8. Eight
Aweek later and the night before my dreaded meeting with Dr. Evelyn Tate about my non-existent Inspiration Project, I stroll toward the Fourth of July oyster roast, knowing I’ve already ruined my evening.
Stress over my lack of a plan has built over the last twelve hours—I’ve pored over my old lesson plans and novel notebooks since dawn with nothing to show for it.
On top of that, a twisted and unwarranted fantasy that Dean might show up has not only delayed me by a half-hour—and I detest being late—but has also heaped disappointment on my shoulders like I’m a pack horse overloaded with foolish expectations. He never said he could make it or even that he’d try.
But he called three nights ago after a rough day on set. He vented about working with elitist stars who kept delaying the production, which meant hours of boredom and a scolding he received from the assistant director because he looked too “normal.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said.
“Come home,” I suggested—no, I begged. “Take the weekend off, at least. I miss you.”
I told him about the oyster roast—Dean loves a party. It’s only a six-hour drive from Atlanta. With airports in both cities, it’s even more doable by plane—less than two hours and only two hundred bucks. Mira would hate this, but I even offered to pay for his ticket.
He only responded, “I miss you, too,” before he had to go. I never had the chance to talk to him about Sara.
With my steps feeling heavier the closer I get, I consider taking my freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (a classroom favorite) back home and eating them all while on my couch with Edgar Allan Poe. But I push on as I have all week, determined to offer my cookies, chat with a few people, and leave early.
The Pines is a huge neighborhood bordered by schools, grocery stores, and churches in equal measure. Our corner is a neighborhood within a neighborhood. Two parallel streets, Daisy Lane and Daffodil Drive, form a closed H and are linked on either end by short side streets. These are bordered by extra-large ditches that lead to a massive retention pond behind our properties. Our loop is an island—a quiet pocket protected from the city while still a part of it.
The block party occupies the middle of the H—a short and superfluous road linking the main streets. It’s quiet and heavily shaded with stretchy live oaks, magnolias, and towering pines—the namesakes of the neighborhood.
A small band plays “Zombie” by the Cranberries—The Daisy Chain advertised that the neighborhood’s cover band, The Hurricanes, would feature ‘80s and ‘90s hits. The invitation also promised a food smorgasbord to accompany the oysters—pop-up tables house casseroles, salads, and chips.
Between the band and the food, dancers sway to the slow song. Mismatched tables and chairs fill the rest of the space with people chatting and kids running around.
Twinkle lights canopy the road, like walking into a gorgeous gazebo. I’m surprised at how lovely and casual it is, like a scene pulled from a cheesy Hallmark movie—the social event that brings the town (and the inevitable couple) together at the end.
I pass by the oyster tanks—large metal drums heated by propane—and say hello to the men supervising the roasting. Behind them, another set of newspaper-covered tables awaits the shelling extravaganza.
I make room for my cookies near other desserts and grab a beer from one of the coolers. I spot Rose, Vernon, Tom, and Marcy quickly, but the rest blur into unfamiliar faces.
I stand there feeling self-conscious and uneasy. My navy sundress and blue ombre wrap, strategically draped high on my shoulders to cover my neck scars, feel too dressy compared to everyone else’s shorts and t-shirts. The crowd is so engaged and familiar with each other that I go unnoticed—not that I’d know what to say if they did.
Mom says I’ve always been shy, but I argue that life’s made me this way.
“Beer drinker, huh?” Jack Graham emerges behind me like he may’ve been hiding in the trees. “That’s surprising.”
“I’m surprised you’ve given it thought.”
He shrugs. “It’s good to know your neighbors. What someone drinks says a lot about them.”
“And you thought I was exclusively a snobby wine princess?”
His dark eyes catch mine. “Aren’t you?”
“Usually,” I admit sheepishly. “But I’ve been less discriminate about what I drink since moving next to you.”
“I have that effect on people. Let me know if you want the whiskey back.” A wide grin bookends his words, easing my discomfort.
“Hmm, I might need it if your writing streak continues… to put me to sleep.”
His head cocks. “Is the music a problem?”
