“I got it one day with a friend,” I finally say. “Just one of those teenage rebellion things.”
Jamie puts out his arms. “Come here and talk to me. You seem down.”
I relax into his arms, but not because I want to talk about what’s going on.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just…I’ve had a rough week. I didn’t mean to slow things down to a crawl just now. But I’m obviously not in the mood for sexy times tonight. I wish to God I was. I’m just not.”
“So let’s watch a movie.”
“Okay.”
I end up falling asleep halfway through the movie, and when I wake up the next morning, Jamie’s gone.
But my head feels clearer. And as I get into the shower, I remind myself of what I told Ginny the other day—rather than dwelling on Logan and his love life, I’m going to focus on myself.
First things first though—I need to sign those divorce papers.
Two hours later, the unsigned divorce papers sit next to Vivian’s open diary at the empty bar counter in front of me.
Every time I pick up a pen and let it hover over the divorce agreement, my stomach twists into knots and I have to fight the urge to tear the papers in half. Needing a distraction, I opened up Vivian’s diary because it seemed like a good way to do research for the backstory of my novel.
After an hour, I’m ready to give up. My head is filled with Olde English phrases referencing Vivian’s growing frustrations with her husband, and my eyes burn from straining to decipher the faded handwriting.
Before The Cowherd was allowed to hold the diary for wedding season, Mama would sneak behind the roped-off area in the Darcy Museum and use her magnifying glass to try to uncover clues.
She swears that diary is why she needs reading glasses now.
I look back down at the page I’m on— can’t help but feel a twinge of homesickness for my motherland to the part Mama always recited by heart—cattle and oil roots are everywhere on this foreign soil. This land is hot and dry and dreadful, just dreadful.
Ginny’s incoming text is a blissful interruption.
Wildflowers for my bouquet?
I smile as I text her back. Perfect.
Thirty seconds later. Mama’s agreed to let you try on other dress options. Eloise says to come by anytime.
Thank God.
How’s your novel coming?
I type her back quickly. Not one word since you-know-who came back with a blond-haired sidekick. I’m afraid my creative streak went away somewhere permanent.
A minute later. Have you read your diary yet? Specifically the Vegas part? I really think you should, Mace. Remember what I said about letting go of the past. Read the entire thing from front to back.
The whole thing?
Yes. Purge the past. It’s the only way to move forward.
Maybe she’s right. I haven’t read the Vegas entry because I’ve been so busy, and have much more important things to do with my time than rehash a drunken night, and because I’m…
Scared.
I’m terrified to read what my subconscious said about the only “wedding” I’ll ever have.
But maybe I can start from the beginning like Ginny said.
I pull my diary out of my purse and flip to the first page. Re-reading about my father moving out for the first time should be harmless enough. I doubt Logan’s even in here much.
Today is Independence Day, the day Mama and Daddy got married for the first time. I was there too, in Mama’s belly.
This morning Mama said to me, “we’re independent women, baby, and we can stand on our own.” But she’s clearly bluffing or else she wouldn’t cry all night long.
Mama’s never blamed me out loud, but I know what’s in her heart—if she hadn’t gotten knocked up with me, she wouldn’t be where she is now—trapped and miserable. Since Daddy moved out, I’ve been reading Pride and Prejudice to her as much as I can because it’s the only way she sleeps when he’s gone.
Mama “discovered Jane” when her family moved to Darcy her senior year of high school and after she met Daddy, her very first boyfriend.
So when she got knocked up with me only three months later, she took it as a sign that Daddy was her very own Mr. Darcy.
Well, far from it, but she’d named me Austen Macey before she was sure.
I swear I will not end up like my mother. I will never fall in love and forget I’m happy being by myself.
Okay, this first entry is super depressing. I flip through until I reach the pages about Ben and Free’s births.
Right in the parking lot, Mama yelled, “head, head!” Daddy was holding Riley, and he shouted at me to do something.
So I stepped out of the car. Mama opened her door, and out shot Ben Jr., right through the side of her underwear, and I caught him!
I held a miracle in my arms, and I will love Ben forever.
Just one year later, Freedom May Henwood came along…
and then Mama kept her promise and got her tubes tied.
So no more babies for me to take care of, thank goodness.
I turn the page to the year I turned ten. My breath catches in my throat as I read the opening sentence.
I had my first kiss this summer.
And I remember it like it was yesterday.
I went to Logan’s house for dinner. His daddy was in a mean mood, and he’d had far too much to drink even though it was only six o’clock.
Logan tried to stop me from coming over, but Mama insisted I had to so she and Daddy could have some “alone time.” Riley was at a friend’s for the night, and Ben and Free were sound asleep in their cribs. So I ate at Logan’s.
When he laughed at a joke I made about the hamburgers and which Wild cow was I eating tonight, his father lost it. Not at me but at his son.
He stood up, whipped his belt from his pants, and told Logan to come with him. Logan’s three brothers kept their heads down, and Mrs. Wild got so pale I swear she turned into a ghost.
I was terrified too, but I knew that if I hadn’t made that dumb joke, Logan wouldn’t be in danger. So I swallowed my fear and walked up to Mr. Wild, making sure to get in between him and Logan. “Excuse me, sir, but if you want to get to him, you’ll have to go through me first.”
Logan grabbed my elbow. “Macey, quit it. It’s my punishment, not yours.”
I pushed him away, but Logan reached for me and tried to put me behind him. So I stepped on his foot and he jumped, and then I got back in front. Logan grabbed me again and tickled my side until I squealed and he could move me behind him again.
Mr. Wild watched our exchange with glassy eyes until finally he said, “Oh, forget it! Y’all are like two fireflies darting around. Let’s just sit down and eat.” He put his belt back on, and that was it.
Logan took my hand underneath the table. Just for a second.
He walked me home later that night, and asked if I wanted to take a dip in the town lake.
Nobody was around, and I kept on my tank top and underwear. Logan wore his boxers, and we swam until it started raining.
“We’d better go,” I said. “It may thunder.”
“One more swing?” he asked as he climbed onto the rope hanging from the large oak tree.
“Okay.”
After he’d belly flopped in (why do boys do that—it seems so painful), I did my specialty.
The flying-fish dive. I let go the rope looking like I was going to do a cannon ball, but at the last second, before I started dropping toward the water, I put my head down with my arms over my head and dove in.
As soon as my head popped up from under water, Logan swam over to me and pressed his mouth to mine.
His lips were wet from the lake, and his breath smelled like mint and chocolate from the ice cream his mama had served for dessert.
I tried to tread water and kiss him back, but I slid under again.
I bobbed back up to the surface and coughed and hacked while Logan patted my back and made sure I was okay.
I can still feel his lips on mine.
I stop reading and touch my fingers to my lips. All these years later, I remember that first time Logan put his mouth on mine—that magic of a young girl’s first kiss.
In an instant, my writer’s block disappears.
I open up my laptop to Ghost Love, delete the entire manuscript, and start over at page one.