6. CRAZY
6
CRAZY
PATSY CLINE
DINAH
I wish these dang donuts weren’t so good. I wish they were trashy, dry, second-rate donuts of the gas station variety. The kind you think you want but then after you’ve eaten the entire bag and are covered in stale powdered sugar, you regret all your life choices.
But no. Of course they aren’t.
These donuts are now—assuming Jack bought them fresh—three days old. And for three days, I have savored every single morsel of the dozen he delivered into my hands. They’re, in a word, heavenly. I’d like to write sonnets about them or, at the very least, propose marriage to their originator. I’m not picky. If whoever baked these rings of power enters the Badger Bites Competition, my pretzels are toast, and I’m not sure I’d even mind.
I have barely shared with Emory and Molly, offering only one to each of them during our weekly girls night and saving the rest for myself. There may have been a half-hearted, repeat argument in the mix around the merits of donut undergarments and how they should be worn daily in tribute to quite possibly the best confection of science and sugar I have ever tasted.
More than anything, I wish these donuts didn't conjure the image of Jack’s intense gaze studying me when I was at a vulnerable point. Because I had been crying.
Every year, on the anniversary of my parents’ accident, I have what I call a “down day.” I listen to my mom’s favorite ‘80s jams. I make classic pretzels with cheese sauce and homemade country mustard just like my daddy taught me. And, yeah, I cry a little. Or a lot. I just give myself space to miss them. Deeply. With sad music and baked carbs.
And I do so alone. Even Emory doesn’t know about my odd, annual grief ritual.
But having Jack bear witness to my “down day” wasn't even the worst part. Nope. The real glaze on the donut—if you will—was the fact that when Jack showed up, a piece of me was glad to see him. That for a minute, I wasn’t alone.
Which is especially frustrating as I had every intention of thinking about the word phlegm in conjunction with Jack, but that just isn’t happening. Instead, I replay the look on his face when he mentioned the change in my music. The concern and worry etched in his voice. How his hazel eyes had softened, looking me over. The way he seemed like, if I’d allowed him, he might have hugged me. I hate to admit it, but I would’ve welcomed the contact. Even from Phlegm Ken.
And then, as I slowly plowed my way through donuts sent straight from heaven, Jack played musical ping pong with me for two days. I’d play a song, he’d play one louder. I played a modern ballad, he played ‘90s country. Mariah Carey's "Always Be My Baby” echoed on my side of the wall with Justin Bieber’s preteen voice singing “Baby ” , then the lyrics, “Is it too late now to say sorry?” floating over on his. I hate to admit it, but the gesture has been frustratingly charming.
I can't make heads or tails of it, but I know the songs repeating a sentiment of apologies that Jack played the morning after he found me crying had to have been running on a playlist. Something he must have thought through.
And that is confusing.
And now, I have a date with his brother in—I check my phone for the time and throw it back on my unmade bed—thirty-five minutes.
Swiping the most insane tasting raspberry jam and lemon curd from the corner of my mouth, I push the thought of the scruffy-faced Jones brother from my mind and focus on Jackson. Jackson who's been nothing but charming and sugary sweet to me. Who sent me a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers two days ago, signed with a simple note: Roses weren’t right. —J .
Even now, the sight of that arrangement, overflowing with peonies, cornflowers, sweet peas, and zinnias, all in shades of creams, pinks, and purples, makes me feel so incredibly seen and pursued. I don’t know why, but the flowers feel uniquely like me. They’re fun and simple and happy.
Jackson came by the shop first thing this morning to make plans for our date, insisting that we see one another this afternoon. Without hesitation, I threw aside my plans to work on some new flavor combos. Who am I to say, “ Ya know what? Nah. I think I better hold off on a possible, and God-willing, swoon-worthy romance for now ,” to a man actively pursuing me?
I'm a romance reader. This girl knows how it goes. I’m not gonna miss my main character moment.
So, I’ve felt the fluttering of pre-first date jitters in my belly ever since. Not that those butterflies have hindered me from finishing off the box of donuts. Nope.
I polished off those suckers, saving the raspberry lemon curd for last, and I have zero regrets—aside from the fact that Jackson won’t have to feed me on this mystery date we’re about to go on, and that I was thinking about Jack and his torturously curious eyes and playful taste in music, more than I’d like, with every delicious bite.
I grab a high-waisted pair of jeans and a tan gingham crop top. One that highlights the freckles on my shoulders and shows the barest hint of skin where it meets my jeans. I run my fingers lightly across the cutest detail of cream-colored flowers embroidered across the fabric. It feels perfect for today, especially after the latest flower delivery.
