I wanted to believe them. If I could trust anyone to keep our secret through Nana’s three month deadline so I could make a decision without the weight of the pub over my head, it was these three.
“Thank you.” I wiped my eyes and took a step back. “I’m going to take the money for the weekly deposit over to the bank. I’ll be back by the time we open.”
Unlike most towns, the bank in Clover Hill opened early. They understood that some smaller businesses, like ours, needed an extra hour early or late to do business, and they gave us a chance. I’d never thought about the value in that while living in Boston. I saw the convenience of everything else, but not businesses looking out for each other.
The morning air bit my cheeks when I stepped outside. March in New England changed its mind like a child in a toy store. From snowed in to birds singing to whatever the hell today was with its crisp air and hopeful scent of fresh flowers.
I dragged in several breaths to clear my head and rounded the corner toward the small parking lot behind the pub where I kept Mom’s old Honda.
An unfamiliar sight froze me in my tracks. My purse slipped from my shoulder, dropping to the pavement with a dull thud.
Lucky Charms covered the car’s hood by the thousands. They’d spilled across the faded blue paint in a sticky, colorful mess.
The sun must have hit them already, because the marshmallows streaked in a long, gooey mess.
Mom’s car. The car she’d driven me to school in, the one I’d inherited after she died and couldn’t bear to sell even though it was old and unreliable. Because it smelled like her.
Someone had defaced it with fucking Lucky Charms.
My throat closed, my vision blurring.
I walked forward on shaky legs, pinched one of the marshmallows between my nails, and pulled. Paint came up with it.
A chunk of blue paint the size of my palm peeled off of the hood, revealing the primer underneath.
The sound of my own sobs ricocheted off the rear of the pub and came back to me. I pulled off another marshmallow, taking off more paint. Stop, Bree. Stop. I was making it worse. I always made it worse.
Long, gasping sobs shook my entire body. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle them, but they refused to stop or to slow. Tears streaked down my face, oblitering my vision.
“Bree?” Declan’s voice reached me an instant before his arms wrapped around me. Safe. He made me feel safe. “Jesus. Who the fuck would do this?”
I turned in his arms and buried my face in his chest. My sobs turned into wails that poured from the deepest parts of my hurt. It no longer mattered if the whole town saw me in Declan’s arms. He was the only thing keeping me sane. All the stress of the past few months, the whispers and judgment, combined with my grief and came out in one ugly rush.
Declan tightened his hold, one hand cradling the back of my neck while the other pressed against my spine. He anchored me, his voice a lullaby that let me grieve. “I’ve got you.” His chest vibrated through my ear. “I’ve got you, honey.”
My chest caved in with every sob. “Mom’s car.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of my head. “I know.”
He understood. Of course he did. He’d known Mom, and he’d seen me drive her car since coming back. He’d probably seen me lingering inside, my face in the seat as I breathed in the faint fragrance of her perfume.
“I tried to clean it, but the paint–” I broke off with another sob.
“We’ll fix it. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.” He stroked my hair. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
There was no way to repair it without painting the entire hood, and that cost money I didn’t have. All the extra money Nana left me went into the renovations.
Even if I could afford it, it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the original paint I’d helped her wash as a kid.
“Who would do this?” My voice cracked, but my sobs relented enough to let me breathe.
Declan’s jaw clenched on top of my head. “I don’t know.”
I did. The thought hammered home so fast I lost my breath again. Bethany. She’d given me a box of Lucky Charms and had been passive-aggressive every time she stood close enough for me to hear her speak. It had to be her. It was petty and cruel and exactly the kind of thing a woman like her would do.
“Bethany gave me a box of Lucky Charms right after I came back.” Accusing her without proof wouldn’t help me. In fact, it would make everything worse, so I stopped talking. Whispers built against me would favor the hometown girl. Even if she lied through her teeth, they’d take her side.
Fuck I hated feeling helpless. I despised that she could do this to me and get away with it. Calling her out made me the bad guy, which meant I had to suck it up and act like this never happened.
