11. August
11
AUGUST
Weirdest slumber party ever.
Picture three large dogs and three not-insubstantial humans huddled in an itty-bitty apartment, playing poker while a hurricane raged outside. (To clarify, the humans played poker; the dogs were thankfully exhausted from all the excitement and their residual gummy high.)
Lucy insisted on setting up camp there because it was easier to cool a smaller space, especially one with no holes in the roof. So we sat on the living room floor all evening, playing cards around the bulky rattan table, eating chips and trail mix, and enjoying the cool air from the AC unit while the little generator-on-wheels hummed outside, protected from the wind and rain by its own special tent.
It should have been difficult to see Wade’s things scattered around my mother’s apartment. It should have been uncomfortable to sit beside him all night, after everything we’d said and done in the pool.
The reason it wasn’t? My new hero, Lucy Babineaux, who never stopped talking long enough for me to get lost in my own head.
He shared embarrassing boot camp stories. He discussed the lengths he’d gone to in wooing his wife, including a very unfortunate flash mob of men in suits of armor in the middle of the French Quarter, which I didn’t believe until he showed me the video he’d saved to his phone. The way he described the over-the-top and often obscure themes Gene had chosen for each Lemons race through the years, along with his insistence on full costumes and scripts, had me laughing so hard my stomach muscles hurt. The man simply hadn’t stopped talking. For hours .
And then he fell asleep.
It was the oddest thing—he’d wrapped up yet another humorous anecdote, gotten up from the floor with a few loud pops and groans, laid his sleeping bag on the couch and passed out beside a very confused-looking Merlin.
He was snoring less than ten seconds later, leaving Wade and me alone without a buffer.
Of course Wade chose that moment to start an argument.
“You take the bed,” he whispered, immediately getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help me up. “I’ll sleep on the rug out here.”
“It’s your bed according to the lease,” I whispered back, trying to subtly slap the thigh that had gone numb from hours on the floor. “ I’ll sleep out here.”
“You own the bed, and I’m a gentleman.”
“You’re an older gentleman and you might throw your back out.”
Wade sent me a disgruntled look. “You could have gone all night without saying that.”
“I apologize. I got carried away. I’m sure you could sleep on a bed of nails and wake up rested. ”
“Take the bed, Gus,” he said loud enough that we both glanced self-consciously at the couch for a moment to make sure Lucy was still out cold.
I crossed my arms. “Retta rules are in play, buddy. It’s you or it’s no one and we suffer together.”
He scowled at that, but after a moment of staring me down, he sighed. “We’ll suffer together then. We’re both mature adults here. We can share the bed,” he finished grimly.
Those five simple words blew the rules and all my arguments out the window. I mean, come on. How often was a person presented with this scenario in real life? With someone they were actually attracted to?
“Fine,” I said, a little too quickly, forcing me to follow up with an, “If we have to.”
I’d not only read scenes like this in romances, I’d also written them. The only-one-bed scenario crossed all genres and was where the real magic happened. In one of my books, the bed was in an abandoned cottage, warded by spells to hide them from the enemies hunting my heroine. It worked like a charm for that fictional couple.
For the two of us, on the other hand? Not so much.
First, Wade left the bedroom door open. Because apparently cool air was infinitely preferable to privacy which…I couldn’t argue with, no matter how much I wanted to. After we took turns in the bathroom with an electric lantern and that door firmly closed, we settled onto the world’s smallest queen-size mattress so gingerly you’d think it was rigged with explosives.
Wade kept one foot on the floor like a man in a 50s sitcom, while I clung to my side of the bed, trying to ignore the furnace levels of heat his body was radiating and the faint scent of chlorine on skin that brought up memories of our watery embrace.
We lay there fully clothed, fully awake—and, in my case, full of pent-up sexual desire, frayed nerves and unanswered questions— listening to a chorus of canine and human snoring for what felt like hours.
When I couldn’t take the fraught silence anymore, I whispered, “This bed is too small for me and way too hard. How do you stand it?”
“Biofreeze patches and Advil.”
I smiled before I realized… “You’re not joking?”
“I planned to haggle for the nice king-size mattress I have in storage for next month’s lease agreement.”
“You have a bed in storage? Good lord, Wade, bring it over. You can put this one in the garage for now.” Or maybe we’d burn it. That’s how uncomfortable it was.
He hesitated before saying, “Are you sure? I didn’t want to ask you to change anything.”
