“I’m so happy for you,” I say as they finally break apart.
“I’m so happy for me!” Merry Carole says, tears still streaming down her face.
“So, maybe invite Reed and his girls to our little barbecue,” I say, taking another bite of the mac ’n’ cheese. Cal leans back on the breakfast bar.
“What little barbecue?” Cal asks.
“We are not inviting those little girls over here so you can serve them murderer meat,” Merry Carole says, pulling a glass from the cupboard.
“Murderer meat?” Cal and I break into hysterics.
“You know what I mean,” Merry Carole says, pouring herself some water.
“Honey, they don’t have to know who some of the meat is being cooked for. We’ll grill hamburgers and hot dogs while the murderer meat smokes away,” I say. Merry Carole is thinking. Cal and I wait.
“Fine. This might be a good thing. Have everyone together,” Merry Carole says, looking at Cal. He smiles, but he’s still mulling this over.
“I’m off to bed. Early day tomorrow . . . oh wait. Do I . . . do I tell Coach Blanchard I know? Do I still call him Coach Blanchard? Or . . . Reed? Or Mr. Blanchard? . . . Or . . . ” Cal trails off, not daring to suggest he call Reed Dad.
“I’ll let him know you know, sweetie. You can ask him about it if you want. We’ll do it together,” Merry Carole says.
“I think I can talk to him about it,” Cal says.
“We can talk to him together, if you want,” Merry Carole says.
“No, ma’am. I think I want to do it on my own,” Cal says.
“Okay,” Merry Carole says, walking over to him and putting her arm around his shoulder.
“Night night. Aunt Queenie, see you tomorrow morning for our run? West is meeting us at the bottom of the hill. So be ready,” Cal says.
“Yes, sir,” I say, already tired. Cal gives Merry Carole one last hug and walks into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Merry Carole walks back into the kitchen. I just stare at her.
“What?” Merry Carole says, opening up another cupboard. This time she pulls out something a bit harder than water. Bourbon.
“I will refrain from saying I told you so about Cal knowing far more than you give him credit for because I have to ask— how long have you been holding on to that?” I ask, gladly getting out two glasses for us.
“Days. It’s been terrible.”
“Terrible?” I ask. Merry Carole pours us each a glass and we clink glasses before drinking. I lean back against the counter.
“I just saw this—” Merry Carole starts crying again. She pulls her hankie out of her robe pocket and wipes her nose. She continues, “I just didn’t think I got to be happy.” Her body shakes as she cries, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh sweetie,” I say, pulling her in for a hug.
We hold each other in that kitchen for minutes, hours . . . who knows? We hold each other because maybe we finally believe that even we get to be happy.
And it feels terrifying.
22
One Dairy Queen double-dip swirl
Cal is quiet the next morning as we get ready to go on our run. I start a thousand conversations with him to which I get only one-word answers. Even though he’ll quicken the pace, I’m thankful West will be joining us. Maybe he’ll get Cal to talk. I slept like shit last night, tossing and turning. The meal. Those damn Starburst still sitting in my car. Hudson. Everett. And then I thought about Merry Carole and Reed and felt cautiously happy again.
Cal’s quietly stretching and I’m loudly pinwheeling just outside Merry Carole’s salon.
“You’re going to have to talk to me, you know. I’ll wear you down. See, people around here never talk about anything and that’s kind of one of the reasons I left because I looooove to ta—”
“Aunt Queenie, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my leg up behind me. We are quiet again. I can’t stand it. I launch in again, “Are you scared? Do you think it’s going to change stuff? I mean, what are you thinking?” I stand over him arms akimbo, brow impossibly furrowed, demanding that this poor fifteen-year-old boy talk about his feelings before it’s even dawn. What kind of monster am I?
“It’s just weird is all,” Cal says, fiddling with his watch.
“Weird how?”
“It’s like when you see one of your teachers in the grocery store, you know? You don’t recognize them when they’re not in their place. And it’s not good or bad or scary or any of that, it’s just . . . ” Cal trails off. He shrugs.
