We swing in companionable silence for a long while, listening as a harmonica echoes from somewhere nearby. Someone else is out on their front porch, enjoying the lazy heat of the day.
Looking out over the front yard with its precisely trimmed grass and colorfully rioting flower beds, I let my eyes linger on the two live oak trees that stand at the front corners. I’ve always thought of them as grand, Southern ladies. Their gray hair drapes down to the ground in the form of Spanish moss.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I eventually get up the nerve to ask.
“What do you mean?” Auntie June tucks a wispy strand of stark white hair back into the bun on top of her head.
“To even consider letting myself fall for a second time? Cash refuses to admit what drove him away. So who’s to say the same thing won’t send him running again?”
She regards me thoughtfully before lifting one shoulder. “You know what they say. The heart wants what the heart wants.”
“Yeah.” I rub a finger over my tattoo, remembering all the times Cash touched me in this exact spot, remembering all the times he touched me inotherspots. He was the gentlest, most patient teacher. Too patient sometimes, especially since I was an eager learner. “But that brings me back to my original question. What if my heart is bat-crap crazy?”
She laughs, and it’s a wonderful sound. That of a woman a quarter of her age, all tinkling and bright. “Allhearts are bat-crap crazy, honey. It’s the nature of hearts.”
“But shouldn’t I be…” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Cautious?”
“Because you think being cautious will stop you from getting hurt again?”
“Well…” I spread my hands. “Yeah.”
She sighs and uses the toe of her black ballet flat to give the swing another push. The chains squeak rhythmically. An Acadian flycatcher, perched in the branches of the tree nearest us, answers back. Its tuneful call, a two-notepeet-seet, sounds upbeat and hopeful. Unlike my current mood.
“You know what I think?” Auntie June says after a while. “I think too many folks spend too much time building walls around themselves, trying to stay protected from all the shots this old world takes at them. But we were made to take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. And at the end of our lives…” She motions to herself. “You can take my word for this because, at eighty-three, I’m getting close to the end of mine. The only times you truly regret are the ones when youdidn’tthrow all your chips on the table.”
I smile at the gambling reference. “So you don’t regret Good Time Jack? Even though he left you penniless and dependent on Aunt Bea?”
A wistful sort of melancholy falls over her face. “Every minute I spent with that man was a miracle. He made me laugh. He made me sing. He danced with me in the kitchen every night after we put Jack Jr. and Danica to bed. And he’d have won back every red cent of what he lost at the card tables had the good Lord not seen fit to take him when He did. Jack was a good husband, a good provider, and a darn-tootin’ good father. And yeah, okay, so he liked to gamble.” She lifts her hands. “You learn to take the good with the bad. That’s marriage, honey. Don’t let anyone, especially those Disney movies, tell you different. It’s supposed to be hard. Without the hard times, the good times wouldn’t taste so sweet.”
I kiss her temple. The smell of baby powder and rose water makes me sentimental. “I love you, Auntie June. You know that, right?”
She pats my hand. “Hold that thought, honey. Your guests are arriving.”
I follow her line of sight and see Smurf crawling up the street in our direction. My mind is thrown back to the time Cash borrowed Luc’s truck to drop off a flip-book he made for me. The little token was kind of corny. Even my spongy teenage brain knew that. And looking at it assured me hedefinitelywouldn’t grow up to be an artist. But it was also incredibly sweet and ridiculously cute.
Only twenty pages long, it told our story. In fact, that was the title he wrote on the cover.The Story of Us. Stick figures—Cash drew his character with hearts for eyes—depicted the first time we met, and they tracked the progression of our relationship in the following pages along with a cute narrative written in word bubbles.
At first, I thought the book was uncharacteristic given Cash’s tough-guy persona. Something Luc would do, not Cash—and maybe Lucdidput him up to it initially. But the longer I knew Cash, the more I realized his tough-guy persona was meant for everyone but me. With me, he showed his softer side.
Which is another reason why I’ve never understood why he left the way he did. I thought I was special. I thought he felt comfortable telling me anything.
Obviously, I was wrong.
I was wrong, and yet I still have the flip-book.
No matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t make myself throw it away. Thumbing through it again this morning, I wondered if it’s possible that there are still pages to add inThe Story of Us.
“They’re early,” Auntie June observes.
I wince. “I may’ve told them this thing starts in ten minutes instead of forty.”
“Wanted them to yourself before the debs and all their accompanying chaos descends, did you?” She gives me a knowing glance.
“Not everyone coming today is a debutante. There are some matrons and matriarchs thrown into the mix.”
She snorts. “Former debs, each and every one. You think it’s wise to lay out this female smorgasbord for your fellas, seeing as how they’ve probably spent a good portion of the last ten years in a field tent with a bunch of hairy, smelly men?”
I grin. “I’m not worried about Cash. He can hold his own against the fairer sex. As for Luc, it might do him some good to be surrounded by a room full of beautiful women. He seems…” I search for the right word and come up with, “Lonely. Although he won’t admit it. He claims he’s enjoying the bachelor life.”
