The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories (299 page)

A gray-haired man wearing a battered, wide-brimmed baseball cap and an orange vest stood a few yards away. Behind him, a shiny pickup idled loudly. I didn’t recognize either one. And how had I missed the man’s arrival? I looked at Ford, his eyes glazed over with the same consuming desire that had me breathless. Right. That.

“Can I help you?” I asked the newcomer, propping myself on my elbows.

“I doubt it. Leastways, not in the way you’re helping out that fella.”

The man’s comment was apparently the wake-up Ford needed. Already on his feet, he glared at the older man. “Are you lost?” Ford asked.

The old man took a step around the side of his truck. I followed his movement and noticed the gun rack for the first time. “I was going to ask you the same question seein’ as how this is my property.”

His property? I looked around and remembered I was still on the ground. In the mud. Suddenly, that didn’t seem like the most lady-like place to be. Or the safest, as the guy seemed to be headed for whatever he had strapped to his gun rack. I got to my feet and stood beside Ford in a dress heavy with mud and clinging in all the wrong places. “We didn’t realize this was private property,” I said.

“I haven’t posted a sign yet. Guess I better get on that,” the man muttered.

“Right. We’ll be going, then,” I said, pulling Ford toward the truck.

“You do that and see that you’re more careful.” The man pulled a rifle free and turned to face us. “It’s hunting season and I don’t want anybody getting hurt. Helen would kill me.”

I stopped at the familiar name. “Helen Meckelberg?”

“That’s my Helen.”

“You’re Bobby,” I said.

“That’s what it says on my birth certificate. And you are?”

“Summer Stafford. My father owns Heritage Plantation. Helen is a friend of my family.”

“Bobby Gresham.” Bobby extended a hand. I did the same but stopped halfway, holding it up to show it was covered in mud. Bobby retracted his and I did the same, my expression a silent apology. Ford didn’t bother extending his. He and Bobby nodded at each other.

“Ford O’Neal,” Ford said.

“Nice to meet you both. Well, considering,” he said with a wry smile. “You’re Dean Stafford’s girl, huh? Met him a few times. Good man. Tell him I said hello.”

I grimaced. “I will,” I said, hating that I would have to. Otherwise, he’d hear about it anyway. No stopping the gossip mill on this one, not once Helen heard about it. I’d have to hide at the farm for weeks if I wanted to wait this one out. I hustled Ford into the truck with another nod and goodbye and we drove away.

“Where’s the fire?” Ford asked as he maneuvered Darla out.

“That’s Bobby. He’s engaged to one of my mother’s friends.”

“And you don’t want her to know we were here?”

“I don’t want the free world asking me about it for the next six months.”

“And now they will?”

I shook my head. “You’ve never lived in a small town.”

“Sure I have.” He grinned and it looked wicked, all those white teeth contrasting against dark-brown cheeks caked with dirt. “It’s a form of flattery being the inspiration behind the story.”

Summer

“We can't be afraid of change. You may feel very secure in the pond that you are in, but if you never venture out of it, you will never know that there is such a thing as an ocean, a sea. Holding onto something that is good for you now, may be the very reason why you don't have something better.”

―C. JoyBell C.

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C
oncentrate. The gross pay amount goes in box A.

Payroll was tedious on any day, but today it felt as if someone had handed me a stack of papers written in German and expected me to translate. In sign language. To a pigeon. This is why people hated Mondays. I was lost and not particularly concerned with finding my way back. I started to go for my coffee and stopped. It would be cold by now and I didn’t want to make the hike to the kitchen to reheat it. Not yet. I sighed and stared at the computer screen without really seeing it.

Saturday night with Ford had been ... Well, it was by far the most memorable date I’d ever been on. And the hottest. And the dirtiest—in more ways than one. I smiled at the memory of that first handful of mud I’d thrown. I’d hit him square in the chest, a fact that still surprised me. I wasn’t usually the best aim. And the shock on his face had been priceless. I never wanted to forget that look. Or the one after, when we’d fallen and he’d landed on top of me. The way his baby blues always darkened when the mood shifted. The way his hands ran up the inside of my thigh ...