“Different,” I finish.
“Yeah. I mean, are we gonna live with them? Are they gonna live with us? Are those two little girls my sisters now? Are they going to mess with my stuff? And—” Cal stops. Abruptly. He puts his hands on his hips and looks off into the early morning quiet.
“What?”
“I just never had a dad before,” Cal says, looking back at me. He continues, “But what if I don’t . . . what if I don’t do it right, you know?” Cal asks.
“Do what right, baby?” I ask, not moving too quickly to comfort him. I don’t want to spook him.
“You know, be a son or whatever,” Cal says.
“Honey, anyone would be proud to call you his son,” I say, trying to keep it together.
“My real dad wasn’t even proud to call me his son until I could throw a football. I mean, Wes is all right now—he’s cool enough. But what if Coach Blanchard is the same? I mean, what if I get injured? What if I don’t get into UT on a football scholarship? Will they . . . will they still care?”
“Honey, grown-ups can be just as screwed up as kids,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” Cal says, laughing.
“And your daddy loves you, it was just complicated in the beginning,” I say.
“Complicated,” Cal repeats.
“I know that sounds like a cop-out and I’m certainly not going to make excuses for Wes McKay, but—”
“But what?”
“This is going to work out, Cal. Things work out sometimes. And you’re one of the good guys,” I say.
“You know how you just—I don’t know.” Cal fidgets with his watch again.
“What?”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up is all.” Cal looks right at me. As pointedly as a fifteen-year-old boy can. Those clear blue eyes could cut through bone. I take a deep breath as I hear my exact words propelled back at me.
“It’s okay to hope,” I say. Cal’s face softens. He looks down at the ground. Blond bangs falling into his eyes, chin resting on his chest, Cal allows himself the smallest, most private smile. From ear to ear. He looks up at me, his eyes damp and his jaw tensing and nods. I watch him as he lets the idea of hope wash over him. He sniffles, swipes at his eyes. He takes a deep breath, seeming to shake off the previous conversation.
“You ready?” Cal asks, beeping his watch. He sniffles again.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling.
Right on the outskirts of town, West is waiting for us. He’s pulling one of his legs back in a stretch and when he sees us he begins hopping in place, wriggling his arms around. As if he’s going to launch himself into outer space. I’m screwwwwwwed.
“You’re going to need to lower your expectations of today’s run, sweetheart,” I say as we approach this jumping bean of a boy. West just laughs and the two boys grunt an early morning hello to each other. West falls in with us as we leave the residential area and head into the hills just beyond North Star.
The early morning haze covers the ground as we climb the hill leading up to Paragon. My stomach is tied in knots at the thought of seeing Everett and Arrow meandering along on their morning walk. As our syncopated footfalls carry us up up up, I think about the numbness I felt when I was gone. Shutting down is easier than this. Long looks and proclamations of love only to say, “Okay, catch you later . . .” Who does that? Now it seems so endlessly masochistic with a nice twist of stupidity.
&nb
sp; We break the rise of the hill and Paragon Ranch comes into sight. I can see Everett and Arrow walking toward the road. I actually do need a bit of time to rest. West’s pace is almost double what Cal and I usually do. Yeah. That’s why I’m stopping.
“Can we take a second?” I ask, lurching over to put my hands on my knees and catch my breath. West and Cal slow to a stop. Cal is used to it and walks over to the low fence and he and West start doing push-ups. Everett and Arrow amble over to the fence. Everett’s cowboy hat is shielding his eyes from the morning sun, but even with that his right eye is crinkling up with that crooked smile.
“I’m dying,” I wheeze.
“The key is to walk with an aging dog and not try to run with two of North Star’s top athletes,” Everett says, hitching his leg up onto the lower plank of the fence.
“I’m seriously going to have a heart attack,” I say. Arrow flops onto the ground. Bored with standing, clearly.
“Is that the Ackerman boy?”
