Exes With Benefits

  “You better not Rachel? me with that vague look again or else I will go back and tell Principal Walters that it was us who teepeed his house, not our rivals, Pond High.”

  I found myself smiling at the memory. “Well, he shouldn’t have given us a truancy for going to the Zip Trip during lunch so I could buy some emergency ‘feminine products.’”

  Rachel’s head fell back as she laughed. “Since feminine products aren’t considered an emergency, we had no reason to leave the grounds during school hours.”

  “Yeah, then explain to me how the same douche-canoe can give a pass to the quarterback for leaving school grounds for a Snickers bar a week later.”

  “Brian’s blood sugar was low, according to our esteemed principal.”

  “That’s right. I forgot that in addition to being a total tool, Brian Meeks was a Type-One diabetic as well.”

  Rachel’s eyes flashed. “I’ve got a fresh shipment of TP in the back closet. Old times?”

  “Tempting, but I’ve been practicing being an adult.”

  “Any luck with that?”

  My nose crinkled as I slid onto one of the stools stationed around the counter. “Not much.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” She waved at the bowling alley like that explained the rest. “Hey, I’m no good at these types of things, but I heard about your grandma and I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. No one ever had a bad thing to say about that lady, and the one person who did got his house teepeed the shit out of.”

  I shifted on the stool. “Thanks. She was the best.”

  Rachel’s hand found mine, and she gave it a good squeeze. Rachel and I had been friends growing up, time-tested ones. Since the only person I’d stayed in contact with was Grandma, I had no idea what Rachel had been up to for half a decade, but that ease of friendship seemed to settle right back into place.

  “Okay, you are not here for condolences. You are here for a drink.” Rachel stepped back and ran her hand across the four handles behind her. They were all domestic, of course, but beggars and all.

  “Just pour me one. They all taste the same.”

  When I reached into my purse for my wallet, she lifted her finger at me. “You better not be thinking about paying for this here beer because this one’s on me. It’s not every day a long-lost friend walks into this joint.” Her shoulders dropped as she examined the sparsely populated bowling lanes, the few taken ones occupied by balding men with beer guts.

  “I’m the one who left. It’s me who should be buying you a beer.”

  She made a sound as she poured my beer. At least it wasn’t one of the light ones. “Here’s the thing though. My husband and I own the place, so I’m not really paying for your beer. I’m more just pouring it and giving it to you.” Rachel winked as she slid the beer in front of me.

  “You’re married?” My eyes went wide. She’d been the type I imagined never marrying, content to have an open relationship with some foreigner who wrote music for a living. Kind of went the opposite direction on me.

  She answered with a lifting of her left hand.

  “To who?” I probed.

  She grinned like she was in on a secret before lifting her eyes across the room to where a guy was working the bowling counter. “To Brian Meeks.” When she saw my eyes go even bigger, she added, “Former total tool.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that—”

  “Yes, you did, because he was a dick back in high school. I felt the same way at the time.”

  My gaze flickered back to the counter. “Your opinion of him obviously changed between then and now.”

  Rachel’s eyes went soft for a moment. “A person can change.”

  “From what I recall, Brian Meeks was in need of a total rehaul.” I took a drink of my beer before I could say anything else I shouldn’t.

  She leaned into the counter and shrugged. “A person can change.”

  I took another drink of the beer as my eyes lifted. “So I keep hearing.”

  From Rachel’s face, I guessed she knew exactly what, or who, I was referring to. She didn’t push the topic though. Even though she might not have known the grittiest details that went into the cyclone that had been Canaan and Maggie, she knew enough about the destruction we’d left in our path.

  “Catch me up on five years. Where have you been? What have you been up to?” Snagging another pint from the shelf, she poured another beer.

  “I’ve been in Chicago ever since I left.”

  She gave a low whistle. “That’s about as different as you can get from Farmington.”

  “That’s why I loved it.”

  “You loved it?”

