Chapter 9
ELLIOTT
MOM
If you don’t answer, I’m going to report you as a missing person
Don’t think I won’t
Your uncle is in the sheriff’s department and he owes me a favor
I stand in my kitchen, coffee mug in-hand, literally banging my head against the wall as my mom’s syrupy voice oozes through my phone’s speaker where I’ve abandoned it on the counter. It was either that or squeeze the damn thing so hard the screen cracks.
“Your Dad’s making himself sick over this. He could really use your help.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Hello, wall, so good to see you again. “I’m busy, Mom.”
“With your job?”
She knows saying it like that makes me angry. That’s why she does it.
I let my forehead fall, unable to hold myself up any longer. Even my bones are tired, which, according to my darling mother, is my own reckless fault for not sticking to finance.
I could be CFO by now—her words, not mine.
But no. I had to go and throw it all away on some fool-hearted venture. That her brother willingly invested in said venture should’ve been enough to prove I’m not a fool. Instead, it drove a wedge between them.
We both know what’s coming next: The guilt trip.
You’re our only child…
The one thing I ask you to do…
You will never understand the toll having children takes on a woman’s body. You were ten pounds, Elliott. Ten. My vagina never recovered.
Yeah, my mom tells me about her vagina.
Since I want to avoid that conversation at all costs, I say, “What do you need?”
Turns out, Dad has been “making himself sick” over hanging a couple of massive paintings Mom bought online. According to her, my dad doesn’t want to get it wrong.
More like he doesn’t want to hear her complain about it every time they go into the living room until she decides to buy something else to put behind the couch.
I agree to swing by on my way home from the bar, and she takes away some of the sting by offering to make baked steak for dinner.
At one point in my life, I dreamed of moving far away, but as my mom reminds me on a weekly basis, I’m her one and only, most precious child. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I had a brother or sister to take on some of their “love” and “attention.”
The promise of food makes the twenty-minute drive to Mom and Dad’s almost bearable. The houses gradually thin out, leaving room for sprawling yards and white picket fences.
That’s the south for you. One minute you’re in the suburbs, the next, you’re neck-deep in tractors and cows.
Mom and dad bought their ridiculous brick rancher not because we needed the six bedrooms, but because it happened to be right next to her sister’s house and it was twice as large.
I flick my blinker, but as I go to turn, my foot slams on the brake pedal instead. The car behind me swerves to avoid ramming my bumper, their horn blaring as they speed past. I can’t even bring myself to wave in apology because right next to my mom’s white SUV sits a cherry-red Volvo.
My throat is as tight as my fists on the steering wheel.
This isn’t about hanging pictures and feeding her only son. This is a fucking ambush.
Mom can hang her own damn pictures.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole scenario was a big fat lie and there weren’t any pictures at all.
I drive around the corner so they can’t see me and pull into the Nelson’s stone driveway. Dragging my phone from the center console, I type out a quick text.
6:13 PM
Work ran late.
I won’t make it tonight. Sorry.
Since I’m not having my mom’s cooking for dinner, I might as well swing by The Pearl for some seafood. Back to town I go, stopping at my favorite restaurant down the street from where I work. With the smell of fried food filling my car, I pull into my apartment complex full-on drooling.
My neighbor stepping out of her car right next to mine doesn’t help, especially when her black skirt rides up her tan thighs. She gives it a swift tug back down, setting off at a clip toward the stairs.
Annoying Loren is one of my favorite things to do, so I get out, grab my Styrofoam container, and jog up behind her.
She glances over her shoulder and finds me smiling, then whips back around before I get a good look at her face.
She’s always doing that. Turning away before I really see her.
With my long strides and her shorter ones, we reach the landing outside our apartment block at the same time.
Since she’s stuffed her keys somewhere into that massive black bag looped over her shoulder, she’s forced to pause and acknowledge me with a clipped, “Elliott.”
I bob my head. “Loren.” I haven’t seen her in the week since I accidentally listened in on her conversation about the guy she’s dating.
I didn’t hear everything, but I heard enough.
I thought the guy was a dick the first time I saw him milling around the parking lot waiting for her instead of coming up to her door, and my opinion has only gone downhill since.
“What’s in the box?” she asks, eyeing my dinner as she withdraws receipt after receipt, a tube of Chapstick—a pair of socks? She’s like that Poppins lady with her bag. You never know what’s going to emerge from the chaos.
The deeper she digs, the redder her cheeks turn.