Damn Bobby and his tongue-wagging fiancé.

Ford had taken it to heart that I didn’t want to be fodder for the town’s gossip mill. He’d brought me straight home and walked me to the door with nothing more than a quick peck and a tight smile before driving off in Darla. I’d stood on the front porch watching him go, unsure whether to appreciate his sensitivity to my feelings or be disappointed in the letdown of a night that’d started out hotter than a bee’s ass in August.

I’d washed my hair three times that night, staying in the shower even after the water ran cold. Partly in an effort to wash the mud out of hard-to-reach places and partly to wash away the frustration of being dropped off at home with nothing more than a chaste kiss good night. It felt unfinished. I’d never been left hanging like this. It was exciting and infuriating all at once.

I tried to remember the last time I’d ever been this turned on by Aaron. Or anyone for that matter. I went back farther and farther in my mind as I realized not a single guy had ever made me want to run after them and beg for release. But that’s what I wanted to do last night watching Ford walk away. I’d had the distinct urge to chase him down, wrap my legs around him, and demand he finish what he’d started.

Now, two days later, I wasn’t entirely convinced I shouldn’t march over to the greenhouse on my lunch break and do that very thing.

Sunday had been quiet. Chores. Paperwork. More unpacking. I kept to myself, needing to see past the physical desire. It might’ve only been one date, and I wasn’t kidding myself that it would ever be more than this right here, but I liked the fun we had together. I liked the version of myself I got to be with him. Spontaneous, charismatic, maybe even a little irresponsible. And I needed to figure out what that meant for the future I saw for myself. Or the future I’d planned before my mom had ripped the rug out. Before down was up and up was down. Before love hurt.

Ford had said,
parents are just people who get put on a pedestal. We expect more from them because they mean so much to us. But they’re only human.

In between daydreaming of his mud-stained hands roaming my body and punching deductions into the payroll program, I thought about those words. About my mother. Was I expecting too much of her? Should I cut her some slack and admit she deserved to be happy too, even if that happiness took her away from the life she’d created with me? With Dad? It was impossible to reason through the anger that always accompanied thoughts of her leaving.

I went back to doing payroll.

An hour later, someone knocked and I thanked whatever star had provided the distraction. For once, I couldn’t handle any more numbers. Not even if it meant dollar signs in my bank account.

I looked up. “Mazie? What are you doing back here?”

“Can’t I just come say hello while the kitchen is clear?” she asked, shuffling in and sitting in the chair across my desk. She held a dish towel between her hands, her fingers twisting it nervously into something like a breadstick from the pizza place I loved.

“Well, yeah,” I said, “but you never do. Usually you’re yelling for me to come eat something.”

“You never eat enough,” she accused, her voice rising. “In my country, the women are healthy. Full. None of this twig nonsense.”

“Mazie.” I smiled, ignoring the fact that she’d tried to insult me by calling me skinny. Clearly, there was something bigger on her mind. “What’s up?”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping as if admitting she’d been caught. “A card came in the mail for you last week.”

“What kind of card?”

“An invitation to a party?”

“Is that a question?” Should I know what party she meant? I was so lost. And she looked so guilty. A rare thing for Mazie.

“No. It was an invitation. Not a question about that.”

“What’s the question then?”

“None, really. I already RSVP’d for you.”

“I see.” My eyes narrowed. If her behavior was any indication, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like where this was going. “What party is it?”

“A birthday party,” she hedged.

“A birthday party.” Who did I know having a birthday? I ran through a mental list of names. Casey’s was in the fall. So was Frank’s. My dad was January, not that he ever had parties. Leslie? When was hers? Right, Thanksgiving. We saw that movie together while I was home on break last year. But then who—

I sat up straighter. “My mother’s birthday? You RSVP’d me for that?”

Mazie’s fingers tightened around the dish towel until her knuckles turned white. She pressed her lips together, clearly anticipating a fight and having every intention of sticking it out. “She’s your mother, paidi mou. She will be hurt if you don’t come.”

