The door jingles as I walk into Black Kettle. It’s early, and the shop is closed, but I have plenty to catch up on after missing a couple days this week. I’m hoping I can make headway on this local legends book so that when Beau gets in, he’s less mad at me and more thrilled with my progress.
Flipping the light switches and locking the door behind me, I make my way toward the back of the shop, passing dusty shelves as I approach my worn but sturdy desk to set down my bag and get busy.
“Hello, Olive.” Beau is perched at my desk, arms folded, sitting in the dark as if he was waiting for me.
“Beau, I didn’t realize you’d be in yet. I’m so sorry about this week. I never would have wanted to put you out, it’s just my parents can be a bit—”
“Relentless? Arrogant? Demanding?”
“Yes. All of those things and so much more. They don’t take kindly to me saying no, and I didn’t know they were coming so I couldn’t schedule around it. But I love this job, and I plan to spend all day catching up so I can be ready to take on the week.”
“We can’t choose our parents, but we can choose who we surround ourselves with, Olivia. I’m glad you’re making up for lost time, but please do not put me in this situation again.” His brow is furrowed, his tone stern.
“I promise.” I smile at him as he extricates himself from my workspace, allowing me to slide into my seat. His joints crack audibly, and I’m reminded how this isn’t just his store, it’s his life’s work.
“I’m going to get out of here. Mr. Pickles doesn’t like to be left alone for very long. But let me know if you need anything before I’m back.” With that he’s off to spend quality time with his cat, and I’m left with a mountain of work.
I’m grateful he’s a forgiving man. Losing this job would not be ideal, especially in my current predicament. When I woke up this morning the tattoo had grown again, the permanent pieces still intact but the vines wrapping nearly to my elbow now. There were hearts popping up as I thought of Sam and dark, stormy creatures that looked like Death Eaters from that one movie about witches and wizards. I’m assuming those are my parents.
Seeing those ghastly figures made me wonder, at what point did I start resenting them for who they are? I was loved as a child, I certainly had everything I physically needed. I just can’t pinpoint when exactly their push to be perfect changed fromsomething I wanted to attain to something I loathed. It was probably around the time my mother started trying to find me a husband.
I want to say it was a singular moment that made the difference, but it was really more of a slow trickle. A crack that festered and grew over time into this momentous divide. I wonder if maybe I had let them see the sides of me that they hated a little sooner or if I had exposed them in small doses, if things would be different. My mom had to have had these same aspirations at one point; she wasn’t raised with a silver spoon in her mouth. As I wrestle with the thoughts the Death Eaters gobble up the artwork on my arm, almost like they are eating away my soul.
My phone pings, alerting me to a new text. It’s a voice message from Sam.
“Hey. I hope you slept well and enjoyed your run this morning. I promise I’m not a creep, but you ran by my house while I was drinking my coffee and you’re distracting, I couldn’t help but watch. I can’t wait to see you tonight.”
He’s funny. I ran by his house on purpose, but I don’t know if I want to admit that. What if he thinksI’mthe creep? Like a zap of electricity, my arm explodes with butterflies, their cornflower-blue wings flapping about. I guess there’s no denying how I feel. It’s exciting and nauseating at the same time. There’s freedom in not having to say it out loud, in knowing my feelings manifest on my sleeve. But there’s also terror in knowing that someone else might see it, they might know my inner workings. I’m closed off for a reason. There’s always a chance that whoever knows the truth won’t like what they see. My parents didn’t, even when I had straight A’s, was crowned Miss Alabama, and got voted the kindest person on campus in college.
I decide to send Sam a voice message back. I find it to be a superior form of communication. My thumbs don’t go numbfrom all the typing, and I don’t have to volley the conversation as much as I would during a standard phone call. Tapping the microphone on my text app, I hold it down.
“Morning, Sam. I ran by your house on purpose. I’m also not a creeper.” I laugh at myself before continuing. “I wanted to make sure I knew where it was before our date tonight. Want to play a game while I’m at work?”
Not even ten seconds pass before I receive a response.
“Always, but wouldn’t I be distracting you? Don’t you have work to do?” he asks, scolding me playfully.
“Listen up, buttercup. I’ll determine when I’m too busy for you,” I chide him back.
“Oh, I see. She’s sassy today. I have a client coming soon, but I’ll play until then.”
After fixing my cardigan so none of my arm is showing, I send him a video of me rolling my eyes. Another quick response comes in.
“Do I need to show you what happens to naughty girls who roll their eyes?”
Heat tickles below my panty line. I take a leap out of my comfort zone. “I dare you to try. Now, come on, let’s play a game. We never finished our twenty questions, so I propose that we continue that, and if there’s something that one of us doesn’t want to answer, we owe each other a dare on our date. I’ll go first. I can’t get a tattoo. That’s the answer from the other night. Now, what’s your favorite food?”
While I wait for his reply, I open the book I’ve been working to restore and get started. Light is beginning to trickle in through the front window, and casting a warm glow across the bookshelves up front. It’s beautiful, but the wait for his reply does weird things to my belly. On one hand I don’t want to get too attached when experience tells me it likely won’t work out. On the other hand, there’s something about him that’s sosoothing, it’s like a part of me knows I can trust him even if it’s hard to. A few minutes pass, and I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to play when a message comes in.
“I would have to say the pumpkin ricotta tortellini you tried at the festival, but that will be changing very soon, I hope.”
I snap a photo of my face with one eyebrow tilted up and my finger on my lips in confusion and send it his way along with a text that says:
Huh?
Maybe I’m naive but I have no clue what he’s talking about. I hope he doesn’t think I’m cooking him dinner tonight.
“Babe, I have a feeling you are going to be my favorite thing to eat very soon.” His message rings out, and I start to fan my face. Holy moly, I’ve never had a man be so sweet yet so forward in my life. My insides are melting and the space between my thighs is slick.