  “Why I love it,” I edited before continuing. “The first few years, I had to waitress full-time to make ends meet, but now I’m able to sell enough drawings to keep those same ends met.”

  She clinked the freshly poured beer to mine then took a drink. Only in Farmington. “So you did it? You’re a real-life, big-time artist.”

  “I don’t know about big time, but I’m real life. At least I think.” I glanced down at myself, like I was double-checking.

  “Been up to anything else for five years? Besides painting shit?” Rachel waved her finger. “I didn’t mean that as in you paint like shit. I meant it as you painting stuff. Things. Shit.”

  “I know. No worries. Being friends since the age of five comes with the ability to decipher when a person’s dishing an insult or a euphemism.”

  Rachel grabbed her beer and came around the counter before sliding onto the stool beside me. “Only because we’re friends—the real kind who tell you when a pair of jeans give you a camel-toe—forget the five-year hiatus for a moment. I feel the need to tell you you’re looking kinda rough.”

  Her eyes circled me, making mine follow. So yeah, maybe I was still in the same dress from yesterday and my hair hadn’t seen the business end of a brush in a couple of days, but I was a good three and a half rungs from “rough.”

  “I know you and your grandma were close, so if you ever want to talk to a professional, I can get you some names. They might be whack-a-doodles in their own way and have a forged degree framed on their wall, but a friend and her husband visited one of the town shrinks last year for marital counseling, and I know I have his card around here somewhere.”

  Reaching for a hair tie in my purse so I could tone down my apparent roughness, I asked, “Did they have a good experience?”

  “They got a divorce.” Rachel tucked her leg beneath her as she twisted toward me. “But they’re both much happier divorced than married.”

  “So the shrink they went to for marital counseling to save their marriage convinced them to get a divorce?” I squinted as I feigned deep contemplation. “I think I’ll pass on the offer. Besides, yes, I’m shocked and sad that Grandma’s gone, but part of the looking rough thing is due to the fact I slept in my car last night. All three hours I actually slept.” I pulled out my compact to powder my nose, unable to ignore the dark circles carved beneath my eyes. Dang. I did look rough.

  “You slept in your car?” Rachel set her beer down before her hands cupped my shoulders. “I thought you were a real-life artist, not one of those starving varieties. There are motels in town, cheap ones, not to mention why didn’t you just sleep in your grandma’s house . . .” She bit the inside of her cheek. “And never mind. I get it now. She died there.”

  I gave up on the idea of powdering my face after the first few dabs. It only made me look more tired. “It’s silly,” I said as I snapped the compact closed. “I’ll get over it, but I just needed a night to wrap my head around it all.”

  Rachel pulled me into a hug like it was the most natural thing in the world. She still wore the same perfume, something fruity and fun, and she gave a hug exactly the way she used to—like a hug was the cure to most everything. I felt myself melting into her, my own arms finding their way around her back and holding on for dear life.

  “You’re welcome to stay at our place. We
have an extra bedroom Brian’s little brother sometimes stays in when he and his parents get in a fight. The sheets are clean from his last visit, and the room has been deodorized.” Rachel muttered something about smelly teenage boys as she patted my back.

  “You’re the best for offering, but I need to stay at Grandma’s tonight. I can’t stay away forever, and every day I avoid it will only make it worse.” I pinched my cheeks in an effort to put some color into them so I looked less like a walking corpse.

  “Want me to stay with you the first couple of nights? For moral support?” When I glanced in Brian’s direction, she waved it off. “Brian can survive two nights without me. That’s what his right hand and the bottle of lotion I keep tucked in his nightstand is for.”

  I found myself laughing as I reached for my beer. “I’ll be okay, but thank you. Besides, just think about the crap a guy like Brain would take if he strutted around town with one soft, moisturized hand.”

  Rachel snickered, weaving back behind the counter. “You make a point.” Glancing around like she was checking for the police, she reached for something under the counter. “I keep this for emergencies.” She revealed a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Jager.

