Page 31 of Threaded Lies

Holden

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Grief might be never-ending, but bills are still due on the first of the month.

Life moves on even when yours has stopped.

Some of Mom’s clients gave her a few weeks off from cleaning their houses. Others fired her for not being able to make their scheduled days. Only one paid her even though she didn’t show up.

I stare at the help’s entrance of the Westmore Country Club. It’s a reflection of this entire fucking place and the members who belong to it. The front entrance is a sight to be seen with its brick pathways, white columns, lush greenery, and ornate trees. Pretty at first sight but the closer you look, you can see the ugly it tries to hide—mold staining the bottoms of the retaining walls and the bug traps hanging on the backsides of each tree.

The back? It’s painted just as white, just as bright as the entrance, but there are cracks in the pavement here, ruts in the mud, and the signs that are posted everywhere are warnings to employees on how to behave and what their place is rather than offering Southern hospitality and warm welcomes.

Just like the entrances, the people who enter and exit from each one know their place.

But as I study the back door and prepare myself to face another day without Mase while the dirt upon his grave is still fresh, I fist my hands knowing what I’m about to face.

And I wonder if I’ll be able to keep my fucking cool.

With a deep breath and a forced swallow over the emotion balled in my chest, I enter the country club and pray the day goes fast.

And it does.

In a rare moment of decency, my boss, Darren, takes pity on me. Hours upon hours of washing dishes in the back of the kitchen is enough to drive most of us crazy, but today it is just what I needed.

He knows I’d had a loss in the family.

He knows I might need a bit of time to readjust.

While he might kowtow to the people who employ us, at least he is decent to me today.

“You good, Simpson?” Darren asks at the end of my shift as he walks past me with his clipboard in hand and the stick still firmly planted up his ass.

Simpson.

Mason’s simple wish—for us to have the same last name—now seems like forever ago. Walking away from the name Knight was a no-brainer … and easy. Especially in this town where people like me aren’t looked twice at.

But hearing it right now, today, after everything that happened, feels like a punch in the gut. It sounds so foreign when said to me, but I own it with every fiber of my being. Anything to feel closer to Mason because with each passing day, he seems to be slipping even further away from me.

“Yeah. Thanks for today. For … letting me work in the back.”

“Of course.” His smile is tight and fleeting. “It was a one-time thing though. You left us short elsewhere, and I’d hate for word to get out that you’re slacking on the job. Not when we have a list of people waiting to work here.”

Fuck you.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Glad that’s understood. Can you bring this down to the Members’ Club for me on your way to the locker room?” he asks and motions to the cart full of folded, monogrammed towels.

“Sure.”

Within minutes, I’ve pushed the cart into the Members’ Club—a place for those who have paid a ridiculous amount to feel even more superior than they already do—and have unloaded the towels onto the shelves.

Lost in thought, I run a hand absently over the soft terry. Mason never got the chance to feel something like this—what money can buy you and the luxury it affords.

I was going to give him that.

I was going to figure a way.