By the time I finish off the look with mascara, tinted lip balm, and my white Chucks—because Emory is right about everything, and I am feeling fresh—there’s a knock at my loft door.
I swing it open and am immediately hit with that same insta-attraction I experienced the first time I saw Jackson. Wearing a backwards hat like it’s his j.o.b., a fitted baseball tee, and well-worn jeans, he’s so casually cool, I want to squeal with delight. His perfect smile greets me immediately, just before he offers me a small bouquet of mini, pastel pink roses—similar to the ones he gave me that first night—and places a tender kiss on my cheek.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, breath wisping against my cheek.
I pull the roses up to cover what I know is a smile that’s starting to quickly lean towards loopy. “Hi.”
Pulling the door open, I welcome him into my little home. “I’ll just put these in water and we can go, yeah?”
“Sure. I thought we’d walk this evening since it’s nice out.” He steps into my loft and immediately seems as if he’s filling the space. “I’ve been wondering what you’ve done with the place. We just redid the floors and windows before you moved in.”
“Oh, right. So you're my landlord, too?” Aside from slipping my requested rent check into the Petals’ mailbox the afternoon of donut-gate, I haven’t given another thought to Jack as my landlord. Pulling a Scarlett O’Hara instead—I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
But I guess it makes sense that the brothers are in business together. They’re clearly identical, and I think I remember reading in a magazine or article at some point that identical twins typically operate as a unit. Living together. Working in similar fields. Even marrying and having kids at similar times. I have briefly wondered who names their twins something so similar. Jackson and Jack? Seems like it would be hard to keep them straight, but who am I to judge? I’m named after a folk song, and I encouraged Emory to name my niece Pam during what had to be my fifth time through a rewatch of The Office . Em, thank goodness, denied my request and named her first alpaca Pam, instead, and Molly became Molly.
“I am your landlord,” Jackson says with a hint of embarrassment. “Hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable. The place is beautiful, though. I love the artwork and the whole vibe you have goin’ on in here. It’s very… you.”
“You can say it.” I smile, seeing the way his eyes take in the splattering of color across every surface of the open concept apartment. From the art on the walls to the mismatched pillows on the brown leather couch, the shades of mint, orange, and lavender patterned blankets hanging from a ladder in the corner, and the variety of colored glasses and ceramic pottery I have stacked on the open kitchen shelves. “It’s a lot.”
“It’s busy, I’ll give you that. But not in a bad way.”
I have to laugh. My mama always said I was busy. Her busy bee, singin’ and dancin’ in the kitchen. “I am busy.”
Jackson stretches out his hand and interlocks our fingers when I meet him halfway. “I like that you left your mark on this place. It looks like you feel at home. Like you’re here to stay.”
Warmth spreads in my chest. “I am.”
“Good.” He lets his thumb pass over my knuckles, and man, that simple action sends a skittering of goosebumps up my arms. “You ready to have a good time, Dinah Belle?”
“Lead the way. But why don’t you tell me what the deal is with the locked door in the hallway downstairs on the way.” I can’t hide my giant smile as he winks and chuckles under his breath.
“All in good time, Dinah Belle,” he teases and leads me out of the apartment and into the night.
Baseball. It had to be baseball.
I knew this man was too perfect to be true.
Now, I’m a pretty easy goin’ Southern girl, but if there is one sportsball that I do not like, it is the baseball sportsball. Can you tell I love sports?
Sooooo much.
I’m nervous -sweating and not in a cute, she’s glistening sort of way. Spring in Georgia is warm, but I expected tonight’s activities to take place inside. Maybe a movie or a casual round of bowling. Or maybe… just maybe… we would stumble across a dazzling donut shop, and I could get another dozen to top off the other batch.
But no. Instead, I’m currently geared up to the nines—helmet and elbow pads included—because I’m pretty sure when Jackson saw the look on my face as we pulled up to the batting cages located behind a sports equipment store, he knew he’d made a calculated misstep. So he insisted I put on as much padding as possible, and he obviously was not wrong.
Balls are literally flying at my moist— bleh —face at a speed I’m not at all comfortable with. One zooms right by my cheek, and Jackson cheers me on like it's the most normal thing in the world. Death by baseballs.
“Wait for your pitch, Dinah,” he coaches, but I’m too nervous to turn my head towards him. “Choke up on the bat.”
“I don’t know what that means!”
He chuckles. “Grip it higher on the handle.”
