Chapter 6 #2
My grandmother is one of the most confident women I’ve ever known.
People only need to see her to feel it or even absorb some of it.
It’s in the way she moves, slow and steady.
The lilt of her voice, measured and kind.
Like she’s thought about every possibility and person in her presence before they’ve even greeted her.
Birdie’s a force. I know she has secrets.
There are too many rumors and far too much town gossip about Bernadette Crowne for all of them not to be rooted in some kind of truth.
But she is, and always has been, the steady part of mine and my sisters’ lives.
She returns to the bowl of salad she’d been mixing, and without even sparing me a glance, she asks, “Is our friend awake in there too?”
I steal an olive from the small dish next to her. The salty brine makes my mouth water and erases the taste that lingered from hours of being passed out. It also has me remembering the list of flavors on a piece of paper he turned into an airplane months ago. “Awake and tied to a chair,” I answer.
“And you know him,” she says it like she already knows it’s true.
“What’s he doing here?” I shake my head and close my eyes, trying to recall the details. “What happened?” I ask softly. “Someone was hurt at the bar? What I saw?—”
“You don’t know what it is you saw, Wynona,” she says curtly.
“And while I’m still trying to understand how it is you’re acquainted with him, Mr. Colton is here at my and your mother’s request.” Her bracelets jingle as she moves around the kitchen.
“He is tied to that chair, however, because he went ahead and drugged my oldest granddaughter,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“I felt it was only fair that I kept him there until you woke up. A little taste of his own medicine.” She shrugs a shoulder.
There must be a horrified look on my face because she wafts at the air in front of me as she tries adding logic to the situation.
“He should be thanking me; I bandaged up that nasty gash in his thigh.” Tipping her head to the side, she winks at me.
“Nicely done, by the way. Smart to have a weapon on you. I noticed the ones you’ve strategically placed at your house and the bar, too.
Perhaps a habit you picked up while you were away. ”
While my sisters knew that before I returned home, I was in witness protection, Birdie and my mother didn’t.
Only that I had been a part of something difficult and that it was confidential.
I don’t need either of them looking at me with pity.
Or worse, thinking that they could’ve done anything to change it.
Birdie shifts around the room, pulling a cutting board and bread knife. Taking a sharp left with the conversation, she says, “He’s very good-looking . . .”
I scoff a disbelieving laugh. I always expect comments like this from my mother, but not Birdie. What the hell am I supposed to say? “Yes, I agree? I flirted with him when I was living another life?” or “Yes! And he finger-banged me in a bar bathroom once. Highly recommend.”
“You’re only laughing because you agree, don’t you?
” She smiles, adding, “I love hearing you laugh again.” She continues slicing up a steaming loaf of sourdough, probably unaware that I haven’t said anything.
“Where was it you said you met him?” Birdie is good at most things—cooking and cross-stitch, growing gardens, reading palms and tarot, but she excels at getting people to tell her what she wants to know.
“I didn’t say,” I say, shaking my head.
“You can trust me, you know. I know there’s more, Wyn.”
“I think I deserve to know what’s going on and why I just woke up in there . . . with him.” Swallowing a huff, I fill a glass of water from the sink.
“Oh, is that what you think?” she says to my sass, raising an eyebrow.
Tipping the glass to my lips, I overhear loud and conflicting conversations carrying on from the next room. “I’m telling you; it was bigger than a baby’s arm . . .” and “There’s no reason why a piece of art should ever cost that much money . . .”
Birdie piles slices of still-warm bread into a basket, taking her time with what I’m hoping is going to be an explanation. The sweet smell of yeast from the bread shifts slightly more savory as the meatloaf and coleslaw linger from the next room.
The kitchen is the same as when my sisters and I were kids, sans a few upgrades.
The long, centered island, where Birdie would always set up a Saturday morning waffle bar.
Crystals and frosted glass pendants hang in the window over the sink, and at certain times of the day, like right now, the way the sun shines in the sky hits them just right and bathes the entire room in prisms that carry a warm, comforting glow.
I pull out the pins that are still holding my hair in the now messy twist from last night’s party—it’s the best feeling running my fingers along my scalp.
