Chapter Four
Rex
August, Two Months Later
F uck, it’s hot out there. I kick off my shoes and sigh at the air-conditioning in The Deviled Egg. I just took a shower, but one trip down the block to check in with my brother at Perkatory, and sweat is already beading between my horns.
I’ve got to hydrate or die-drate. It’s almost time for Thursday night dinner, but a snack never killed anybody. As I head into the kitchen, I find Miss Eda bustling around, prepping savory smelling platters. Meatballs, fuck yeah.
“Thanks for stopping by Birdie’s earlier, Rex.” She beams at me from the oven, wiping her hands on her apron.
“No problem.” I give her a nod and move to the fridge. “Happy to help.”
“I know my daughter is grateful as well.”
I barely manage to hold in my scoff as I tear open a string cheese, eating half in one chomp, then pick up an apple. There’s a strained tone to her voice that I don’t want to look into. Miss Eda means well, but four months into my time in Winter Bliss, Thursday night dinners have started to devolve.
The closer it gets to Birdie’s wedding in October, something inside of me has gone a little haywire. She and I bicker like it’s an Olympic sport over the dinner table—whether a hot dog is a sandwich or not (it is), if narwhals are real (no way), and why The Giving Tree is not sweet but an absolute horror show (I had nightmares for weeks).
Her moms do their best to keep the peace between us. I’m not dumb enough to miss the new decor in the dining hall. They’ve been ramping up the positive messaging. Throw kindness around like confetti is handwritten on a chalkboard sign. Last month, Orla asked me to hang a framed art print that reads simply, Happy Happy Happy Happy Happy in rainbow colors. And just a couple days ago, a tapestry showed up in blue felt with gold lettering. Think before you speak. Is it true? Is it fair? Will it build goodwill? Does it benefit all?
They’re basically trying to hypnotize us into good vibes. And it’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Normally, Birdie and I only interact at these Thursday night dinners. The best day of the week in my opinion, though I can guarantee she wouldn’t agree. But with construction at both new Perkatory locations at a lull, I’ve had a slow few days and been in town more than usual. At first, I kept busy helping around the inn—cleaning ducts, adding some insulation to the attic, and installing a few new light fixtures. But today, Miss Eda asked me to take some big storage bins she’d bought on sale out to the ranch. Birdie can definitely use them in the garage, which is a disaster. But when I ran into the contractor for the cabins in the barn loading wood into a spare stall, I tried to get the rundown on how construction was going.
Nowhere, basically. The cabins are months behind schedule. Mother have mercy, the woman needs help.
“She’s had a rough go lately,” Miss Eda pats my forearm as I lean against the counter and dig into the apple.
The contractor was tight-lipped about why they were so delayed, only saying she’d been indecisive about next steps after the cement foundations were poured. It took all my energy not to rough him up to get more answers. But that’s not my place, even though it’s like having fucking fire pox again, an itch that won’t go away, seeing her struggle.
“The only on-time contractors work for the mob,” I say, trying to make a joke of the setbacks. “Delays are inevitable. Gotta bake it into the plan and then ride their asses.”
“I have a feeling you're good at that.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “You’ll be staying for dinner?”
“I never miss your home cooking.” I wash my hands and study her. Is she asking because she doesn’t want me to come? Maybe my bad attitude is making Orla and Miss Eda uncomfortable. “Promise I’ll be on my best behavior tonight,” I say, laying my palm flat against the center of my chest over the solar plexus chakra. “The fire within me is mine.”
It’s a demon vow of responsibility for one’s actions. I really need to stop getting Birdie so riled up over the stupidest of arguments. And I will.
The side door flies open. Birdie kicks off her shoes and rushes into the kitchen. Her purse thumps against her hips like choreography as she swings the fridge door open, grabs an apple, and spins around to face us. She’s fresh-faced in jeans and a lilac button-down shirt.
“Rex.” She always seems surprised to see me, probably annoyed that I’m still around. And even though I know she doesn’t see me romantically, the slow perusal she gives me every now and then makes me hot under the collar all the same.
I can never look away.
To her, I’m sure it’s just a juvenile staring contest, a battle of wills she finds annoying but can’t kick the habit of engaging in. To me, it’s the few fleeting moments I’m able to capture her attention. Where she really sees me.