I understood why, and I was grateful. “It won’t be a problem. I’ve been feeling guilty about it all week, and now I know exactly why. Knowing you were comfortable would be a favor to me.”
“Thanks.” Less than a minute later, he spoke again. “On the subject of favors, how comfortable are you with bookkeeping software?”
This could only happen to me.
A gorgeous man pressed up against me was saying, “Let’s share a bed after sort-of making out in the pool. And while we’re there, what are your thoughts on bookkeeping ?”
Who said the male of the species wasn’t completely confusing? Because those people were liars.
I shifted onto my side, facing him in the dark. “Comfortable enough, I guess. It was years ago, but my last job before my first book sold was office manager for a chiropractor. I did his books. And Gene set me up with new software a few years ago to keep track of my own finances.” Which was how I knew exactly how precarious my savings situation had become. “Why?”
“I thought I remembered something about that. It occurred to me that we might be able to help each other out again. You have a list of home improvements to check off so the house can be ready to put on the market, if that’s what you decide to do. Your insurance is going to be starting you off by replacing the roof. I can help you with the rest.”
Before I could argue, he continued. “What’s giving me a headache is all the things Phoebe usually takes care of for the garage, icehouse and studio. I’m no good with the software, and honestly, I just don’t have the time with everything on my plate. I need someone else to handle the time-sensitive stuff until she can come back to the office. You’d be doing her a favor too. I wouldn’t want her returning to the mess I’m already making.”
It sounded simple enough when he explained it. Payroll, which was done electronically. Accounts payable, which was mostly done electronically, with checks going out to a few stone-age vendors. Invoicing, which was minimal because most customers paid in full at the time service was rendered. I’d done all that and more at my old job, though like I said, it had been a while.
The hardest part would be going into the icehouse, where Phoebe kept her office. Hermitting season would officially be over. I would have to interact with people. Wear shoes. Remember how to be human.
The rest of it was doable. It bent the Retta rules but didn’t break them, because he’d be helping me with something that felt overwhelming whenever I thought about it, and I’d be helping him and my godchild to get through a short but stressful time period.
I might be suspicious about his motivations, coming on the heels of the night’s big reveal—that he actually was into me. But I could do this. More than that, I wanted to do it. It had the distinct feeling of being useful, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“Say yes, Gus. No one will bother you. Phoebe’s office is in the back and the place doesn’t usually get busy until well after lunchtime. ”
“I could give it a try,” I finally said, “but I’m not taking any money. We’d trade in services, hour for hour, straight across.”
“I feel like I’m getting the better end of this, but it’s a deal.” After a moment, he added with feeling, “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
“Me too, Wade,” I whispered back. And I really meant it.
An easy peace settled over us. Shockingly easy. Even my revved-up Mrs. Roper hormones, after being thwarted, had decided to take a break to enjoy the sense of safety and warmth and rightness I felt as I turned over and pressed my back to his side. Closing my eyes, I listened to his deep, even breathing and smiled ruefully. Thus ended my only-one-bed scenario. Utterly sexless but strangely productive.
And as I drifted off, I realized the winds had stilled and rain was no longer slashing against the windows. The storm was finally passing.
On the third morning after Tree-mageddon, I woke up bright and early, brewed a strong cup of coffee and sat on the back porch with Merlin while giving my fully charged phone the attention it deserved. In celebration of the internet being on again, I spent an entire hour brainlessly thumbing through my favorite content creators on social media.
Sufficiently fortified with caffeine and silly animal videos, I went inside to shower to get ready for my adventures in bookkeeping. I’d actually taken an hour-long, blissfully hot shower the night before, when the power finally clicked back on in all its buzzing glory, but this would be my first foray into the wilds of humanity after my long hibernation, and I needed the confidence boost that came with looking my best.
The morning after the storm, both Wade and Lucy had disappeared with the rising sun and receding water. An hour later, Rick had stopped by with another generator for the main house. Even better, he’d brought friends who lifted the tree off my house with a skid steer and a mini excavator and then covered my roof with a more professional tarp, free of charge.
He’d also taken Tilly and Angus to Bernie’s, saying, “They’ve got power, and you’ve got enough to deal with.”
I might have cried and told him he was my new best friend. He’d pretended to be uncomfortable with my full-contact hugging style, holding his arms stiffly at his sides, but I could tell he was pleased. Way down deep, beneath his ten percent body fat, where he kept those emotions I imagined he had.
