"Do I look like ama'am?" She scrunches her nose on the word, as if it tastes like black licorice.
My stomach lurches, dropping somewhere around my knees. My heart? I don't know what that bastard has going on in my chest, but it's not doing its job. The beats are erratic, sucker punching my breast bone.
Run.Get away from her.
Ok, wait. No. I'm not a runner. I do not flee. I'm a Navy SEAL.The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart from others.
A single line in an otherwise long creed, but a promise I've issued to myself and others. Even if I now have to talk about being a SEAL in past tense, using words likeformer, it remains deep in the center of my bones.
I will not run. I will face tough shit head-on, and right now, Daisy St. James is tough shit.
God Almighty, this girl is stunning. A showstopper.
She snaps her fingers in front my face, because yes, I'm openly staring at her. "Hello?"
I nearly groan in relief.
That sass, coming from that mouth, is tattooed on my heart. I could be blindfolded and wearing noise-canceling headphones, but still feel its tenor in my chest.
Daisy!My heart bellows and trips, misbehaving and beating against my sternum like a coked out squirrel. It takes every ounce of everything I have in me not to blurt out something astoundingly stupid, namelyIt's me, Penn.
She was always beautiful, even running around with me when we were kids. Daisy St. James never met an awkward phase like us other mere mortals. But now? This? I have to assume other women secretly hate her, because she's a one hundred on a scale of one to ten. Cheeks flushed, mouth pink like a rose and budded like one, too.
Daisy!Her name balances on the tip of my tongue. I came to town with the intention to hide my identity, accomplish what I came here for, then get the hell out of Dodge. But running into Daisy on day one, hour one must mean something, right? The exceptions and caveats and excuses trip through me, accompanied by the sting of adrenaline. What if I?—
Dumb. Ass. Listen to me, talking foolish.
The only person who is supposed to know I'm here is Hugo. And there are good reasons for that. Reasons I can't forget just because fate pulled a cunty little move and made Daisy the first person I saw upon my return to Olive Township.
Setting aside the pain from having just died a little inside, I clasp my hands behind my back, rocking on my heels. "My apologies,miss."
Daisy takes me in for a long moment, and a heat steals up my neck. Does she recognize me? Feel an inexplicable but immediate connection?
Do I want her to? My ego screams yes, but the rational part of my brain bitchslaps my ego, putting it in check.
It would be nice though, if that were to happen. If Daisy knew it was me, said my name, identified me as that boy who left town fifteen years ago, I wouldn't have to lie, wouldn't even get the chance to. I can't deny there is a part of me that wishes she would, saving me from going down a road I know is fraught with peril, but feels like my only choice.
Of all the emotion swimming in Daisy's beautiful brown eyes, none of them consist of recognition.
She squares her shoulders, pulling herself up as if there is a string inside her leading out through the top of her head, and someone has plucked at it. The indignation in her expression recedes, replaced with careful patience.
Um. What? That's...bizarre. And off-putting, if I'm being honest. And not AT ALL how I remember her.
The carnation pink sequined dress she wears catches rays of the darkening sunshine. She curls a strand of hair behind one ear, revealing a small gold hoop studded with diamonds.
Heels hooked on two fingers from the same hand, she says in this detached and nauseatingly polite tone, "Please excuse my outburst. Events, such as these"—she pauses to motion smoothly behind her, I'm assuming to whatever it is people are gathered for—"can be very emotional, and sometimes get the better of people. You caught me in a rare low moment."
Honestly, I'm proud to be reining in my upper lip muscle that is fighting to curl. Why is Daisy talking like this? Who the hell cares if she has an outburst?
Two totally different emotions are at war inside me. Part of me is in shock. Daisy is standing in front of me in thisvery moment.It's her! It's really her!Another part of me is confounded that this is the same girl I once knew. A smaller part of me is angry this woman is standing in front of me explaining and apologizing for having typical human emotions. Who made her feel like she needs to do that?
"You don't have to worry about me," I tell her, slipping my hands in my back pocket and rocking up onto the balls of my feet. "I'm an old friend of Hugo's. You can take that rare low moment you're having and sink into it a little deeper if you want. Kick, cry, scream, curse the world. Won't bother me."
She lets out a little breath, her shoulders lowering an inch. She nods, the tip of her tongue slipping out to dab at the center of her top lip like she's considering. I'm doing some considering myself, and it mostly consists of trying to reconcile this woman with the girl who would regularly stand up for me in the classroom when math didn't make sense to me. It's not the prim and proper behavior that's rankling me. More like the way she swallows down how she feels. I'm not saying we have to give in to every emotion we have, but is it a good idea to bury them?
"Well, friend of Hugo," she turns, walking in the direction she was going before her shoes slid into the earth. She's a few inches shorter now, thanks to the loss of those shoes.
I follow after her. It's clear that's what she expects of me. Daisy St. James was used to being watched, and followed. It appears she still is. She reaches the end of the small yard, stopping just before the beginning of the grove, where two Adirondack chairs have been placed on the far side of an electric fire pit. She settles into one, her pink dress inching up her smooth thighs, and looks up at me.