“No, I’m kidding. I’ve lived in apartments so long that I’m used to noise. But a softer playlist after midnight might be nice on weekdays.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The conversation dwindles into a strange silence, but he doesn’t disappear. He stays at my side, his upper arm brushing my shoulder when kids crowding the food table move us closer.
“Congrats on the writing, by the way. I hear that’s a huge deal for you.”
He looks almost shy, glancing at his feet at the mention. “Yeah, thanks. I haven’t written like this in over a year.”
“How does it feel?” I ask rather than question the writing itself, which feels too personal.
“Like a fucking relief,” he breathes out before taking a long swig of his beer.
“Even if the whole neighborhood knows?” My head bobs toward Rose and Vernon’s table. They’ve sent daily text alerts about it. “It seems like a lot of pressure. Do they report everything that happens around here?”
“Just about, but it’s meant to bring the neighborhood together, and the support is nice…. Most of the time.”
Again, I expect him to make a quick exit. But he lingers. So, I tilt my bottle to the crowd. “Okay then, what can you tell me about the other neighbors?”
He points to a burly man standing near the roasters. “Ed is strictly a beer drinker. Head of the neighborhood watch. You’ve probably seen him in his golf cart.”
“The one always checking the perimeter?”
“Right.” Jack nods to the woman beside him, whose loud laughter suggests her mixed drink isn’t her first. “That’s Renita, who’s married to him and Mary Kay.”
“Ah, the anemic pink Cadillac.”
“She’s good. I’ve even bought shit from her.”
“I’ll definitely avoid her then.” I laugh lightly.
“Absolutely. Then, steer clear of our Girl Scout cookie supplier and those three Boy Scouts. They’ll get you for popcorn sales,” he says, pointing them out.
“Oh, is that the porch couple?” I ask, motioning to an older couple dancing, who are on their front porch no matter the hour or the weather like they’re cursed fixtures, cemented in place. “It’s the first time I’ve seen them away from the porch.”
“Yes, Dan and Diane. One time, I went on a walk at, like, 2 a.m., and passing their dark house, I heard someone say, ‘Good morning, Jack,’ and I nearly shit myself.”
“Creepy.”
“Fucking diabolical. I told ‘em so.” Jack’s eyes meet mine. “And they laughed.”
I grimace, imagining it. “I will limit my runs to the daylight hours, then.”
Jack motions toward our end of the street. “If you cross the concrete bridge over the gully next to my place, you can hop on the cross-city trail and avoid the neighbors altogether.”
“Good to know.” The song changes to “November Rain” by Guns N’ Roses, and a sigh putters from me. “I love this song.”
Eyes fixed on the band, I sway, mesmerized. Jack eases away my dwindling beer and reaches for my hand.
I must look as confused as I feel because he says, “A neighborly dance. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Us killing each other?”
A smirk rises on his left cheek. “We aren’t that bad, are we?”
“I’d call us… cordially volatile.”
“I like that. Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”
I gawk. “You’re quoting Voltaire to me? Is that how you typically get women to dance with you?”
“Not typically… but I’m impressed that you recognize Voltaire. Did it work?”
My hand slips into his while his fingers circle my waist. “Such tactics only work on the nerdiest subset of the population.”
“Then, we have that in common.” He drags me close by the waist, but not too close.
“A property line and nerdiness—I suppose that’s something.” My hand rests on his shoulder, but it’s a struggle, forcing it to stay there. It wants to roam down the hard hill of his bicep like I’m a hormonal teenager discovering muscles for the first time.
Stiffly, I lock my hands in their places and try to keep an acceptable distance. We’re like awkward cousins forced to dance at a wedding.
“This isn’t so bad,” he says, as if convincing himself. “This way, when you bail on this party, like you’ve wanted to do since you got here, you can honestly say that you were here and you danced, earning you a participation award from anyone who asks.”
Mira and Mom will.“How’d you know?”
“I’m a writer. I see people. You fiddling with your scarf is a dead giveaway for nerves.”
As he says it, it falls off my shoulders, tangling around our joined arms. I tug it back into place over my neck marks.