“She left me. That hurt too.”

“She left your father,” she corrected, snapping the words. “And you don’t even care why or how she felt about it. Everyone’s given you time to be the sad little daughter. That time is over. Be stronger than this.”

“It’s not an issue of strength,” I argued.

“Maturity, then. Grace.”

“I can’t help how I feel,” I said. The anger, always so close to the surface when I thought about my mother, rose swiftly. I bit it back. This was Mazie after all.

“You think she is so evil. That she woke up one morning and said, let me hurt Summer today. Pah. You are either selfish or stupid.” She threw up her hands, still clinging loosely to the dishtowel.

The words were meant as a nudge to get me to agree to the party. They were meant to make me feel guilty enough to talk me into this nice thing. But they hit harder than that. I swallowed a mouthful of air and stilled as it stuck in my gut like a bowl of rocks.

Mazie continued, “You are going to that party and that’s final.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Had Mazie ever talked to me like that? Or to anyone? I’d heard her fuss at Casey for stealing a cinnamon roll once. He’d hung his head and teared up, mumbling an apology, but that was more out of a guilt trip layered with love. That and Casey hated it when anyone scolded him, especially Mazie. He had a thing about guilt.

But this. This was hardcore and direct and final. A scar and an open wound all at once.

“All right. I’ll go,” I said slowly.

She nodded, her chin tight with the way her lips pressed together. “Good girl.” She rose and walked to the door. “Besides, I gave you a plus one,” she added.

My head shot up. The guilt vanished. “A what?”

“You can bring that handsome florist with you. Keep you company. And maybe keep your mouth busy if not shut.” She winked and disappeared down the hall before I could make my tongue work.

“He’s not a florist,” I said into the silence.

Ford

"Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."

—Joan Didion
,
The Year of Magical Thinking

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I
picked gently at the roots, trying to untangle them without breaking or tearing the tiny threads. My hands felt big and clumsy, forcing me to go slower. I calmed my breathing in an effort to remain still. I had to be careful. One tiny pull in the wrong direction and the whole thing fell apart. I didn’t want to have to start over. I didn’t have enough time left in Virginia for that.

Magic seems like something you’d have to experience to believe.

Since our dinner, it was the conversations more than anything else that stuck in my head. I mean, the playing, the mud, the kissing—I’d never forget a single detail of the sunset we hadn’t bothered to watch, and I couldn’t wait to do it again in some form or another. But the things she said; I’d never met anyone who saw the world quite like her. It made me question where my own lens came from.

She hadn’t experienced magic? I took it for granted that I had.

The way the light hit the mountains in New Mexico, turning them so red it looked like a flame had been lit and thrown against them. A single blossom surviving against a sea of failed attempts. A painter’s canvas on a California street corner in some tiny coastal town whose brush strokes captured more essence than the real-life inspiration for his masterpiece. All of these things were magic in some form. Beauty. Hope. Inspiration.

Summer had all of those. She just didn’t know it.

Perception is about making people see what you want, not what really is.

The more I got to know her, the more I wondered if it wasn’t herself she had fooled. Maybe Summer hadn’t met the real Summer yet. I shook my head to clear it. And maybe that girl really was a witch. And I was easy prey.

“Knock, knock.” Casey was halfway down the center aisle when he called out and I jumped, yanking loose a small piece of stem.

“Dammit, Casey, this shit is sensitive.”

“Yeah, you are,” he agreed. I gave him a look to let him know his jokes weren’t appreciated here. “I surrender,” he said, throwing up his hands as he leaned against a tall planter’s box.

“What do you want?”

“I came to see if you got what you want, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t look up at him. If I did, I’d have to see the smirk instead of just hear it in his words. I didn’t have the patience for that right now. I couldn’t get this root system to cooperate. Any less patience and I’d screw it up and my chances at cross-germination were shot. At least, for this growing season.

“Casey, I am not discussing my love life involving a girl who might as well be your sister. Isn’t that a little weird for you?”

“Only if you break her heart.” Based on the clear, matter-of-fact way he said it, I didn’t doubt him for a single second.