  “Emergencies?” I glanced around the bowling alley. There were a handful of fashion offenses and the odor lingering in the air was a definite crime, but I wouldn’t classify any of it as an emergency.

  Rachel poured the shots, but instead of keeping one for herself, she slid both my way. “I’m about to breech a volatile subject.”

  Her expression had me reaching for the first shot.

  “Have you seen him?”

  She didn’t need to say anything else. I knew exactly who she was talking about.

  I downed the shot before answering. I hadn’t done a shot of Jager since the spring of our senior year, before I found out I was pregnant. “I’ve seen him.” Lifting the second shot, I conjured up a smile. “Why do you think I’m drinking at eleven in the morning?”

  It took all day for those shots to wear off and Rachel wouldn’t let me go until they had. She made me walk a line five different times before handing over my keys. Friends. It was crazy how years had passed and being with her felt like no time had gone by at all.

  Same crazy Rachel. Same brooding me.

  After making a quick stop at the ma-and-pop grocery store to pick up a few groceries, I found myself parked in front of Grandma’s house, still struggling to force myself through that front door. I didn’t think my apprehension resided in knowing it was where she’d died—but in having to confront what I’d missed. Yes, I’d seen her when she visited Chicago, but it wasn’t the same as me coming home.

  Regret. I supposed that was what I was scared was waiting for me inside. An endless stream of it, roping around me until I couldn’t breathe.

  Before I could chicken out for a second night in a row—not to mention that I’d gone without a shower for a good forty-eight hours—I wrestled my suitcase from the backseat, tucked my purse over my shoulder, and headed up the walkway. I didn’t balk when I made it to the front door, and I ignored the way my hand was trembling as I went to unlock it.

  Once the door was open, I took a breath and stepped inside.

  Home. Home.

  It was the last sensation I expected to feel and the first that came over me. I was home. Contrary to my fears, the air wasn’t stale with regret or shame. Instead, the faint lemon scent of Grandma’s cleaner lingered.

  As I moved around the house, flipping on lights and reacquainting myself with each room, I found myself experiencing the same feeling I’d had with Rachel earlier—as though no time had passed at all. I was still a part of this place, and a part of this place was tucked inside me.

  After every light was on on the first floor, I lugged my stuff up to the second floor, switching on lights as I went. I couldn’t make myself look inside Grandma’s room as I passed, choosing to keep that light untouched.

  When I made it to my old room, I found it in the same condition I’d left it after Canaan and I got married and I moved into the garage apartment with him. Grandma had kept my room for me back then because there were plenty of nights I found my way back to it after Canaan and I got into one of our infamous fights. Years later, she’d kept it ready just in case I needed it again.

  Some of the photos of my parents and a few special trinkets Grandma had packed up and brought to me in Chicago were missing, but nothing else was different. From the looks of how clean the room was, she’d kept up with the dusting and vacuuming during her regular Tuesday cleanings.

  Once I’d settled my bags at the foot of my old twin bed, I headed straight for the bathroom, peeling out of my dress. The moment I cranked on the shower, I stepped inside. The water took forever to get warm, with it being such an old house, but the cold water felt good breaking across my skin. It was the first time I’d felt comfortable since crossing into Missouri, and the chilly water served a double purpose in that it perked me right up for the long night ahead.

  The strawberry shampoo and conditioner I’d used religiously as a teen was still in the shower, so after giving my hair, along with my body, a good wash, I ducked out of the shower feeling like a new-ish woman.

  After throwing on a light pair of cotton shorts and a comfy tank, I gave my long inky hair a quick comb before heading downstairs. It was after nine, but I didn’t plan on going to sleep any time soon. If I tried, I’d only spend hours tossing and turning. My first night home, in the actual house I’d grown up in, I needed to keep busy.