My body reacts every time, skin growing hypersensitive and tight while a warmth floods my chest. Words escape me completely, just like when I was an idiot kid partnered with her in shop class. I can never find the right things to say. Almost always, they’re the exact wrong ones.
Today, her hair is up in a high ponytail that’s kind of lopsided. A dozen or more curling tendrils fall free. In the fading golden light she’s a vision of chaos and sun-darkened skin.
“Nice . . .” Oh shit, when did I open my mouth? Why am I talking? “Nice . . . uhhh . . . hair.”
She pats some of the flyaways on the side with a pinched expression and her trademark snort. “I know I look like a disaster. You don't have to point it out.” With that, she strides into the half bath.
I look to her mom. “It was a compliment!” I whisper.
“Help me with the kofte .” She opens the oven and gestures to the meatballs.
I sigh and pull the tray out, shaking them all onto a big platter. We bring that and the mezze —an assortment of salad, grilled veggies, and fruit—into the dining room where Orla, Old Ethel, and a gaggle of ladies in town for a charity 5k are seated.
When Birdie comes in, her hair is plaited down the back, which is also pretty, but I feel a stab of regret that she thought I was making fun of her.
No fiancé this week, it seems. I fold my napkin three times while stealing glances at her, trying to hide my excitement.
The running club are a bunch of moms and get on the topic of the best foods for picky eaters. My ears perk up.
“Grilled cheese.” I point my fork at the purple-haired lady across from me. “Pro-tip: Use mayonnaise instead of butter to grill it.”
While they titter over that, Birdie laughs and shakes her head. “Gross.”
“Mayo’s just egg and oil, miss ma’am. Nothin’ gross about it.”
“I mean, mayo is fine.” She waves her hand and pops a tomato in her mouth. “Mixed with ketchup as a dipping sauce or sparingly used elsewhere, sure. But to use for toasting your grilled cheese?” The exaggerated face she makes is hysterical.
“I’ve never seen your mouth contort like that. Does it hurt?” I lean over to poke her cheek, making the table shudder. She swats me away. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
She shimmies her shoulders and dips her meat in yogurt sauce. “Thankfully Mom makes the food around here, so I’ll never have to be subjected to such cruelty.”
“Oh, don’t bait me like that, honey. I’ll make some right now.” I stand up and gesture to the group. “As a treat. A savory little snack. Who wants to try my world-famous grilled cheese?”
The table seems amused, even Miss Eda, which is a damn sight better than how nervous she looked earlier. “Take out the baklava when the timer dings, please.”
“Maybe we’ll have a moment of peace,” I hear Old Ethel murmur to her sister who just chuckles.
“I can’t let them eat that.” Birdie stands up, throwing her napkin down. “I’ll make them a proper grilled cheese.”
“A friendly competition!” This is what I’m talking about. I race to the kitchen at the same time she does. We slide on our socks and get kind of smushed together in the kitchen doorway. With a rough shove, she knocks me back a half step.
I’m having an absolute ball as I grab a pan for me and one for her while she places an apron on and snaps some metal clips to keep her hair pinned back.
She looks so fucking determined, so happily hostile, that when I snap my fingers to light our two burners, the fire lets off extra sparks I have to blow out.
She grabs for the sourdough, and I nod that I want to use the same.
“At least we agree on one thing,” I say. “A grilled cheese on sourdough? Paradise!”
She rips off a small piece from the butt end with her teeth and chews. “Homemade too. Nothing better.”
When she spins to open the fridge and get some cheese, I snag the mayo from the front.
“Your funeral,” she smirks.
“No, yours .” Juvenile response, but oh well. I grab some of her mom’s favorite breakfast cheese. It’s got a feta-like consistency but if I mix it with some brie and American cheese, I bet it’ll kill.
We both warm our pans and prep our slices. She sprinkles her buttered bread with some kind of herb seasoning.
“Cute,” I say. “But it’s not gonna beat the mayo.”
“You’re annoying.” Her elbow jabs just above my waist. “And in my way.”
“Not my fault I’m a big guy.” I jostle her back just to hear her stomp and growl. In front of an open flame in a small kitchen, I really shouldn’t have goosebumps, but being around her always makes me feel upside down.
She chops up some American cheese with efficient ferocity. “You know Gigi and Mimi are just nicknames.”
