And I remember it like it was yesterday.
I went to Logan’s house for dinner. His daddy was in a mean mood, and he’d had far too much to drink even though it was only six o’clock. Logan tried to stop me from coming over, but Mama insisted I had to so she and Daddy could have some “alone time.” Riley was at a friend’s for the night, and Ben and Free were sound asleep in their cribs. So I ate at Logan’s.
When he laughed at a joke I made about the hamburgers and which Wild cow was I eating tonight, his father lost it. Not at me but at his son.
He stood up, whipped his belt from his pants, and told Logan to come with him. Logan’s three brothers kept their heads down, and Mrs. Wild got so pale I swear she turned into a ghost.
I was terrified too, but I knew that if I hadn’t made that dumb joke, Logan wouldn’t be in danger. So I swallowed my fear and walked up to Mr. Wild, making sure to get in between him and Logan. “Excuse me, sir, but if you want to get to him, you’ll have to go through me first.”
Logan grabbed my elbow. “Macey, quit it. It’s my punishment, not yours.”
I pushed him away, but Logan reached for me and tried to put me behind him. So I stepped on his foot and he jumped, and then I got back in front. Logan grabbed me again and tickled my side until I squealed and he could move me behind him again.
Mr. Wild watched our exchange with glassy eyes until finally he said, “Oh, forget it! Y’all are like two fireflies darting around. Let’s just sit down and eat.” He put his belt back on, and that was it.
Logan took my hand underneath the table. Just for a second.
He walked me home later that night, and asked if I wanted to take a dip in the town lake.
Nobody was around, and I kept on my tank top and underwear. Logan wore his boxers, and we swam until it started raining.
“We’d better go,” I said. “It may thunder.”
“One more swing?” he asked as he climbed onto the rope hanging from the large oak tree.
“Okay.”
After he’d belly flopped in (why do boys do that—it seems so painful), I did my specialty. The flying-fish dive. I let go the rope looking like I was going to do a cannon ball, but at the last second, before I started dropping toward the water, I put my head down with my arms over my head and dove in.
As soon as my head popped up from under water, Logan swam over to me and pressed his mouth to mine.
His lips were wet from the lake, and his breath smelled like mint and chocolate from the ice cream his mama had served for dessert.
I tried to tread water and kiss him back, but I slid under again.
I bobbed back up to the surface and coughed and hacked while Logan patted my back and made sure I was okay.
I can still feel his lips on mine.
I stop reading and touch my fingers to my lips. All these years later, I remember that first time Logan put his mouth on mine—that magic of a young girl’s first kiss.
In an instant, my writer’s block disappears.
I open up my laptop to Ghost Love, delete the entire manuscript, and start over at page one.
44
When my mother steps inside The Cowherd an hour and a half later, I slam my laptop shut and shove the divorce papers underneath a dishtowel.
Mr. Bingley jumps up onto the bar, and as hard as I try to shoo him off the counter, he won’t budge. Figuring he’s decided to stand guard, I let him stay. My mother heads across the room and waves at me enthusiastically while two strange men trail in behind her.
Mama’s hair peeks out from underneath her “Jane Austen bonnet,” the red hat she always wears for auditions, and she has a bright green scarf tied loosely around her neck.
The two men—one with thick black-rimmed glasses, and a blond-haired younger guy—are wearing cowboy hats. As the one with glasses stops to look around the saloon for a moment, Mama pauses and looks with him.
“This place is hallowed ground,” he says in an awestruck tone as he scans the bar for a second time. “I can’t believe I made it here.”
Mama leads the two men up to the bar and they all take seats on the stools. She leans across the bar to give me a kiss, and I immediately wipe my cheek where I know her bright red lipstick’s left a mark. One reason I use chapstick. The Cowherd is dimly lit, but as usual, Mama keeps her shades on.