“You mean the ‘Ackerman’ boy,” I say, putting giant air quotes around Ackerman.
“Wow, they just look embarrassingly alike, don’t they,” Everett says, shaking his head.
“He’s a sweet kid, though, astonishingly,” I say.
“Yeah, how’d that happen?” Everett says.
“That’s what I said,” I say, finally starting to catch my breath.
Cal and West walk over to where Everett and I are.
“Mr. Coburn,” Cal says, extending his hand.
“How’re you doing, son?” Everett says, taking his hand and shaking it.
“We’re just waiting around for Aunt Queenie here,” Cal says.
“I’m dying,” I say.
“Everett Coburn,” Everett says, extending his hand to West.
“West Ackerman,” West says, shaking Everett’s hand.
“You guys are going to have quite the season,” Everett says.
“Didn’t you play football?” Cal asks.
“I did, but I wasn’t as good as you guys. I always had to work harder. You know how there’s always one kid on the team who’s not quiiiite as good as everyone else, but the coach keeps him around because he’s ‘got heart’?” Everett puts air quotes around the words “got heart.”
“Oh definitely,” the boys say in unison.
“That was me,” Everett says.
“We have one of those this year, too,” West says, without irony.
“You ready, Aunt Queenie?” Cal asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, trying to stand up straight.
“It’s all downhill anyway,” West says.
“See you at the opener,” Everett says.
“Yes, sir,” the boys say in unison.
We say our good-byes and begin running down the hill and away from Everett and Arrow, who has yet to get up. I can hear Everett trying to convince him to get a move on. The old dog isn’t buying it.
After I shower I head up to the salon clutching my cup of coffee. I open the front doors to find Merry Carole standing nose to nose with Whitney McKay. It’s odd seeing Whitney so soon after leaving West. Once again, we’re all shocked that he’s such a good kid given his . . . origins. Dee and Fawn are begging the pair to back off and take it easy. I set my coffee cup down quickly and jump into the center of the two women and push them apart.
“That’s enough,” I say. Whitney jerks forward like she’s going to make some last-minute jab at Merry Carole. “I won’t hesitate to punch you in the face, Whitney. You know I’ll do it, so govern yourself accordingly.” I wave her off as she backs away immediately. “Now what’s going on in here?”
“This bitch told me that my ring was a cubic zirconia piece of trash that Reed bought just so he could . . . I can’t even say it!” Merry Carole is fuming. “I wasn’t even supposed to be wearing it . . . I was just showing it to Dee and Fawn,” Merry Carole says.
“Why didn’t you just throw her ass out?” I ask, as if Whitney isn’t in the room.
“It just kind of got away from them,” Dee says, stepping into the fray.
“I was just repeating what I heard, Merry Carole,” Whitney says.
“It’s a lie and you know it. Right? You know it’s not true. Whitney?” I ask, stepping forward. This has gone on long enough.
“I don’t—”
“You didn’t hear anything of the kind. So what’s this all about then? And trust me, your minions aren’t here and you’re outnumbered. We are not above locking you in this salon until you talk,” I say, motioning for Fawn to lock the salon door.
“You can’t lock me in,” Whitney says.
“You’re the one who started this fight, it’s not our fault if we have to finish it,” I say. Merry Carole pulls her hankie from her apron pocket. She dabs at her mascara as she waits for Whitney to speak. I sigh. I shift my weight as Whitney’s eyes dart around the room. “The truth shall set you free, Whitney.” My twang is deep and thick. The clichéd words have the desired effect. Whitney rolls her eyes and lets loose with the smallest scoffing laugh. I step forward. She flinches.
“Fine. Fine,” Whitney says, poufing out her hair just so. I turn around and realize that she’s looking at herself in the mirror like a three-year-old.
“Um . . . Whitney? Yeah, we all know why you pick on Merry Carole, so . . . this will be one of those teaching moments where this is more about you learning how to talk about your feelings than actually enlightening any of us,” I say.