“The horses? Short for what?” I ask. And why the change in subject? She must be trying to slow me down. I snatch the American from her and slice some for myself while she goes to town on a block of cheddar. Classic choice. Can’t fault her there.
“Their real names are Gouda and Mimolette.” She grins at me, a delighted evil slant to her mouth as she lays her sandwich onto the hot pan. “I know my cheese, Rex Perchaz.”
Fuck , she named her horses after cheese. She really is the perfect girl. The smell of melted butter wafts between us as I place my sandwich on the pan.
“And I know my mayo, Birdie Lynn.” I say, loving her cute snort in response.
We step back and cross our arms on a silent staring contest, except she can’t hide that little smile. I’m gonna win this cook off, but it doesn’t even matter, because I have what I want. Her letting loose a little. Having fun. Even better that it’s with me. After a minute or two, she picks up the spatula and checks the bottom of her sandwich.
It’s time. The first flip. A.k.a. the best part of making grilled cheese, choosing that perfect moment when the bread is browned just right but none of the cheese falls out when it turns.
We both manage with no casualties.
As our second side toasts, Birdie looks over at my pan and her expression clouds. “Hmm.”
“Yours came out a little blacker. That’s weird,” I say in the most innocent tone. “Might have to scrape some of the burn off to be edible.”
“Mind yourself. I’m just fine.” She lifts a corner of her second side up to check the toast and turns her burner off first.
I leave mine on an extra half a minute before plating it up, brandishing a big knife, and cutting it into eight little bites. Everyone can have a taste.
“Cut yours?” I offer. She slides it over and grabs some colorful toothpicks from up high. Her shirt rides up in the back so I get a glimpse of the muscles along her spine and the dramatic curve where her waist nips in.
She stabs my pieces with red-flagged toothpicks. Hers get blue. The timer dings, so I grab the baklava. Birdie carries the big plate of grilled cheese samples and passes it around.
Even without the colored flags it's easy to tell between ours. Her’s is the decidedly darker toast and I don't think the thicker slab of cheddar melted all the way through.
“Well, ladies?” I raise my hands. “Blind taste test. Which one’s better?”
Still chewing, Miss Eda, Orla, and three of the ladies hold up mine. Only one prefers Birdie’s.
“The seasoning on this is good,” Miss Eda pokes at Birdie’s “But this one is cooked just right. And you used the beyaz peynir , didnt you?”
Oh, that’s what it’s called. She puts that cheese in the eggs every morning and it’s fucking amazing. I nod and bow.
“But that’s too soft for grilled cheese.” Birdie glares at me.
“Sprinkle it in with another one gets gooey, and voila.” I wink at Birdie’s mom, knowing a cook will appreciate the secret weapon. “Mayo has a higher smoke point, so you can grill the cheese even longer.”
“Inspired,” Orla says, finishing off both.
“You’re not a fan of either?” Birdie asks her step-aunt.
“I’m lactose intolerant.” Old Ethel puffs on her vape. “Thanks for nothing.”
The door bursts open with a clang. Shoes go flying.
“I have news!” Randy bursts into the room like a wet blanket over a toasty campfire. “Oh, grilled cheese.”
“Have at it.” Old Ethel hands him her plate.
He chomps on mine first, naturally, humming and nodding. “Good stuff.”
Birdie exhales noisily and moves toward him, straightening her shirt. “What’s up?”
He has a bite of hers, then sets the plate down. Throwing one arm up in a theatrical flourish, he says, “A Wild Hearts Holiday.”
“A what?” she asks.
It’s August. What fucking holiday is he talking about?
He grabs her by the shoulder, like a dad would to his kid showing them the Grand fucking Canyon or something and uses his other arm like he’s painting the words in the air. “A Wild Hearts Holiday: Your Solstice Retreat. We’ll hold a formal catered dinner on the patio to celebrate the new luxury cabins. I’m going to run an A/B marketing test on the term ‘tiny home’ to see if that sells better.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, after today’s city council session, a bunch of bigwigs were at Lucky Magic Diner and we got to talking. Townsend said he and his wife would be in town over the winter and wanted a solstice event to go to. Something more elegant than the corny winter holiday events.”
“Wait, the Chamber of Commerce guy?”