Just as I slip my hands up a bit like Jackson directed, another death-ball races past my face again, but I hold in my scream like the fearless warrior I am and ignore the pellets of sweat falling into my eyes.
“You got it. Now, wait for the next one and swing just before it gets to the plate.”
I swing, let out a screech, and miss completely. I can’t even be embarrassed about my lack of skill, as I’m more worried about when my turn will be over and I can escape this humid prison. Before I know what’s happening, the gate for my exit opens with a squeak and Jackson’s at my side.
“Can I…” He gestures to me and the bat I’m holding like a sword in the air. “Can I help you?”
“Oh. Um… yes. Please. I think I’m just a little rusty.” And also I hate it here.
“Just a little.” His hands come to rest on my shoulders, a perfect weight pressing them down to a new position. “You’re too tense in your swing. Relax into it.”
Oh. Okay, Sporty Ken . Don’t mind if I do.
Jackson runs his hands from my shoulders down the length of my arm. His calluses hit every nerve ending on their way to my hands, where I still grip the bat as if my life depends on it. “Better. Bring your elbow just here.”
He adjusts that particular appendage and returns his hands to rest over mine. I feel as if I’m standing like a ragdoll right now, but apparently this is the sportsball position for not dying today. And I can’t lie, having Jackson’s arms caged around me is definitely preferable to my stance before.
“Now,” he whispers with a confidence that produces an unruly amount of belly fluttering, “when the next ball comes, put all your weight into your back foot for just a minute and then swing into the pitch as you shift your weight back to the front.”
His hand rests on my right hip for a total of eighteen glorious seconds, demonstrating his point, before returning to my hands, and I’m sure I will pass out before the ball ever comes.
The machine purrs. Nerves grow in my chest. It pops another ball at me, and with Jackson’s hands still tight around mine, I swing and make contact. The crack of the bat produces an instant smile, which turns into a whooping cheer from the man whose hands wrap around my waist and lift me into the air.
“Thatta girl! That was perfect. You’re a natural.”
He spins me around and taps the helmet rim up from where it’s fallen into my eyeline.
“A natural, I am not. But thank you for the help.” His fingers against my cheek would probably be more swoon-worthy if my hair wasn’t plastered to my skin with sweat.
“You want another turn?”
He looks so hopeful, I almost feel bad for killing his spirit with a resounding, “No. Not even a little bit.”
I flick off the helmet fully and escape the cage before any more objects have the chance to fly at my face.
Being on the other side of the fence has so many benefits. The first, obviously, being protected from almost certain head injuries. The fact that I get to see just where those forearm and bicep muscles I’ve been admiring are coming from is a very close second. Jackson clearly did not earn them making floral arrangements.
“You’re really good!” I shout over the sound of another ball heading his way. He cracks it with the bat and answers in the same breath.
“Thanks. Been playing my whole life.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah,” he answers, making contact with another. “Played in college and almost went pro. My brother did go semi-pro a few years ago. He’s got it in his blood in a way I guess I just didn’t.”
Jack plays baseball professionally? He did not give off the sportsman vibe to me. More like a human version of a grumpy cat meme. An angry sailor in love with the sea. Or a lone woodsman scorned by life and lost love.
And obviously I've spent too much time musing over the wrong brother.
Does he manage the rental on the side? Or maybe Jackson takes the brunt of the labor while his twin does whatever it is that he does—like growling at kittens or curating the perfect apology playlist.
“Our family owns the store.” Jackson turns his head to me, like he’s not even worried about taking a hit, and gestures to the equipment store we walked through earlier. “My folks are around here somewhere. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. I’d like to say hi.”
He hits a few more before turning off the machine with a smile and joining me on the other side of the fence. “So, Dinah Belle Knot. Sister of Emory. Wearer of donut printed pant—”
I slap a hand over his mouth with a giggle. “Do not finish that sentence. I beg of you.”
I feel his smile grow beneath my palm.
“Tell me about yourself. What made you want to make pretzels in our tiny little town?”
“Well,” I remove my hand, and he clasps it with his. “My dad taught me how to bake pretzels as a teenager, and I just fell in love with it. All the flavors. All the butter…”
He hums in understanding, and I feel it down to my toes.
“He was a baker, too, so I guess it’s in my blood.” I echo his earlier sentiments.
“What does he do now? Are your parents local to Honey Hill?”
I knew he’d ask, but I have that weird moment of guilt knowing he is about to feel really uncomfortable when I tell him about my family. I rip the proverbial band aid quickly.
“Actually, both my folks passed away in an accident eight years ago. I moved to Honey Hill this winter to be closer to Emory and my niece, Molly.”
