“He teaches at the high school. Chemistry or such . . . He’s a smart man. And talented—only been there this past year and he’s already assistant football coach. When that Dallas Henry gets booted from the head coachin’ position, I imagine JD’ll take his place.”
Mmm . . . old Sausage Link is coaching football at the same school where he used to be the jock-strap collector. There’s irony for you.
Nana eyes my hand as it rubs the bottle of bourbon, like a genie might spring out of it.
“What else?” I push.
She sighs, mulling it over. “His daddy passed on a few months ago. JD sold their farm and is havin’ a great big house built, brand new, in that fancy development out on 529. That’s where he’s takin’ Jenny to live . . . and Presley.”
My boot hits the porch with an angry thud. Over my dead fucking body.
Nana reads me well. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. You got no one to blame but yerself.” She folds her arms and straightens with a haughty sniff. “You’re not a bad daddy, I’ll give ya that much. But . . . Jenny needs a man . . . a man who’s here.”
“I am here,” I tell her softly.
“Humph. And from what I hear told, you’re not alone. Brought a pretty little city girl with ya. A La-tina.”
Jenny’s mother’s voice hollers from inside the house, proving once again that a small town is a lot like the Mafia—ears everywhere.
“Momma! Be nice.”
Nana gives as good as she gets. “Don’t you tell me how to be!” Then she offers me a pearl of wisdom. “One good thing about dyin’—you don’t need to be nice to no one.”
Oh yeah—Nana’s dying. For as long as I can remember. She’s just taking her time actually getting to the dead part.
“I did bring someone,” I confess. “A friend—Sofia. You two will get on real well—she doesn’t suffer fools any more than you do.”
I tap the bottle of Maker’s Mark with my finger. “Now tell me somethin’ . . . uncommon about JD. Somethin’ the whole town’s not privy to.”
She looks at me thirstily. And admits, “Well . . . he don’t drink much. Can’t hold his liquor. But I don’t think that’s a bad quality in a man—nobody likes a drunk.”
That’s interesting.
“Anything else?” I nudge.
She strains her memory for a moment. “Oh—he’s allergic to peppers. His face blows up like an overfed tick if he tastes just one.”
And that’s even more interesting.
Satisfied, I hold the bottle of bourbon out to Nana, keeping my hand low, out of the view of the window behind us just in case Jenny’s momma is looking. She snatches it from me like a spoiled child takes candy, slipping it under the blanket across her lap.
Jenny steps outside, dressed in cutoff denim shorts and a simple white T-shirt, as toned and fresh faced as she was at eighteen. I may be pissed at her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s sexy as hell, and sweet, and . . . I’ve missed her.
“Ready?” she asks.
I stand and tip my hat to Nana. “Always a pleasure, ma’am.”
Her only farewell is a frown.
Jenny walks to her grandma and kisses her cheek. Then I hear her whisper, “Don’t let Momma smell that bourbon on your breath. She’ll send you to bed without supper.”
Nana cackles and taps Jenn’s cheek with love.
We walk toward the truck, but pause at the bottom of the porch steps when Jenny’s momma comes out. Despite the deep laugh and worry lines that wrinkle June Monroe’s face, she’s a good-looking woman—attractively full figured, long blond hair with streaks of silver.
She gives me a tight, forced smile. “Stanton. You’re lookin’ well.”
“Thanks, June. It’s good to be home.”
June doesn’t hate me as much as her mother does, but I wouldn’t say she particularly likes me either. Unlike Wayne, Jenn’s daddy—I’ve always been the son he never had. But I doubt either one is thrilled to have me back, disrupting the grand wedding plans. Ruby still lives with her parents too—five kids and counting—so I imagine the Monroes would be happy to have at least one of their daughters married off and out of the house.
“Jenny,” her mother says, high pitched with warning, “we have the dress fittin’ this afternoon. Can’t be late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before Presley gets home from practice.”
I hold the truck door open. Shutting it behind Jenn, I climb into the driver’s seat and we head to the river.
• • •
On the drive, I go over in my head what I’m going to say, like I do the night before a closing argument. Jenny sits on the plaid blanket, cross-legged, while I stand, thinking better on my feet, both of us holding open cans of beer.
“You could’ve sprung for bottles,” Jenn says, squinting at the can in her hand.
“I was being nostalgic.”
She lifts her shoulder. “Nostalgia tastes better from a bottle.”
She turns her face, catching the sun, and I spot her freckles, scattered across the bridge of her nose, along her cheeks, so tiny and pale they can only be seen when the light is just right. And it feels like yesterday that I was counting them, here, after a long swim and an even longer screw, while she was asleep, covered in nothing but my shadow.