“Yeah, him. And his wife, who knows practically everyone. Skylla Flarelion was there too—the real mastermind behind the Emberlight Resort. I’ve been trying to get her ear for months. When she showed interest in the idea of the event, I knew I had to act. Your place has a Christmas tree farm. The fireflies always look amazing at sunset. And by December, the cabins will be booked up with rave reviews from our first customers.”
“You think?” She has two level plots with foundations. That’s not nothing, but it only leaves a couple months to fully construct and interior design two livable cabins before the autumn and holiday tourist season? I’m as doubtful as she looks.
“It’ll be the perfect opportunity to show the most influential tourism and small business players in Winter Bliss what the Wild Hearts Retreat can offer. I didn't have time to run it by you since I had to improvise quickly, but I knew you'd love it.”
“I do love the holidays,” she says, even though it’s clear as fuck she’s shell-shocked and just nodding along.
I hate it. Makes my leg shake. She’s already got to run her ranch, a Christmas tree farm, construction, guests, and he’s adding a formal party on top of all that?
“It's settled then.” He squeezes her by the shoulders until she winces. “A Wild Hearts Holiday.”
Birdie looks an odd shade of gray as she sits down, lost in her thoughts, so I pass the plate of baklava over. She grabs it, but I don’t let go of my end until she looks up at me. “You alright?”
She tugs the plate harder and, before popping a piece of the flaky dessert into her mouth, breaks eye contact to stare at the tablecloth. “I’m fine.”
October, Two Months Later
“ T o the happy couple!” A sparkling glass is raised in the air.
Champagne glitters in a sea of crystal as the crowd toasts, “To the happy couple!”
I throw back the bubbly liquid and relish in the burn as it flows down. That feels a lot better than the grim, dark emotion threatening to pound out of my skull. Tonight of all nights, I feel like an absolute shitbag.
“Thank you all for celebrating Rom and Noelle’s engagement with us,” Mom says to close the toast.
My brother is engaged. It’s great or whatever, but that’s not what has my mind a riot of radicalized hornets.
Birdie is getting married. Tomorrow morning.
“It’s such a pleasure to be back in Winter Bliss seeing my son find his forever partner.” She clears her throat, and it kills me that the first time I see my usually stoic mother overjoyed to tears, I can’t share in the feeling. Dad passes her a handkerchief and she dabs at her eyes before sighing. “Enough with the waterworks. I know Rom has a speech prepared.”
She hands my younger brother the microphone. He cracks his neck, readjusts his glasses, and locks in on the redhead he’s loved since he was a kid. She’s curled against his side, staring at him like he’s the only person in the room.
“Noelle.” He swallows, and I recognize the light tremor in his hand. He’s nervous. As the middle brother and shy to his core, Rom was never one for the spotlight. He may be the smartest of us all, but when it came to public debate class, he muddled through, usually with my older brother to step in or me to offer some physical distraction. But being up there alone, expected to pour his fucking heart out to a packed room full of friends and family? This must be torture for him. When he doesn’t continue, Noelle rubs a small circle, right over the center of his chest. He takes a shaky inhale and instead of clamming up, stammering, or handing the mic back as I’d expect, he smiles. Like, he full-on grins with all his fucking teeth.
What the fuck?
“Noelle,” his voice is deeper. Louder, like some kind of actor body snatched my shy brother. “Meeting you was coming home.”
I blink in shock through the first minute or so of the engagement speech. It’s . . . a lot. Personal and endearing and heartbreaking in the sweetest way. Poetry this. Eternity that. The thing is, I’m happy for him. I am. But seeing a love like that transform my brother weirdly just intensifies the deep, dark fucking misery in my gut.
That same spark will never happen for me. I’ve only felt it for one person, and that’s clearly a lost cause. I’ll be honest; watching Rom and Noelle right now kind of stings.
Time to raid the appetizer table.
I slink away without catching my mom’s attention. She’s a keen old demoness, but thankfully completely glassy-eyed watching her son prepare for marriage.
And while Rom is happy as a clam being in Winter Bliss, I’m getting the fuck out of this town tomorrow. The next two Perkatory locations only need interior design to be launch ready. Managing two projects in under six months was pretty impressive. We came in under budget despite several setbacks. It was kinda fun to flex some old skills in flooring and custom carpentry when I had to pitch in for a couple contractors that flaked out.