  Tomorrow I had an appointment with Grandma’s lawyer to go over her will. She’d pretty much gone over it with me a few years ago, but I guessed the lawyer still needed to do an official reading. Grandma had left the house and everything in it to me. The thing was, she knew I didn’t want to move back to Missouri, so she’d given her blessing to list the house for sale when the time came.

  She was right. I didn’t want to move back here. But I wasn’t sure that meant I wanted to sell the house. Maybe one day, but now seemed like a bad time to make such a big decision. Whatever I decided, I knew I’d have to pack up some of the stuff inside. A house like this couldn’t sit vacant and hope not to be snooped around in or broken into. I’d pack up all of the valuables and put them in a storage unit until I figured out what to do with the house.

  That was my objective as I marched toward Grandma’s office in search of some packing tape. Except . . . packing tape wouldn’t do much good if I didn’t have any boxes or bubble wrap to use it on.

  I’d just decided to move everything I’d box up into the dining room so packing would go quickly tomorrow, once I’d picked up some boxes, when I heard the meaty sound of an engine rumble into the driveway. It only took me a moment to place the familiar sound. There might not have been a shortage of trucks in Farmington, but I’d only ever heard one that sounded like a pride of lions was growling beneath the hood.

  What is he doing here? At nine thirty at night no less.

  The spark of hope that he’d come around to sign the divorce papers fizzled out as quickly as it cropped up. Canaan was as stubborn as they came. There was no way he’d had a change of heart in twenty-four hours.

  A quick check out the window confirmed that it was Canaan’s truck out in the driveway. When he threw the driver’s door open, I ducked back from the window before he could see me. God knew what he’d say if he found me “spying” on him. No doubt he’d find some way to twist that around to make it seem like I was still madly in love with him.

  It was too late to turn off all the lights and pretend I wasn’t there. My car was parked out front and the house was so lit up it could probably be spotted in space.

  Since hiding wasn’t an option, I went with the opposite. Marching to the door, I threw it open, expecting to find him stomping up the front steps with a resolute smirk. Instead, he was leaning over the tailgate of his truck, his posture relaxed.

  “What are you doing here?” I crossed my arms a
nd stepped out onto the porch, getting right to it. We’d never been much for circling a topic, and this was no time to start.

  He didn’t jolt at the sound of my voice or check over his shoulder to make sure I wasn’t aiming a shotgun at his annoyingly perfect ass. “I’m dropping off some packing supplies. Figured you’d need them.”

  He had a stack of flat cardboard boxes in his arms as he approached. Instead of a resolute one, it was a knowing smirk he aimed my way.

  Another annoying thing about Canaan? He always seemed to be able to read my mind. A side effect of being inseparable.

  “I already got some.” I stepped aside when he started up the stairs, not missing the way his eyes inspected me.

  Something sparked in those gold eyes of his—a glimmer I remembered as both a warning and a promise of what he wanted to do to me. “Sure, you did. Because Lon’s Hardware, the only place in town that carries cardboard boxes, has been out of stock for two weeks, which means if a person wanted some, they were going to have to go to Jefferson City.” He winked at me as he passed by, daring me to go another round.

  I sealed my lips. As a teen, I might have been baited to enter a battle I would not win. As an adult, I was more keen to save my battles for those I had a chance of winning.

  Once he’d dropped off the boxes inside, he headed back to his truck.

  “Canaan,” I started, not sure where to go from there. It felt like there were a thousand ways to follow up that address—all of them equally important.

  “Bubble wrap and packing tape too.”

  “I have packing tape.”

  His eyes met mine as he made his second trip by me. “Now see that, you’re telling the truth about.”

  My eyes lifted as I followed him inside, trying to ignore the way his shirt tugged across his back and shoulders, making no attempt to hide the mass hiding beneath. “That’s right. I forgot you had a built-in lie detector.”

  “No problem. I forgive you.”

  “Sarcasm.”

  “Is honesty’s sneakier cousin.” When he heard my frustrated groan, he set the rest of the packing supplies down and turned around. He was grinning. Because this was such a fun game.