“I’m not nervous, just… new and alone,” I say.
“Where’s that elusive fiancé of yours?”
“Acting in Georgia until the end of August.”
His eyebrow cocks with a glance at my ringless left hand, fixed on his shoulder. Then, he surprises me with an unexpected twirl that swooshes the subject away but brings me closer, latching onto his neck and falling against his stony chest. He smells like cedar, cocoa butter, and bad ideas. And my head’s suddenly riddled with images of gladiators, knights, and even sexy elvish fighters, like Legolas from The Lord of the Rings.
His soft lips curve into a playful grin as he takes me in. I don’t know whether to be grateful for his company or more nervous. Dancing with a neighbor at an oyster roast is innocent enough, but I wonder, briefly, what Dean would think of me dancing with a neighbor like him—the hot, rich playboy of The Pines. With the music, twinkling lights, and the amber flecks in his eyes, his dark eyes look like galaxies full of stars and questions, easy to get lost in, like the immersive experience at a planetarium.
He holds my gaze like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “His loss,” he says. “Besides, you’re never alone on this street, even when you want to be.”
He nods to a nearby table where Rose and Vernon stare at us while nibbling chips like they’re watching a rom-com.
I laugh, shaking my head. “The worst spies. Do you think we’ll make the newsletter?”
“It’ll be their top story.”
“‘Beauty Befriends the Beast’?” I ask, looking snide because clearly, I’m the beast in this scenario.
His eyes narrow as if challenged. “Only if they want a lawsuit for calling me a beast. More like… ‘Lady Befriends Tramp and Tramp Removes Huge Chip from Shoulder’.”
“That may be a little long for a headline.”
With another spin, his grin deepens. “Not when it’s half-done with emojis.”
Laughter erupts, imagining Rose and Vernon coding out emojis on their newsletter template. Tension vanishes, too, as if laughing overrides nerves. Maybe he’s not so bad after all, and I’m guilty of the wrong first (second, and third) impressions.
His fingers walk across my back, inching me closer, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing. I stop worrying about keeping a safe distance and just hang on. The song’s pace quickens, and he leads us in a surprisingly poetic and strangely synchronized waltz, of sorts, toward the more official dance floor. My wrap escapes my neck again, sliding to our arms.
“You don’t need this.” A gentle tug on one end slides it off me, leaving me exposed. He tosses it to Rose, who catches it with a giddy scream like a band groupie.
Then, like he’s reading my mind, he says, “We’ve all seen your scars. No one cares.”
I’m about to argue, but he quickly says, “You aren’t hard to look at, you know. Not even a little. When you’re not pissed at me, you’re damn lovely. But truthfully, if you’re worried about it, hiding them makes it more obvious.”
I only gawk. Lovely is an adjective never used for me, and certainly not by someone like him. Not just lovely. Damn lovely. Did showing up at this party pull me into an alternate universe? Is this a portal story? The Upside Down?
My stunned expression makes him curious. “What? Are we not allowed to talk about it? Mom explained where I went wrong with my apology, but should I consult her again about being too direct?”
“Um, no,” I say with a small laugh. “I’m okay with directness. I prefer it, actually. But most people don’t talk about it. It makes them uncomfortable. Covering up minimizes the attention, usually.”
“You should own that shit.” He twirls me around again. “I love a song that tells a story.”
The subject change and twirling make me dizzy. But weirdly, I like it. “A sad story. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I wonder.”
“Well, Tennyson votes yes. But I say it’s better to love and not lose.”
“If only.”
Jack leans into me at the song’s dramatic conclusion, forcing an awkward dip to close it out that has me laughing harder than I have in a long time. He brings me to my feet in a flourish that receives applause from Rose, Vernon, and others watching nearby.
The microphone screeches as Tom approaches it, and his radio announcer’s monotone says, “Come get your oysters, ya’ll.”
A mass migration ensues as partygoers flock toward the oysters steaming on the newspaper tables. I linger where we are and feel relieved when Jack stays, too. Despite our differences, he’s put me at ease in the strangest way, like we’re unlikely animal friends in an Instagram post.
