4. Melanie
melanie
Ipick up an orange, squeezing it, testing the firmness before putting it back and grabbing another.
The cycle repeats until I have six in my cart, knowing that if I take even one sour orange home, Oakley won’t touch the rest. He seems to think one bad fruit will contaminate the rest, so I’ll end up eating them myself. And I hate oranges.
Someone comes to a stop beside me as I shift toward the apples. I don’t look up, assuming it’s another shopper looking for fruit.
“Uh, Melanie?”
I startle, looking up and finding a woman standing beside me, a basket clutched in both hands and a polite, closed-mouth smile on her face—the kind that makes you seem even more awkward.
I blink, trying to work out why a stranger seems familiar, and that smile wobbles, making me realize my face has pulled into a frown without my say-so. I smooth out my features, giving her a bemused, no-teeth smile of my own. “Yes?”
“Oh!” She sags in relief. “I thought it was, but I got in my head about it. How embarrassing if it hadn’t been you.”
“Sorry, um…Do we know each other?”
She scrunches her face up comically. “Okay, so still embarrassing then.” Her cheeks turn a deep red as she tries to laugh it off. “No…I’m Jaz Evans. My daughter, Lanie, met your son two weeks ago.”
“Cale’s sister.”
“Not by choice,” she jokes. “Lanie, my daughter, came home raving about Oakley last week. She would not shut up about how this eight-year-old kicked her uncle’s butt in a racing game.
” She grins, brown eyes gleaming with amusement.
That’s when it hits me—why she seemed so familiar at first. She and Cale share the same brown eyes, right down to the tiny golden flecks.
Not that I’ve noticed Cale’s eyes.
“Oakley had a great time. Now, he’s asking for a gaming console of his own.”
“I know that pain.” Her smile is more genuine now, her expression relaxing.
“I’m not in the habit of accosting people at the grocery store, but I wanted to meet you.
Lanie…She’s the serious type and has always been more drawn to adults.
Especially since…” She trails off, the light in her eyes dimming.
“Anyway, she couldn’t stop talking about her afternoon at Cale’s, and I knew Oakley must be pretty special. ”
Pride wells in my chest. “I think he is, but I might be a little biased.”
“Isn’t that our right as mothers?” Jaz teases. “Thinking the sun shines out of our kids’ asses, even when they’re being awful terrors.” Her eyes flare like she hadn’t meant to say it like that, and my smile widens into a grin.
“Absolutely,” I agree easily, something about her candor putting me at ease.
It’s what is missing from most of the other mothers at the school.
They’re so focused on curating the perfect image and outdoing each other that it feels like I need to watch every word that comes out of my mouth.
“You and Lanie have only recently moved back to town, right?”
She nods, her mouth pulling down at the corners. “It’s taking me a little while to get used to being back in such a small town. I’m not sure why I’m always surprised by the gossip.”
“We’ve been here for seven years, and I’m still not used to it,” I tell her, and something flickers through her eyes that makes my brows dip. “What?”
“It’s just…” Jaz looks away, teeth sinking into her lower lip as she hesitates.
Her shoulders hunch up defensively, right as she blurts, “I’ve heard gossip about you.
About your husband and Marcy Gordon.” Everything goes a little fuzzy as my stomach swoops.
I’m thinking of ways I can diplomatically extract myself from this conversation, but as my mouth opens, Jaz continues.
“I knew her in high school. She’s always been a bitch. ”
I’m stuck between fight and flight, my mouth twitching. “Things come naturally for some people, I guess.”
She grimaces apologetically. “I’m not bringing it up to make you uncomfortable, I promise. It’s just…” She groans, ducking her head. “This is…I actually hate myself a little bit, but I promised my mom that I’d put myself out there, start living again. You know?”
I did. I still didn’t know what that had to do with Marcy, my ex-husband, and small-town gossip. It’s been a year since we separated, a little less since the divorce was official, but I know everyone’s still talking about it.
The gossip is savage and unrelenting, all of them vultures circling a carcass, treating the death of my marriage as some kind of sideshow.
And while they do it, not a single person even pretends to give a crap about the two kids caught in the crossfire, learning lessons they should never have to know, especially at eight.
I feel the eyes on me at school pick-ups, each of them probably wondering what I did to drive him into another woman’s arms, all of them convincing themselves it had to be my fault because otherwise, it might happen to them.
They brag about their husbands loudly and often, how loyal they are, and how they come home to their families every night, even if they’re disinterested and uninvolved, because at least they’re not out fucking some whore.
Except no one talks badly about Marcy.
Not out loud.
They’re afraid of her, worried about being frozen out of the community or becoming a target of her vicious tongue when one whispered comment can turn friends into strangers overnight.
So, no one points out that she was also married when she fucked my husband.