After he left, I wasn’t ready to be alone with my thoughts, so I’d straightened up the courtyard and skimmed the pool, then gone back to work on my laptop with a fierce new energy. It was amazing what I could accomplish when I had nothing else to distract me.
Literally nothing else. No phone calls or texting, no streaming or social networking.
No Wade.
I’d barely gotten a glimpse of him since the pool of honest hotness and our one-bed fail. He’d shoved off the mattress before I was even half awake, muttered something about his tow truck and joining Lucy, and then made himself scarce. I knew he came back to sleep, but I’d only seen him once, popping in with a couple of his employees long enough to trade out Mom’s bed for his cushy-looking king.
No judgment on that score. My back was still recovering, and I’d only spent one night on the torture rack.
But he was avoiding me, exactly the way I’d known he would. And the longer he stayed away, the more I wanted to press the issue. I was armed with new information now. Wade wanted me back. At least, a little bit. Knowing that changed things .
Does it really?
I wanted it to. And not only for writing inspiration, since while he was out saving the neighborhood, I was using the generator to keep my laptop powered and working on my two wildly different WIPs almost continuously.
Did you catch that? I was working on my contracted book too. It was a hurricane miracle. I was right about the reluctant-father addition, and after that, everything else had started falling into place. I wanted to say it was proof that my mojo was officially back, but I was afraid to think about it too much in case the rug got yanked out from under me again.
I stepped out of the shower and was drying off when Chick decided to call.
“You’re still keeping secrets,” was his greeting when I put him on speaker. “My sunshine senses are tingling.”
Holding the towel around my body, I pawed through my closet for something that wasn’t shorts or pajamas. “Women always have secrets, Chick.”
“You don’t. Not from me. But based on the amazingly hot pages you sent me last night, you’ve started keeping them and they’re undoubtably salacious. What really happened during the hurricane?” He sounded off. He was trying to cover it up with this interrogation, but I knew him too well. “Admit that you finally seduced your tweeny-bopper crush and ended the longest episode of not-getting-any it’s ever been my horror to witness. Tell me that’s what happened instead of the Little House on the Prairie version you tried to sell me yesterday.”
Chick knew about the slumber party, because when cellular service was restored, my phone had immediately started buzzing with multiple messages from both him and my sister.
Morgan: Ann left a message that the dogs are with you, but I can’t get ahold of you or anyone else. I’ll see if I can call you from the boat. Please stay safe.
Chick: I’m seeing pictures online that are scaring me, sunshine. Pick up the phone, okay?
Morgan: Gene called Rick from the ship. A tree?! Thank God you’re okay. Call your insurance provider ASAP and take pictures of everything for the adjuster. I also know a general contractor in the neighborhood that could start right away. Text me as soon as you can and I’ll give you his information.
Chick: If I have to hire a boat driven by sexy Navy Seals to bring you a new phone, I’ll do it. How can you not have service?
I’d responded to Morgan’s texts first, avoiding any mention of Wade and focusing instead on Lucy’s heroics, asking her to thank Gene for having such incredible friends. Her string of orders might have gotten under my skin a little, but a general contractor would be a good person to know and I was thrilled to have contact again, so I let it slide.
Then I’d texted Chick and played up the craziness of three middle-aged adults and three dogs sharing a tiny one-bedroom apartment, keeping mentions of Wade to a minimum. I was worried I’d overshare, and it wasn’t really the right time to talk about pool confessions and cuddle sessions.
He might have been more disappointed than I was at the way things had turned out.
I pulled out a skirt and scoffed. “I can’t tell you what isn’t true, Chick. We shared a bed and nothing happened. ”
“Is the man made of stone? Only-one-bed is supposed to be the magical icebreaker.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I told him wryly. Still in my bra and underwear, I took my phone into the bathroom so I could tame my curls with product and confine them in their usual ponytail.
“This is unacceptable. I told you all about my recent gymnastics, in graphic detail, and all I get from you is a G-rated sleepover? Why didn’t you jump his bones when you had the chance? I thought that was the reason you accepted his application .”
I stopped with my hair gathered in my hands. “Why did you emphasize that? I accepted a real application, not his penis. He’s paying me rent, remember? The stuff I need to fix the house so we can be roommates again? He’s also helping me with said fixing, like I told you.”