“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry, Dinah.” He wraps an arm around me and pulls me closer, all the better for me to get a good whiff of his spicy cologne.
“Thank you. It was hard—it still is. But both my parents were Christians, and I am too. I have peace knowing exactly where they are.”
He nods his understanding, and I appreciate that he doesn’t seem to need to fill the quiet between us with more apologies. Sometimes, when someone grieves, just allowing them to talk about their loved ones in their own time is the best offering. It’s something I learned all too well in the long days and months following my parents’ deaths, and something I implement when it comes to Emory—on the days or anniversaries she wants to talk about James, and then on the days she doesn’t.
Before I know it, Jackson’s leading me towards the building hand in hand. I let my free hand wrap around his forearm, leaning into him naturally.
“So, you’re amazing at baseball but not a professional baseball player. And I know you own at least one rental space. What do you do otherwise?”
“I’m an entrepreneur. I’ve got the flower shop, help manage the equipment store when I can, and mostly deal in rental properties in the local area. It keeps me really busy.”
“That’s awesome. And you get to work with your brother. That must be cool.”
I don’t know why my mind keeps drifting to Jack while I’m on a really great first date with Jackson. I suppose the donuts did more damage than I realized. Jackson hesitates but says a quick, “Yeah, it’s definitely never boring,” before directing me to a picnic table waiting for us with sodas, hot dogs, Cracker Jacks, and grape flavored Big League Chewing Gum in the center.
“Baseball food.” Jackson looks bashful as he holds out a hand for me to sit before sliding into the bench beside me.
It isn’t long before we’re laughing over how much Big League Chew we can fit into our mouths without drooling and we’ve finished off the hotdogs and sodas.
“Who do we have here?” A woman’s voice flits towards us.
Jackson jumps from his seat and greets her and the man beside her with a hug. “Hey, y’all! We were just about to come and find ya.”
The man, who can only be Jackson’s father, slaps his hand on Jackson’s shoulder then throws it out to greet me. I’m looking at a flash forward of Jackson, and it is not a bad future to behold. The elder Jones’ hair is graying but thick and wavy like his son’s. His eyes, that same bright hazel, are framed by smile lines that make him seem like an old friend.
“Gary Jones. So nice to meet you…?”
“Hi. I’m Dinah. Dinah Knot.” I shake his hand then get pulled into a hug by Jackson’s mother.
“Aren’t you just a doll?!” She squeezes me so tight it brings tears to my eyes. I’m embarrassed but not shocked. It’s been a long time since a mom has hugged me so hard and so well. I guess I’m still feeling a little fragile after the anniversary. When she pulls away she grips my elbows, holding me in place. “And you’re just gorgeous! Honey”—she turns to Jackson—“she’s gorgeous!”
“Oh, I’m aware, Mama.”
I feel the flush flood my face. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh, no. No. No.” She gives my elbows a squeeze. “You call me Shelly, okay? I insist. We’ve heard all about you, not from this man, mind you—he’s a mystery—but from the siblings and the town and of course—”
“Charlie?” I offer.
“Of course, Charlie. She always manages to get the inside scoop before the rest of us.” She winks. “I’m just tickled to finally meet you, Dinah. I can’t wait to get my hands on one of those famous pretzels I’ve heard about. And Charlie mentioned ya might enter the Badger Bites Competition? That is wonderful.”
“Um, yes. I hope to. I don’t have extra employees at the moment, aside from one of my friends from culinary school who’s agreed to help me out from time to time, so we’ll see. My time is kind of limited, but the shop is doing well so far. So…” I shrug, a little embarrassed with her attention and praise.
Shelly wraps her arm around my waist and squeezes me. “Well, of course you should enter. You’ll be a triumph!” she declares with all the confidence in the world. “And we’ll just have to put out the word for some help for ya. Right, Gary?”
“Sure will.” Gary nudges his son’s arm and gains both our attention. “Your brother and sister are inside workin’ on inventory for us. Y’all wanna pop in and say hi when you’re done here?”
Jack is here? My belly leaps into my chest. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him again, and I'm not sure why my heart is suddenly racing.
“Oh, I’ve actually met Jack, but I didn’t know you have a sister, too. I’d love to meet her.”
“Jack?” His mama looks confused, glancing back and forth between Jackson and me. “No, honey. Owen and Winifred are inside. His siblings,” she repeats like I didn’t hear correctly the first time.
Both his parents’ countenances change immediately as they turn their attention to Jackson.
“Son,” Gary says, voice lower and suddenly a little sad. “You didn’t tell her?”