“Good. You shouldn’t feel anything for him. Douchebag,” Jac bites. “I don’t even know why they’re talking about you in the first place. They should mind their own freaking business. Talk about each other and their sick, twisted little relationship.”
“I know, right.” Savannah regains her composure, her tears ceasing yet again. “It’s like he’s using the demise of our relationship to bond his new one.” She shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s using the ‘poor pitiful me’ card with her, fueling the fire. Telling her how bad you were, so she can take pride in how good she is. Freaking mutt.”
Savannah thinks momentarily about the conversations she and Brody have had about past relationships. “You think that’s what everyone does? Talk about their past relationships, minimalizing and comparing them to new relationships, justifying how they’re in a better place.”
“I’m sure that’s a part of it. It’s the manner in how you go about it. You and Brody don’t sit around badmouthing Jack, right?”
“No. We just talk about what did and didn’t work, hoping to avoid falling into the same patterns.”
“Do you call him names? Does Brody call him names?” Jac continues bombastically, already knowing the answer.
“Well no,” Savannah chokes out, as if it’s even questionable. “I’d be a bit alarmed if Brody took to calling a man he doesn’t even know names.”
“Exactly!” Jac emits confidence in her point, unable to refrain from sneaking in another shot, “Simpletons.”
From up the street, an apprehensive Noah spots the two familiar faces sitting atop Jac’s truck. He waves to them upon approaching. “You two get thrown out of the party?” he jokes.
“Yep,” Jac beams insolently. She and Savannah hop down from the hood to greet him, both of them take a turn embracing their newfound brother.
“You been crying?” he pulls away from Savannah, examining her bloodshot eyes.
“It’s nothing,” she dismisses. “I’m just emotional lately, that’s all.”
Noah looks to Jac, reading the still present repugnance on her expression. “Does somebody need their ass kicked up around their shoulders?” The olive-skinned, dark haired, light-eyed, terribly attractive man takes to his brotherly instinct.
“Now I know we’re cut from the same cloth.” Jac chuckles at his feisty spirit.
“Oh great!” Savannah chimes. “Just what we need in this family, another heroic protector.” Softened and comforted by his presence along with Jac’s, her mood elevates.
“Come on. Let’s get you introduced.” Jac leads them toward the backyard. “You missed the family dysfunction. Should be smooth sailing from here.” She chuckles.
“Glad to hear I’m not alone,” Noah says, having his fair share of kindred defectiveness. “No family get-together is complete without a little dysfunction.”
The three siblings, Noah anchored in the middle, walk bravely into the party, the Bondurant lineage equally exemplified on their forms.
Chapter Fifteen
Late in the evening, Savannah returns home. Jack’s red Challenger sits in her driveway. Savannah remains calm, collecting her things from inside her Jeep.
“Can we talk?” Jack asks, approaching her.
“I believe you and
yours
said it all. It’s been a long day. Please, just leave,” Savannah dismisses him, making her way toward the front porch.
“She feels really bad…Daisy…about the things she said to you,” he begins explaining. “She started drinking when I left. We had a big argument over me going to your mama’s party. It was me she was mad at. Here,” He offers up his phone, barraged with the same name-calling text messages from Daisy. “If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
“I don’t care to see it.” She pushes the phone away. “What you two do is your business. I’ll stay out of your life. You stay out of mine.”
“She said you called her.” Jack inquires solemnly.
“I did. After everything calmed down. She didn’t answer though,” a hint of skepticism in Savannah’s voice, contemplating how Daisy was bold and brave when it came to texting, but cowardice in the face of actually speaking to her. “I left a voice mail. In a rational, pleasant tone,” the diplomatic admission causing her eye to twitch. “Letting her know I have no intentions of meddling in your relationship and that I am
sorry
,” she chokes out the term, her obtrusive conscience wreaking havoc on her pride, “if I offended her or made her feel threatened.”
“Thank you.” Jack hangs his head, embarrassed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, I know. Believe me, it was the last thing I wanted to do. If Jac knew I did that she would be furious. Hell, I’m halfway mad at myself for doing it.” Savannah bites her lip, conflicted at forcing herself to be the bigger person. “Thank God for the Dalai Lama,” she mutters. An avid reader, Savannah is a fan of his philosophy.