Mmm . . . old Sausage Link is coaching football at the same school where he used to be the jock-strap collector. There’s irony for you.
Nana eyes my hand as it rubs the bottle of bourbon, like a genie might spring out of it.
“What else?” I push.
She sighs, mulling it over. “His daddy passed on a few months ago. JD sold their farm and is havin’ a great big house built, brand new, in that fancy development out on 529. That’s where he’s takin’ Jenny to live . . . and Presley.”
My boot hits the porch with an angry thud. Over my dead fucking body.
Nana reads me well. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. You got no one to blame but yerself.” She folds her arms and straightens with a haughty sniff. “You’re not a bad daddy, I’ll give ya that much. But . . . Jenny needs a man . . . a man who’s here.”
“I am here,” I tell her softly.
“Humph. And from what I hear told, you’re not alone. Brought a pretty little city girl with ya. A La-tina.”
Jenny’s mother’s voice hollers from inside the house, proving once again that a small town is a lot like the Mafia—ears everywhere.
“Momma! Be nice.”
Nana gives as good as she gets. “Don’t you tell me how to be!” Then she offers me a pearl of wisdom. “One good thing about dyin’—you don’t need to be nice to no one.”
Oh yeah—Nana’s dying. For as long as I can remember. She’s just taking her time actually getting to the dead part.
“I did bring someone,” I confess. “A friend—Sofia. You two will get on real well—she doesn’t suffer fools any more than you do.”
I tap the bottle of Maker’s Mark with my finger. “Now tell me somethin’ . . . uncommon about JD. Somethin’ the whole town’s not privy to.”
She looks at me thirstily. And admits, “Well . . . he don’t drink much. Can’t hold his liquor. But I don’t think that’s a bad quality in a man—nobody likes a drunk.”
That’s interesting.
“Anything else?” I nudge.
She strains her memory for a moment. “Oh—he’s allergic to peppers. His face blows up like an overfed tick if he tastes just one.”
And that’s even more interesting.
Satisfied, I hold the bottle of bourbon out to Nana, keeping my hand low, out of the view of the window behind us just in case Jenny’s momma is looking. She snatches it from me like a spoiled child takes candy, slipping it under the blanket across her lap.
Jenny steps outside, dressed in cutoff denim shorts and a simple white T-shirt, as toned and fresh faced as she was at eighteen. I may be pissed at her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s sexy as hell, and sweet, and . . . I’ve missed her.
“Ready?” she asks.
I stand and tip my hat to Nana. “Always a pleasure, ma’am.”
Her only farewell is a frown.
Jenny walks to her grandma and kisses her cheek. Then I hear her whisper, “Don’t let Momma smell that bourbon on your breath. She’ll send you to bed without supper.”
Nana cackles and taps Jenn’s cheek with love.
We walk toward the truck, but pause at the bottom of the porch steps when Jenny’s momma comes out. Despite the deep laugh and worry lines that wrinkle June Monroe’s face, she’s a good-looking woman—attractively full figured, long blond hair with streaks of silver.
She gives me a tight, forced smile. “Stanton. You’re lookin’ well.”
“Thanks, June. It’s good to be home.”
June doesn’t hate me as much as her mother does, but I wouldn’t say she particularly likes me either. Unlike Wayne, Jenn’s daddy—I’ve always been the son he never had. But I doubt either one is thrilled to have me back, disrupting the grand wedding plans. Ruby still lives with her parents too—five kids and counting—so I imagine the Monroes would be happy to have at least one of their daughters married off and out of the house.
“Jenny,” her mother says, high pitched with warning, “we have the dress fittin’ this afternoon. Can’t be late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before Presley gets home from practice.”
I hold the truck door open. Shutting it behind Jenn, I climb into the driver’s seat and we head to the river.
• • •
On the drive, I go over in my head what I’m going to say, like I do the night before a closing argument. Jenny sits on the plaid blanket, cross-legged, while I stand, thinking better on my feet, both of us holding open cans of beer.
“You could’ve sprung for bottles,” Jenn says, squinting at the can in her hand.
“I was being nostalgic.”
She lifts her shoulder. “Nostalgia tastes better from a bottle.”
She turns her face, catching the sun, and I spot her freckles, scattered across the bridge of her nose, along her cheeks, so tiny and pale they can only be seen when the light is just right. And it feels like yesterday that I was counting them, here, after a long swim and an even longer screw, while she was asleep, covered in nothing but my shadow.