“Oh, y’all know why I pick on Merry Carole?”
“Yes,” we all say in unison.
“Well, then, why do I have to say it? I mean, can I at least have some coffee or something?” Whitney says, looking around the salon desperately, as if she’s crawled through the desert for a week without a drink. Dee just sighs and walks back to the kitchenette.
“But don’t say nothing till I get back,” Dee says, calling out from the kitchenette. We all stand in silence. Whitney studies her fingernails and I settle into one of the salon chairs. I catch Merry Carole looking at her engagement ring.
“Hurry up, Dee,” Fawn yells back to the kitchenette.
“All right, all right. I’m coming,” Dee says, presenting Whitney with a mug of steaming coffee.
“Bless your heart, thank you so much,” Whitney says, settling onto the bench by the hair dryers in the middle of the salon.
“Our first client is in thirty minutes, Whitney. So . . . ,” Merry Carole says.
“Fine. Merry Carole was always so pretty. And then when she and Wes had their whole thing, well, it just did me in,” Whitney says, not looking at anyone.
“And?” I urge.
“And nothing,” Whitney says.
We wait.
“Honey, we all know,” I say.
“You all know about what?” Whitney asks, her face draining of all color.
“West is an amazing kid, you know,” I say.
“I know,” Whitney says, her voice cracking. Whitney’s entire demeanor changes and she just melts at the mention of West.
“Does he know?” Merry Carole asks, stepping forward.
“My parents won’t let me tell him,” Whitney says.
“Do you have to do everything your parents tell you to do?” Fawn asks.
“Well, yes,” Whitney says, pulling a hankie from her purse and dabbing at her mascara with it.
“You’re a grown woman, Whitney,” Dee says.
“I know that. I just don’t want to scare him or freak him out after these years of him thinking I’m his older sister.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t suspect anything?” I ask.
“I’ve come to find out that people know a lot more than you think they do,” Merry Carole adds, Cal’s nonchalant admission to knowing of her and Reed’s relationship still thick in the air.
“But that’s not really true, is it? I mean, look at poor Laurel,” Whitney says, accompanied by a cartoonish reaction that wishes she could scoop all of those words back up and shov
e them right down her throat.
“What about poor Laurel?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Oh, you know,” Whitney says, blowing on her coffee. “This has three sugars in it, right, Dee?” Dee rolls her eyes and nods that it does. “Bless your heart.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. What about poor Laurel?” I ask.
“You mean about her marriage to Everett?” Merry Carole prompts.
“Why they never had kids?” Fawn fishes.
“Well, yeah . . . I mean, Arabella did a real number on Everett after Felix had that little scare,” Whitney says.
“What little scare?” I ask, trying not to sound too anxious.
“He had a stent or a shunt or something . . . something with an a?”
“An angioplasty?” Dee asks.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“What does that have to do with them getting married?” Merry Carole asks.
“Arabella all but blamed Everett. Said Felix was worried that if something happened to him, there’d be nobody to take his place.”
“Why did Everett need to be married to take over Paragon?” Dee asks.
“They’re horse breeders. All they do is think about pedigree and bloodlines. And Arabella was worried about Everett not marrying the right kind of woman. No offense,” Whitney says.
“None taken,” I say.
“I remember Momma telling me that Arabella went the whole nine. Made a big show of it. She took Everett down to the hospital, and with Felix lying in the bed, all the tubes and cables or whatever hanging all over him, she begged Everett to do the right thing so Felix could . . . well, she basically said so Felix could get better . . . so that he wouldn’t die. What would you have done?”
“I would have married Laurel,” I say. We all stand there staring at Whitney. Maybe this town can keep a secret after all. Well, until Whitney gets hold of it anyway.
“See? You guys don’t know everything,” Whitney says.
“Obviously,” I say, barely able to speak.
“Whitney, don’t you think West deserves to hear it from you?” Merry Carole asks.
“Hear what?” Whitney asks. We all just stand there. “Oh. That,” she says, deflating.