Amid the chaos, he says, “Another beer?”
“There you are!” A shrill voice cuts through my answer, which would’ve been yes. Renita beelines toward me through the migrating crowd, wobbling precariously on her high wedges.
“Shit,” Jack says under his breath as she corners us. Renita is at least in her fifties, but she’s so finely made-up that she looks younger—a solid testament to her Mary Kay business. Her hands give her away, though, showing her years like rings around tree stumps. She holds what looks like a margarita slushy in one hand while she animatedly extends her other to me.
“I’m Renita Dabney. Ed and I live at 412 Daisy. You’re Rowan!” Her loudness doesn’t hide her slight slur.
“Yes, nice to meet you, Renita.” I shake her hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” She wags a bright red fingernail. “Saw you dancing with our Jack here. He’s such a handsome devil, right? If I weren’t married, I’ll tell you what—”
“Yikes, Renita,” he says. “How many of those have you had?”
“Oh, honey. That’s not the drink talking… She knows what I’m talking about.”
I glance at him playfully. “He’s not bad… if you like moody-writer-types.”
Renita slaps her bare knee in laughter, sloshing her beverage.
“How about those beers?” His hand goes to my elbow to lead me away.
Only Renita grabs my hand. With a sweet but critical look, she takes in my face. I try to escape her, but any pull might cause her to lose her balance, and I don’t want to see her fall over.
“I’ve wanted to meet you, honey. I can help you with your features, you know.”
“Renita!” His stern voice only makes her scoff.
“Jack, this is girl talk. Make yourself scarce.” She continues her awkward stare. “Have you tried Mary Kay? We have a line of concealers made for people like you.”
People like me.Her words close me up like a flower under a hot sun. I glance about for my scarf but don’t find it. I force a weak smile. “I’m okay with my… features. Heavy makeup clumps and never looks good on me.”
She grunts. “You haven’t tried my make-up. I bet I can make you look almost normal—”
“Um—”
“—I hear you’re gettin’ married. You don’t want anything to mess up those wedding pictures.” She casts me a sympathetic look. “You’re a beauty. Don’t you want the world to see that instead of, well, that?” She motions to the side of my face before lighting up again. “We should schedule a makeover!”
“God damn it! Nobody wants your fucking makeover, Renita,” Jack snaps louder than necessary.
His harshness stuns us both. Renita back-steps, nearly tripping over her wedges. He catches her by the arm to hold her up and snatches the drink from her hand.
“Wait, don’t…” I say, but he’s already marching her toward her husband, Ed.
“Shit,” I mutter before leaving.
Edgar Allan Poe is glad to have me home early. He meows on the other side of the door as soon as my key jiggles the lock. Inside, I scoop him to my shoulder and take comfort in his welcoming purrs. We plop together on the living room rug, where he saunters around me, rubbing his face on my hand and curling his tail high. I loved Edgar the moment I saw him in the humane society’s cat room—hunched into a loaf in the corner, watching the other, bigger cats with anxiety pinched on his pitch-black brow.
“Aren’t black cats unlucky?” Mira had asked when the family came over to meet him.
“Only in their adoption rates.” I’d shared how they are the least likely to get adopted because of their less-photogenic color and unlucky reputation.
Always ready to jump on a cause, Mira and the family adopted two black cats the following week.
“Sorry, I didn’t score you an oyster, Edgar.” I pet his arched back, and he meows his disappointment.
Ready to put the night behind me, I change into a tank top and shorts and pull my tidy hair into a messy ponytail. I put on Married at First Sight, something Dean would never watch. I pour what’s left of Jack’s expensive chardonnay and settle with Edgar on the couch.
Curled with Edgar is where I want to stay—loafing in a corner, wary of the other cats. My history replays from the day it happened, and through every indignity since, as if I need the humiliating recap. Memories haunt me like wicked ghosts that keep multiplying and dragging me back to that day, kicking and screaming. Always screaming.
My internal screams turn audible when a gentle knock on the door makes my shoulders pop and my heart thunder in my chest.