Workwise, everything’s good.
Emotionally, I’m a wreck.
Birdie’s getting married. In the morning. Everytime I remember, my fucking fingers go tingly and numb. At least seeing the engagement party from afar isn’t quite so unnerving. My family’s joy is easier to take when I’m not surrounded by it, pressured to take part, to chime in, to smile. I don’t mirror emotions well. I feel what I feel, and it always shows. I’m better in the shadows, supporting them by running errands and shit. Staying busy.
I make it to the front of the restaurant to see what’s left of the finger foods. Another engagement party, another charcuterie board. And even the fresh burrata on a crunchy sourdough doesn’t inspire a flicker of positive emotion.
I’m truly broken.
The door opens. A rush of crisp fall air washes over me with the hint of evergreen. Somehow, even before I turn, I just know.
It’s Birdie. Alone.
She pushes the hood of her sweatshirt off and loosens the shawl at her neck, the one I know her mom made for her, her favorite when the night gets chilly after dinner. Her hair is down tonight, a mass of wild curls around her face that makes me ache. She rarely wears it like that.
Her gaze locks onto Rom and Noelle, and even though she's only a few paces away from me, as usual, she doesn't see me.
But my greedy fucking eyes take their fill of her. The soft light of the room flickers gold across the long slope of her nose, making her dark eyes sparkle. Her expression is strange though, something a smarter guy could write a sonnet about—tragic and curious and just this side of mysterious. In the end, the poor bastard would realize there’s really no way to put her to words.
Her eyes are deep brown, but right now, they look black. True darkness. A demon’s holiest color.
“Birdie Lynn.” Her name escapes my lips without thinking, and she glances over. I can’t fucking stop my stupid mouth around her.
Normally, seeing me, she’d straighten her back and bring her walls up, maybe say something delightfully snarky. I wait for it, the usual banter that makes me light up, but it never comes.
Instead, she closes the distance, tucking her hands in the pocket of her hoodie and watching me the whole way. With only a step between us, she stops and turns back to where my brother yaps on about true love.
“They’re perfect for each other,” she says quietly. Almost too quiet.
They are. Objectively and spiritually and on every plane of assessment.
I clench my jaw tight.
Why are you here? I want to ask. You’re getting married tomorrow and I’m not invited. Are you nervous? How is construction going?
But I don’t say any of that, because every time I speak, I say the wrong thing. Above and below it all, drinking in the sight of her, I know that this moment is it. The last time I’ll see her before she’s a married woman. Maybe the last time ever, if I can stay away from this goddess-blessed, blissed-out town long enough to forget the prettiest girl I ever knew.
When she turns to me, all I see in her eyes is the same joy my mom has. There’s no trace of whatever haunted her coming in. Maybe the darkness was a figment of my imagination. Maybe I wanted to see something doubtful and hurt about her, as fucked up as that is.
“They’re so in love,” she says, trying to share her happiness with me, like she thinks I should be happy my brother is getting married. And, fuck, I wish I was, but I’m torn up over her instead. And that’s the last thing I’d say the day before she gets married.
“Just like you and Raymond .” I go for a joke that comes out harsh instead.
Her smile melts away. She inhales and straightens her spine, gaining a solid inch or two in height. “Is Randy such a hard name to remember?”
“It is for me.” My teeth grind.
There’s no darkness in her eyes now. No doubt. Just fire.
I love and hate it, because I draw it out of her, no one else, but it always pushes her further away from me.
Are you sure you wanna get married? That’s what I asked all those months ago. That’s what I should have fucking asked now, just once more, in a soft tone, not a sharp joke. Instead, I played the fool. It’s the same question that’s been on repeat in my mind all these months, the question I know the answer to even if she won’t admit it to herself.
She’s not.
She shouldn't marry a guy just because he's sorta half decent.
But Birdie has a spine of steel and is committed to a fucking fault, two things I’ve always admired about her.
She pulls a greeting card out of her purse and hands it to me. “Give this to Rom and Noelle, please.”
I nod, jaw tight, willing myself not to say another stupid fucking thing.
“Thanks,” she says, and with that, turns and walks back to the door.
Panicked, I yell out, “Congratulations.”
Imbecile.
She doesn’t even acknowledge me as the door swings shut behind her.