“Asking for a quid-pro-quo job instead of a blow job, I know,” he quipped. “Keeping someone’s books is not sexy, but if you’re happy, I’m thrilled for you. As long as it doesn’t distract you from what you’ve been sending me. It’s really good stuff, August. I’ve been reading a few spicy romcoms to compare and contrast, and I have to tell you, I think you’ve got something here. You don’t need to be piling anything else on your plate.”
“It’ll only take a few hours, a few days a week. I can spare the time. More importantly, you’ve been reading romance?”
“I had to do something to calm myself during our communication blackout. So, I read. And I worried. I also might have made a plane reservation. By the way, be ready in two weeks.”
I’d only applied a light coat of lip gloss and some waterproof mascara—because at this point in my life, good concealer that wouldn’t melt in the heat felt like too big of a monetary investment in a lie—when his words finally sank in. “What happens in two weeks? ”
“I’m coming for a visit. We’ll call it a roommate dry run. You said the adjuster was rushing your check and you’ve already called your sister’s friend, so your roof should be repaired by then.”
I stared at my shocked reflection. “No way.”
“You don’ t think the roof will be done by then?”
“I thought the plan was me flying to you in five or six months. Because of that oceanfront paradise in La Jolla that’s a three-minute drive from a trillion different clubs and restaurants you want me to share with you.”
“I’m still hoping that will happen.”
Only hoping? “You’ve never come here before, Chick. Why now?”
He didn’t like the humidity or the politics any more than I did. The one time he’d been willing to brave it and show up for me, he’d been rushed to the hospital for a ruptured appendix days before his flight. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for missing the celebration. Or me for not coming to see him since.
“I feel like I’m missing all the excitement,” he confessed quietly. “You’re taking these huge steps forward into the land of the living. Entering a race. Writing a sexy-as-hell book. Finishing your contract. Renting the apartment and finally breaking a piece off of that sweet—well, I’m still hopeful on that score. All this and I’m too far away to enjoy it. So, I’ve decided to join you and your racing team. I might even write about it.”
“You want to write about— You want to join the team? I’m not sure they’re letting me join them yet. And are you forgetting that you don’t drive?” He’d never had a license.
“I can cheer from the sidelines. I want to do this.”
“The race is still a few months away. That’s a long visit, Chick.”
“Hopefully long enough.”
Aha! I knew there was another reason. “The wrestler? ”
“I don’t want to talk about it yet. I only wanted to tell you I was coming. Surprise! Now I can help you with your curb appeal. Though I warn you, if my problem isn’t resolved by the time you’re ready to leave, I’m going to pull the trigger on the writer’s retreat in Nebraska I’ve been dreaming of and take you with me. It’s still available.”
“You’re really coming?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice as I dressed. I didn’t want to guilt him into it in case he came to his senses, but there were no words to describe how much I’d missed him.
“Writing challenges and margaritas are precisely what the doctor ordered. It’ll be like old times.”
My mood was lifting with every word out of his mouth. “You lost me at challenges but won me back with margaritas.”
“Margaritas for the win. Oh, and don’t buy any guest room furniture until I get there. I have ideas and I was thinking about wall paint as well. How do you feel about sage?” He hesitated, then, “Shit, I’ve got to take this call, August.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Chick?” I was getting a few warning tingles of my own.
“Don’t worry about me. After this, I’ll start shopping for my upcoming trip and asking myself some important life questions. Take boots, for instance: what’s the difference between a roper and a shit kicker, and do I need both of them? I think the answer to the last one is yes.”
I laughed. “Planning to ride a horse or kick someone’s ass while you’re here?”
“It always pays to be prepared. We’ll talk about my chaps later.”
After we hung up, I shook my head and then gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror. I’d made an actual effort this time, with a patchwork blue maxi skirt and a light cotton top with capped sleeves. Trying not to second guess myself, I stepped into a pair of comfortable slip-on flats, grabbed my phone and keys, and headed outside.
Chick was coming. The knowledge definitely put some pep in my step. It also gave me the confidence to consider cornering Wade. Not that he was the reason I’d dressed like this.
Lying to yourself again?
His garage was right across the street from the bar and he would need to show me how to sign into the programs and get started. So yes, I wouldn’t mind if he got the chance to see me wearing something other than the latest in hobo chic.
I hopped into Myrtle and made my way to Hudson’s Icehouse. It wasn’t far, but the white trucks with cranes and the orange cones dotting the road like tiny alien trees made the going slow. Workers were depositing a winter’s worth of cut-up logs on every curb for the county to eventually take away, and men and women in FEMA shirts were going door to door to see who might need help.