“Who?” Jack asks, unfamiliar with his works.
“‘Forgive your enemies,’ he says. It’s one of the hardest yet most important things in one’s spiritual development.” The imperceptive look on Jack’s face causes her to muster a simple summary, “Basically, it will set you free.” Savannah can’t help but hope that he will soon trade in his negative feelings about their split for the positives he will gain from it and forgive her, too, eventually, ultimately setting himself free.
“She said she tried to respond with a nice text message, but it was refused,” he continues to defend Daisy.
“How nice of her.” Savannah chuckles, unable to refrain, still chewing on the elements of a true pardon. “I blocked her from my phone. In case she gets the urge to take out her frustrations on me again. It can’t happen again, Jack. I’m truly sorry if I offended her in any way. But her response was completely uncalled for. I won’t be anybody’s punching bag. Once,” Savannah exaggerates the count, confirmation that she will not be inclined to turn the other cheek in the future, “that’s all she gets.”
“I know.” He holds his hand up testifying. “She’s not herself when she drinks.”
“I don’t care,” Savannah’s hurt long since passed, her anger rising at his justification of Daisy’s unwarranted actions. “Maybe that’s normal for you two. To get drunk and call each other names. It’s not normal for me.”
He looks at her, annoyed. “I know it’s not normal. We’re just going through some things.”
“Again, I don’t care,” she reiterates the fact that their affair is none of her concern. “Quit trying to talk to me about your relationship. And quit talking to Daisy about me. No wonder she feels the way she does.”
“I don’t talk to her about you,” Jack contends.
“Oh? You didn’t tell her I’m a slut who divorced you so I could sleep around with other men? You didn’t tell her I used you? You didn’t tell her you hate me?” Savannah keeps track of each count on her fingers, her voice rising with every recollected text accusation.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I hate you in the way a man hates a woman he can’t get over. I still love you, Savannah,” he contests, his face contorting as if he may cry.
Beyond tempered, Savannah grabs up a football from her front porch and wings it at him. “Don’t you even stand there and say that,” her teeth grind uncomfortably. “You don’t love me! You don’t love someone and tear them down with snide little comments.”
“But I didn’t say those things. Not like that. Not the way she said them in her texts.”
“Maybe not in so many words. But you said it. That’s the bottom line, Jack. She didn’t come up with all of those things on her own. Maybe she simply said what you’re thinking.” Savannah’s voice shakes, a slow burn.
“I’m hurting, Savannah. Can’t you see that?” He beats his hand off his chest. “I’m not the first man to say mean things about a woman who kicked him to the curb. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“Hate me then! I’m fine with that, Jack. At least I know where you stand.” She stomps her foot against the concrete porch. “You come to me with all of your ‘let’s be friends’ bullshit. All the while concocting a plan. With friends like you, who needs enemies?” Savannah runs her fingers through her hair, frustrated, pulling it at the ends. “And the irony of it all. I feel bad for her…Daisy. Even after she called me every name in the book.” Savannah chuckles, disappointed at the fact.
“What do you mean, you feel bad for her?”
“Do you love her, Jack?”
“Well, yeah. I love her. She’s the only thing holding me together right now.” Again, he reverts back to himself and his needs.
“Then show her that. It’s your role as a man.” Savannah finds herself playing the Brody ‘man’ card. Following up, she paraphrases words she has heard the fabulous gym boy say in one of their many lengthy conversations. “It’s your job to make her feel safe and secure in your relationship. It’s your job to relieve any doubts she may have of your love for her. It’s your job to protect that union, that commitment.”
Jack looks at her quizzically. “You’re getting all this from that jock, aren’t you?” He chuckles. “He’s feeding you a line of shit so big. And you’re lapping it up. What a piece of…”
His words are halted by Savannah as she grabs up a broom from the front porch, wielding it in his direction. “Shut up, Jack,” she warns through gritting teeth. “I
let it go
once. At the bar. So help me God, if you utter one nasty little word about him, you’ll be doing an expose for
Good Eats
on just exactly how broomcorn tastes,” she threatens of the stiff, stemmed, grass species used to form broom heads and brushes.
“Defending him?” Jack smirks scornfully. “Guess it’s getting pretty serious.” He waits for her to elaborate. She does not.
