Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scarlett
He didn’t look at me the same. Nor did he touch me as much. After our time on Snow, a clear and thin battle line had been drawn between us. He had his side. I had mine.
In the beginning I had been intent on destroying the line, of crossing it whenever and however I liked, but it takes two to create peace.
I tried everything in my arsenal to sway his resolve—dancing, flirting, humor, sulking, anger—but nothing seemed to touch him. He was not outwardly cruel, but the aloofness that hovered became a wet blanket over a fire. Smothering. He still touched and kissed and hugged me—more hugs than anything—but it always seemed more platonic than romantic.
I tried a different tact.
I went the other way, forcing myself into self-imposed misery by acting just as aloof as he was. He noticed this, and a few times he almost gave in to my need, close tothisagain, but he always pulled away, not even an excuse to soften the blow.
Then my aloofness seemed to turn his aloofness into anger. It was never directed at me, but he was irritable, always just an inch closer to blowing some unseen gasket. The war between us seemed to be nonexistent to him. His war came from an internal conflict.
Once all tactics had failed, we found ourselves in a valley. No place to go but either left or right. Forward or behind. Together or apart.
Unbeknownst to him, I had already made my mind up. I was not leaving. I had a plan. That plan included local college, teaching, and above all else, Brando Fausti in my life for always. He would just have to get over his effing convictions.
Instead of dwelling on love, or the lack thereof, I dwelled on Maggie Beautiful’s reading extravaganza.
We were now nearing the end of spring, and she was reading like a pro. I surprised her with balloons, quotes from her favorite authors and some actors and actresses, and a certificate that I printed out for her to frame and hang, if she wanted to.
I hung the quotes around her house, and her final exam was to read them aloud. Then we were to celebrate.
The celebration had commenced.
Brando had been working more hours, so it seemed like I was spending more and more time with Maggie Beautiful. She made me feel good about life. As she had once said, to laughter and applause from Violet and me afterwards,we were tight.
A cheeky grin came to my face when I looked down. Part of the celebration included me gussied up and in one of her showgirl outfits. Red sequined, feather topped, and a bit tipsy on bourbon.
Instead of spiked hot chocolate, we started spiking our punch during warmer days. This time, I was in charge of a new bowl. I felt like a rebel without a cause every time I did.
It seemed Maggie Beautiful was out of bourbon, so I used rum instead. It smelled of exotic beaches and sunshine, so I took a few deep gulps, went to put it back, but decided on a few more. Some of Maggie Beautiful’s cabinets, the ones she hid her contraband in, required a step stool to reach.
The small ladder shimmied underfoot. I steadied myself with a hand against the counter, about to put the bottle in the back of the cabinet where it was housed, when I was swept backwards, my arms automatically coming to find one strong arm wrapped around my waist like a vise. The rum exploded on the floor; fumes of the tropical drink blossomed in the air.
“Hey!” I slapped at the arm. “Put me down!”
“Yeah,” Brando said, ignoring my attempts at freedom. “No.”
“Brando! What are you doing? Put me down!”
He ignored me, carrying me into the front room as if I weighed no more than five pounds, and then set me down in front of the sofa. I stumbled back a bit, the bourbon and rum starting to course through my veins, and something else, anger.
He paced between the kitchen table and me. Each time he did a whiff of oil, sweat, and beer meandered in the air. His work clothes still clung to him, stained with black patches and soaked with perspiration.
“Scarlett Gorgeous, look what I found—” Maggie Beautiful stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from me to her son. She had a book clutched in her hands. She frowned. “What are you doing here?”
He stopped pacing, facing the both of us, eyes ablaze.
“What did you call her?” He whispered the words, but he might as well have shouted them.
“It doesn’t matter,” Maggie Beautiful whispered, clutching the book to her chest.
“Yes it does!” I piped up. “She called me Scarlett Gorgeous. That’s her nickname for me.”
“Is that so?” He took measured steps, stopped when he was face to face with me. He leaned in and sniffed my mouth. “What did you give her?”