I passed one driveway with a large tree lying precariously on two crushed cars and I squeezed my steering wheel in sympathy. Things could have been so much worse for all of us.
Even with the traffic slowdown, it only took twenty minutes to get there, and I felt a pang of regret for not making more of an effort to stop by in the last few years.
It was right here. A small open-air beer bar where my godchild usually worked four days and two nights a week. I could have spent more time with her. She might not hold my tendency to isolate against me, but I was starting to. Depression was a perverse form of time travel; hours became weeks before you looked up to discover a year had passed.
I’d lost so much time.
At least she hadn’t had the baby yet. She was still expecting me to be there for the home birth of the daughter she’d been calling Sammy Hudson in honor of my mother. Or Sammy Lane, if the baby’s father could get his head out of his keister. When her doctor said she needed to watch her blood pressure if she wanted to have the baby at home, Phoebe had taken a leave of absence and started a regimen of relaxation, healthy eating, meditation and yoga for expecting mothers. I’d told her drugs in a hospital had been good enough for her mother, but she wanted to give birth in an inflatable pool, so what did I know?
When I pulled into Hudson’s, I slammed on the brakes right in the middle of the driveway. The icehouse was packed .
It wasn’t even noon yet, and the parking lot was filled with trucks. Work trucks. Police trucks. Making-a-statement-about-your-penis-size trucks. And those trucks must have been full of people, because they were everywhere . Sitting at all the tables out front. Drifting in and out of the bar through the two open overhead doors. Standing in the grass along the cinderblock side of the building, where a large grill was smoking away and a row of buffet tables overflowed with food.
“So much for hardly having to see anyone,” I said faintly.
The knots in my stomach sprouted knots of their own as I checked behind me and hit reverse, backing out onto the street to find a parking spot. Maybe I should say “screw it” and go home. It had been a while since I’d been around this many people.
It could be like riding a bike.
I wasn’t so great at that either.
“Breathe, August. You can do this. You’ll be in a closed office. It’ll be fine.”
I lucked into a parking spot on the next block and walked back to the icehouse, determined not to chicken out. It was so hot already that by the time I got there, I had sweat running down my temples and dampening the underarms of my shirt. But I was in good company as I wended my way through the crowd—most of the men and women, many of whom wore hard hats and reflective vests, looked (and smelled) like they’d been working under the Texas sun all day, trying to get our community back up and running. They’d earned those plates of potato salad, barbecue chicken and brisket the volunteers were handing out along with bottles of water.
This event had Wade written all over it.
During the pandemic, when nearly all the bars were closed, he’d kept his doors open during the day. Not for business, but to hand out donated necessities like sanitizer, masks, toilet paper, and even canned goods, to neighbors in need. It made sense that people would gravitate here now.
Neighborhood hero or savvy business owner? Why not both?
Music drifted from inside the bar, where it looked darker and infinitely cooler. That was where I needed to be, so I maneuvered around a couple pallets of water bottles and sidestepped a group of workers, more than ready to be out of the sun.
Once inside, I stopped to let my eyes adjust to the sudden dimness, giving a slight shiver as the breeze from the overhead fans cooled my heated skin. Other than the explosion of people filling most of the tables and barstools, the old place hadn’t changed much since I was here last. The walls were decorated with TVs, neon beer signs and random Texas memorabilia. The carpeted platform in the corner still held a trap set, several amps and a mic stand. A window in the wall revealed a small kitchen that made appetizers and pizza, when it was open. And behind the scuffed wooden bar on the far wall, a couple of shelves displayed the bottles of beer available for sale, as well as the setups customers could order if they brought their own liquor.
That was the thing about icehouses—they only served beer. If you wanted to party harder, you had to bring your own booze. Most people didn’t, though, which helped keep the atmosphere relaxed and friendly.
I didn’t know the guys slinging bottles behind the bar, but they were obviously being run off their feet. Folks were stacked up three deep between the barstools, waiting to order .
“I can’t believe I’m seeing August in August,” a sultry feminine voice said over the music and the clamor of the crowd. “There’s a country song or a turducken joke in there somewhere.”
I smiled warily, feeling the resurgent wiggle of nerves in my stomach as I turned to face my oldest friend. “Hey there, Bernadette.”