My hair is past my shoulders now, and I like it longer.
The highlights brighten the brown, and it makes me feel new again.
The last person who played with pieces of my hair is tied up in the next room.
They were darker and shorter then. I almost hate how much I enjoyed his fingers in my hair and the way he moved me to get a better taste.
“Come on. Give me something. What exactly is Julian here for, Birdie?” I run my fingers along the leather cuff on my wrist. “Was that a dead body?” I whisper.
She lets out an audible exhale, like my question is inconveniencing her. “You walked into a situation, Wyn. A situation that you weren’t supposed to—” Her words stop abruptly as she looks toward the doorway, and at the man who’s now filling it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I breathe out as I watch Julian casually lean against the doorway as if he wasn’t just bound to a chair.
His feet cross at his ankles and arms cross over his chest, and I know I’d only reach his shoulders at best, even in his current position.
“How the fuck did you get out of those zip ties?”
“Not my preferred way of being tied up,” he says to me, wiggling his eyebrows.
I tug at my blouse and move my hand behind me, trying to hide where he’s staring.
“I already saw you’re still wearing it.” His lips tilt to the side, like he’s pleased that I haven’t taken it off—a leather cuff that doesn’t fit, but I still wear it every day anyway.
He tosses my switchblade onto the counter—the weapon I had stashed away inside of my boot.
“I didn’t want to miss this conversation. ”
Dammit, how did he find that?
“Ah, just the man we were discussing. And how is it that you know my granddaughter, Mr. Colton,” Birdie says, ignoring the weapon that just collided with the butter dish.
Instead of looking at her, his focus stays locked on me when he answers. “I’m not sure I can really say that I know her.” He tilts his head just a fraction.
Son of a bitch.
“The version of her I thought I knew wasn’t residing in Tennessee. She dressed much more casually. And her hair was different—dark, almost black, cut short.” He points to his jawline.
Birdie starts to say, “Wyn, your hair was?—”
“Naomi,” he cuts in as he limps through the entry into the kitchen. “She told me her name was Naomi.”
It feels like the universe is playing some kind of fucked-up joke right now.
Birdie quirks an eyebrow at me again. “Interesting behavior coming from you. This is more in line with something your mother or sisters might have done.” Her mouth twitches like she’s amused before she shakes her head. “Giving a man a different name,” she says under her breath.
Standing straighter, she sizes him up. It’s a power move that I’ve witnessed plenty of times throughout my life—if there’s any truth to be found in this room, it’s that Birdie’s always the one in charge.
“There’s a shirt over there for you, if you’d like.
” She glances at me. “Although, none of us are complaining if not.” A chuckle slips past her lips when I widen my eyes at her to cut it out, and she grabs her basket of bread, moving toward the dining room.
“I see the appeal,” she says, leaning into me, before heading through the arched doorway.
Gritting my teeth, I ignore that comment and say, “I need you to finish telling me what that was last ni— Birdie!” I call after her, but she’s through the doorway and done with this conversation, apparently.
When I glance back at him, there’s a tiny smirk dancing along his lips, and I know he heard her not-so-quiet commentary.
There are layers of lies that hover between the two of us, yet he knows more than most should about me—where I had been, and even more, intimately.
I struggle with what to say as he watches me and comfortably allows the silence to linger.
I hate it. Clearing my throat, I grasp at the first thought I have as I stare back at him. “You cut your hair.”
“You’re an entirely different person,” he volleys back as he limps closer, reaching the other side of the island between us. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the counter and waits for me to say something more.
I push my shoulders down and fist my hands on my hips. “Observant. Yes. But you can start,” I grit out. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Is that how you think this is going to go?” he says in a teasing tone that makes me want to slap him—definitely not kiss him. “You might want to ask your beloved grandmother the answer to that one.”
“You’re dangerous.” I cough out a laugh. I’ve thought about this man too often. “I can do a lot of things, but apparently knowing who I can trust?—”
He shakes his head and laughs like this is funny, cutting me off. “You’re a beautiful liar,” he says, erasing the playfulness that’s been on the edge of his words. “And I know why you had to, but—” The way he looks at me now feels intrusive and overwhelming.