She destroyed two marriages. Instead, they all pander to her, stroking her ego and hoping she doesn’t suddenly turn her attention to their husband next.
“So,” Jaz says, her eyes overly bright. I swallow back my anger, forcing calm into my body, reminding myself it’s not her fault that it’s still such a sore subject.
“It’s just…I have some experience with asshole husbands, and I wondered if you might want to grab a drink sometime.
” My eyebrows rise in surprise, but she rushes to add, “I know this is a bit weird, but making friends is hard, especially when it feels like everyone’s talking about me coming home with my tail between my legs.
And Lanie…She hasn’t been the same since we left, so I thought—”
“Jaz?” I interrupt, reaching out and touching her hand, feeling her tremble. “I would love that.”
It’s late afternoon as Oakley races for the car, jumping in the back seat before I even have a chance to undo my seat belt. I turn around to look at him between the seats, giving him a soft smile. His cap is sitting crooked on his head, and the knees of his pants are covered in dirt.
“Hey, bug. How was your first official baseball practice?”
“Good!” He bounces in his seat. “I’m getting really good at catching the ball. Way better than Matty, and he’s a whole year older than me.”
Grinning at the cocky tone, I tell him, “Seatbelt,” waiting for it to click before I turn around and start the car. “So, you’re ready for the game this weekend, then?”
He whoops loudly, the sound echoing, and I chuckle, shaking my head as I point the car toward the house. We’re about halfway there when Oakley pipes up again, “What’s for dinner, Mom? I’m starving.”
“I’m not surprised. I bet you burned a lot of energy at practice. I was thinking we could have spaghetti and meatballs.”
That gets me another cheer, this one loud enough to rattle the windows. “My faaavorite! There’s nothing better than slurping up noodles.”
I chuckle. “If you say so, bug.”
“Hey, Mom…” There is a questioning lilt to his voice that has me raising my brows, instinct warning me that he’s about to ask something I won’t like.
“What’s up?”
“You know how I went over to Cale’s place, and he let me play video games with him and Lanie?”
I don’t answer straight away, inhaling deeply.
He’s been talking about Cale nonstop since they mowed the lawns together, which is impressive, because he already seemed pretty obsessed with the guy before that.
Usually, I’m able to head the conversation off, but Davis bailed again over the weekend, not letting me know until twenty minutes after he was supposed to show up.
Oakley was ready to go, sitting out on the front step with his backpack, his shoulders getting tighter with every minute that passed until I finally insisted he come back inside.
“Yeah, bug. I remember.”
“Do you think he’d let me go over again?” His voice goes quiet, unsure. “I mean, it’s just that…we don’t have any games like that. Neither does Dad. If he did, Clarissa wouldn’t let me play anyway.”
The mention of Davis startles me before I register what he says. “What do you mean, Clarissa wouldn’t let you play?” I glance in the rearview mirror to see Oakley looking out the window, a pensive expression on his face.
“She doesn’t let me play with anything,” he murmurs. “She says it’s all hers and she doesn’t have to share. Even if it’s stuff that Dad got me, she still won’t.”
My fingers clench down on the steering wheel, knuckles going white as anger slips and slides through my veins like a poisonous sludge.
Davis, you asshole. He wasn’t always this guy.
I would never have married him if he were.
When we first met in college, he went out of his way to make me feel special, putting me first in a way I’d never experienced before.
Our relationship had burned bright, and we’d made so many plans for our life together.
Even when our plans got put on the fast track because of Oakley, we were happy.
Until we weren’t.
I wish I could pinpoint when it all changed, but I can’t, and that makes it so much worse.
It’s not like he packed up and left town, searching for something different or bigger than Sterling Creek.
No, the fucker had just moved across town and jumped into the role of stepfather, acting like he didn’t have a kid of his own.
“Does he love Clarissa now?” Oakley’s voice wavers as he forces the words out. “Does that mean he doesn’t love me?”
I pull into our driveway, slamming the car into park, turning to tell him fiercely, “No, Oak. You’re the best kid ever, and your dad knows that. Okay? He just…” I try to smile, but it’s wobbly. “He got a little lost, I think.”
He stares back at me, big eyes dry and solemn. “I wish he’d buy a map, then.”
A huff of air leaves me, unsure if I should be amused or broken. “Why don’t we ask Cale about going over for games? We could see if Lanie’s coming back sometime soon.”
My son smiles, eyes sparking like the moment never happened. “Yes!” He scoops up his bag, jumping from the car.
“Straight into the shower, bug,” I call after him, following at a more sedate pace as he dashes for the house. I frown when he draws up short. “Oak?”
“Did you leave the door open?”
“What?”
He looks at me as I come to stand at his side, pointing at the front door to our house—wide open and hanging off the hinges.