Jules accepts the hug, but her eyes are on me. I swallow against more bile.
“May I hug you, Sierra?” she asks softly.
For some reason, that simple, vulnerable question makes tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard and nod. She folds me into her arms. I intend to pull away quickly, but the scent of her—cinnamon, vanilla, something warm and maternal—undoes me. I lean in and close my eyes, letting her hold me for a heartbeat longer.
I missed her. My own childhood was a maelstrom of evictions and neglect, my mother always running one step ahead of disaster. But Jules LaSalle was my anchor. It felt like I spent more time with this substitute mother than my own.
I remember baking with her one winter when I was fourteen. Logan invited me to stay with them after I confided in him that I wasn’t sleeping well and finally told him the real reason. My mom’s boyfriend at the time had a habit of opening my bedroom door at all hours of the night, “just to talk.”
Jules smells like that kitchen in my memory, a perfume of cinnamon and warm affection. For that afternoon, I pretended that Jules was my real mom. I teased her by pretending I was going to juggle the eggs. She laughed way too hard after powdered sugar exploded into a sweet cloud all over me.
I swallow hard against the memory. She always let me stay, and my last words to her were to call her a nosy, controlling bitch who couldn’t leave me the hell alone.
“It’s so good to see you, Sierra,” she says now, pulling back. Her hands tighten around her arms, and I realize I’m mimicking the gesture.
“Come into the kitchen,” she says as she leads the way to the house. “We made that roasted pepper dish you loved so much. Do you remember when we used to make it together?”
“Sure,” I say.
The house looks and feels the same as it did before. I notice little appliance upgrades, but the warm, cozy feeling remains.
“Logan was telling me you’re a rock climber now?” she asks, dishing up roasted pepper dip with tortilla chips and handing me a plate.
“She’s amazing,” Logan says before I can answer. “Honestly, she makes it look effortless. Like dancing.”
“You always were so brave,” Jules says fondly as she settles her hip against the counter. “I was also so amazed by how easily you’d do things that would terrify other people.Climbing would make me quake in my boots.”
I smile. Jules hasn’t changed. She used to give compliments as lightly and easily as any person I ever met. “Isn’t that just like you, to succeed at this?” she’d say. “It’s because you’re so willing to try new things.” It used to fill me to the brim until I was nearly preening from her approval.
And then I let her down. Terribly.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
“I’ll be right back,” I say, setting down the plate and heading toward the bathroom.
Inside, I turn on the faucet and splash some water on my face. What am I doing here? Just me being here dredges up the past, forcing us both to relive those memories and the terrible choices I made. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me.
Logan’s girlfriend? No, I am a fraud.
“I want to be with Logan,” I tell my reflection. That bolsters my resolve a little. I’m not here for me or for Jules, I’m here for Logan. For some inexplicable reason, he wants me. I can do this for him.
When I step back into the hallway, I walk straight into the town marshal, Rick Dawson.
He looks roughly the same, clean-shaven and bald, his face puffier with age. It makes his cold, bright-blue eyes stand out even more in his face. He’s dressed in the same summer attire as everyone else, but it doesn’t erase his cop aura.
“I heard you were back in town,” he says. His hand moves to his belt, where his gun usually hangs. “I thought I made it clear last time you were never to come back.”
I have no excuse—a long-winded story about my car troubles would hardly impress him. I can’teven promise I’m leaving soon. The thought of leaving Logan makes me sick.
“That’s all right. You’re welcome to stay.” He pauses, as if waiting for me to relax. I don’t. “You know, I still have your statement recording.”
Sweat breaks out all over my body. I feel seventeen again. Foolish, young, in trouble for being where I’m not supposed to be. Filled with shame.
“I decided to give it a listen when I heard you were back. A nice trip down memory lane,” he continues. “It’s very entertaining. Very descriptive.”
I flinch, horrified. I mentally push down the memories of those invasive questions about my and John Hillerman’s affair. I can’t think about it now, or I’ll be sick.
“Rumor is that you and Logan LaSalle are back together.” He smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Does he fuck you the same way you said you liked it in your statement? No? Logan might find inspiration by listening to the recording. I bet other people would find it fascinating too.”