“No different than you coming over here defending your foul-mouthed
idgit
girlfriend,” Savannah’s forgiveness of Daisy teeter-totters with Jack’s irritation. “I’d say we’re both exactly where we’re supposed to be. You run on home to yours. And I’ll worry with mine. Don’t trouble yourself stopping by again. You got it?”
“Yeah,” Jack exhausts hatefully, “loud and clear.”
About an hour later, Savannah is stirred from her nightly, winding down, reading ritual by the sound of a honking horn outside her residence. Peering out of her bedroom window, she is pleasantly surprised. The vehicle sitting in her drive is not a red Challenger but a chariot in the form of a black crew cab pickup. Savannah shuffles nimbly to the front door, throwing her pink fuzzy robe around her frame. Flicking on her front porch light, she steps into view.
“Ms. Bondurant,” Brody greets her, overly chivalrous in his playful manner. Stepping outside of his pickup, he pulls his baseball cap from his crown, holding it to his abdomen, giving in to a sprightly bow.
Savannah laughs, playing along, calling to him from the front porch, “Why…Mr. McAlister. What can I do you for?”
“I come calling to see if you may be interested in accompanying me and my black steed,” he taps the hood of his pickup, “on a moonlit excursion.”
“I do declare. Have you gone mad? It’s rather late for a lady to entertain gentlemen callers.” She looks at her wristwatch, a quarter ’til midnight.
“A little birdie told me you had quite a day.” Brody takes her front steps two by two, catapulting himself directly in front of her, dropping his Rhett Butler charade. “How is she?” He looks at her concerned, his hand pushing her hair back around her ear to get a better look.
“What little birdie?” she sidesteps his question.
“Jac,” he says. “She came by the shop a little bit ago.”
“Jac?” her surprise resonant. “You got pixie dust in your pocket?” she asks, assured he must have some sort of magic, scoring Jac’s approval so early in the screening process.
Brody grins handsomely. “I think we have a mutual understanding,” he speaks of Jac, empathetic to her cause as the eldest sibling, a role he can surely relate to. “She doesn’t waste any time getting to the point.” Brody chuckles, recalling his brief and most direct conversation with the matriarchal Bondurant. “I like her…Jac,” he emphasizes the uncanny female nickname. “So what do you say? You up for some howlin’?” He takes her hand in his, wrapping his other arm about her waist, initiating a casual dance under the well-lit sky of a full Georgia moon.
“It’s late.” Savannah indulges him, twirling around underneath his elevated arm. “I have work in the morning. You’re more than welcome to a sleepover,” she purrs. Ceasing her spinning, she seductively wraps her arms firmly around his broad shoulders.
“Now…Ms. Bondurant.” He reestablishes a respectable ballroom dance length between them. “I aim to court you properly,” Brody slips back into his gentlemanly role.
“I’d say once you’ve tasted the milk, you’ve surpassed courting.” Savannah giggles, playing on the age-old adage.
“Maybe I intend on buying the cow,” he spars back with a wink.
Savannah shakes her head, playfully slapping him. “What did you have in mind?”
“Little birdie told me you and your sisters used to go fishing with your daddy,” he prefaces. Savannah’s eyes light up with the memory. “You ever been fishing in the dark?”
“Maybe a time or two in high school.” Savannah recalls a few outings with her boyfriend of seventeen. She smirks. “I don’t recall doing much fishing though.”
Brody gives in to a deep hearty chuckle. “I bet you don’t,” he contemplates her eager sensuality. “Too bad I didn’t know you in high school, Sweet Savannah. We might be a little further along in life.”
“Ya think?”
“Oh, I know,” he says very matter-of-factly. “Now take your fine ass inside and get some clothes on.” He releases her, slapping the apple-bottomed accessory.
Savannah laughs, her lively gumption springing her back through the threshold of her front door in pursuit of fishing gear. “I don’t have a pole,” she yells.
“I gotcha covered,” Brody calls after her, eyeing two fishing rods secured in the back of his pickup. “Got everything we need. Rods, reels, bait, snacks, blankets,” he rehearses yet another one of his infamous checklists. “You roll with me, that’s the way it’ll always be. I’ll make sure you have everything you need, Savannah Bondurant. If you’ll have me,” his voice trails off of his words at a conscious whisper, his heart not yet brave enough to relinquish such desires.