I give the Styrofoam a shake. “Only the best crab cakes on the planet.”
For some reason, that makes her snort.
I might not be a very good cook, but I take eating food very seriously. “You don’t believe me?”
“I grew up thirty minutes from the beach,” she says, finally extricating her keys with a victorious jingle.
There are so many key chains dangling from the thing, it’s a wonder she had trouble finding them in the first place.
She jams the key in the lock, giving the knob a twist at the same time.
“I don’t see how anywhere in Nashville can have better crab cakes than I’m used to. ”
Didn’t know she was a beach baby. Although, from the tan she’s sporting, I could’ve guessed. “So you’re a seafood snob.”
“When it comes to eating seafood hundreds of miles from the sea, yeah. I guess I am.”
I’ve heard this argument plenty of times. Then I bring folks over to The Pearl and they change their tune. The crab might not have come scuttling straight out of a crab pot, but it’s still fucking delicious. “Since freezers aren’t a thing.”
“Tastes better fresh,” she insists, about to step into her apartment.
Normally, I’m against sharing food, but the chance to prove her wrong is too good to pass up. I pop open the lid and hold it out to her. She frowns down at my dinner like it’s poisoned.
“Go on. Try it. You know you want to.”
“I bet that’s your go-to pick-up line,” she says with a sassy roll of those honey-gold eyes.
This girl always says the funniest things. You never know what’s going to come out of her mouth.
Loren pinches a hunk of crab meat between her fingers and brings it to her lips to chew quietly. Then she has the audacity to scrunch her freckled nose and say, “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Now she’s definitely fucking with me. I may not be from the coast, but I know when food tastes phenomenal, and these crab cakes are mind-blowing.
“They’re average at best. Too much filler. I have a recipe that puts those to shame.” She swings the door open and tosses her bag inside with a loud thump.
What else does she have in there? The body belonging to those socks?
The way I see it, I can play this one of two ways.
I can either let her little comment slide or I can try to wrangle myself some free crab cakes.
Since crab cakes happen to be my favorite food of all time, I go with option two.
“Sure, you do,” I say with a smirk.
She whips around, her dark brown curls catching on her pink lip gloss. “I do.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I can prove it. I’ll make crab cakes this weekend and bring you some.”
Looks like Elliott is eating seafood twice this week. Score. “Looking forward to it.”
It’s been a fucking week. Between the late delivery at the bar Wednesday and pulling a double today, my body is this close to falling apart.
I ease my head back against the plastic chair on my balcony, overlooking a bunch of evergreen trees doing a shitty job concealing the concrete mayhem of the highway.
My eyes fall closed as icy drops of condensation from the cold beer in my hand drip down my fingers. My arms are so sore from the gym yesterday, the thought of lifting my beer to my lips brings tears to my eyes.
Despite my exhaustion, when the door to my right creaks open, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning.
Loren’s voice comes out a little shriller than normal. “Here.”
When I open my eyes, I find my neighbor standing on her balcony in a pair of paint-splattered black leggings and a white sweater, her hair piled on top of her head, making her look like a demented poodle.
A very cute demented poodle holding a chipped white plate across the gap between our balconies.
Looks like she came through on her promise to cook and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m starving.
I push upright and set my bottle on the small round table in exchange for the plate. The golden-brown delicacy on top smells delicious. Not that I tell her that as I cut into the crab cake with the fork provided and take a bite.
Holy shit.
She’s right.
From the smug smile on her lips, she knows it.
Again, I’m faced with an important decision.
I’m not proud of what I’m about to do, but these crab cakes are giving me life, and one can never have too much life. I poke the patty with the fork and say, “You didn’t make this.”
Her shapely brows slam down over narrowed eyes. “Yes, I did.”
I take another bite and nearly expire in my chair. I don’t know what spices she used in this thing, but they’re divine. From what I can tell, there isn’t any filler either. Straight crab and spices. Get in my mouth.
“No way. You bought it somewhere.” I set the fork down long enough to take a swig of my beer. What a heavenly combination. Downright euphoric. “Tell the truth, Loren. Was it Waterfront? My cousin said they got a new cook.”
She clutches her railing like it’s taking everything within her to keep from leaping over the gap and stealing back the most amazing dinner I’ve ever had. “I made those in my own damn kitchen.”
“Sure, you did.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you where to get the crab next weekend and I’ll cook them right in front of you.”
Hiding my smile behind another bite, I chuckle and say, “If you insist.”