Show Me How (5 page)

Grey laughed. Jagger just shrugged and said, “Deacon said he's funny. Keith's been out there most of the time with him, and Deacon hasn't gone into hiding yet. I'm sure he's fine.”

But I'm not.

Not to mention I was terrified that Deacon's hatred for me would eventually bleed over to Keith.

I was walking toward the door before I knew I was moving, and once I had it open and those light brown eyes snapped up to me and hardened, I realized I hadn't thought of a real reason to pull Keith away.

I ignored my racing heart and fluttering stomach, and the embarrassment that still filled my veins, and looked down at Keith with a forced smile on my face. “Come on, buddy.”

“Mommy,” he said in disappointment.

“I've been gone all day, I want time with you too.”

Deacon's disbelieving sneer forced my eyes back up to him, but he didn't say anything.

He doesn't know me; I'm not like my mother. He doesn't know me; I'm not like my mother
, I reminded myself, and forced myself not to react.
I refuse to be her.

“Besides, I'm sure Deacon will be leaving soon,” I said through clenched teeth; the hint that I wanted him gone was clear.

He laughed haughtily and nodded as he glanced back into the car. “Yeah. Yeah, kid, I'm done here, just need to clean up.”

Keith nodded, as if he'd been waiting for Deacon's dismissal, and walked toward me. “See ya later, Deaton!”

I shut the door before Deacon could respond, and turned to see my brother and his wife watching me with expressions ranging from worried to curious.

Not willing to let them question anything they may have interpreted from Deacon's or my tone, I clapped and turned to my son. “What do you say we watch
Iron Man
while I start making dinner?”

He sent me a cheesy smile. “Watch myself? Mommy . . . you're silly.” But he still turned and raced toward the couches. “Last one there's an egg!”

For the first time since I'd arrived home, my smile was genuine. “It's
rotten
egg, buddy!”

“That's what I said!”

But throughout
Iron Man
, dinner, and relaxing with my family . . . I was distracted. Deacon's hateful words had long since slipped from my mind, and been replaced with a messy scrawl I couldn't stop seeing.

Every glance at the clock with the hopes that it would be an acceptable time to go to sleep left me trying to convince myself that my restlessness was simply because I had purposefully left my soul at Mama's in the form of a notebook.

But I knew I was lying to myself.

I knew I was letting my mind run wild with possibilities.

I wanted to get to work the next day to see if the stranger had come back. I wanted to see if I would find out anything more about them—­about
him
, I had decided based on the messy scrawl. I wanted to see if he would have anything to add or change about the song. I wanted to know if he would still care at all once he knew I had no plans to take my own life.

The thought that something would be waiting for me the next day had a ridiculous smile creeping across my face, and a giddy excitement coursing through my veins.

Deacon

May 30, 2016

A
FTER LEAVING THE
warehouse, I stopped by the garage to see if there was anything else my dad needed before the day ended, then hurried to clean up before racing over to Mama's Café. I barely acknowledged the familiar voices and faces when I stepped inside, my attention immediately going to the top of the greeter's desk.

To anyone looking at me, I was calm.

On the inside, it felt like I was dying. It was as if I'd just finished running a race, when instead I'd driven over here and walked inside. My chest felt tight and my stomach was churning. The past hours could have meant something I refused to think of for someone I didn't know. And all I could think of was that if I had stayed in the café, if I had waited for the owner of the journal to come back, I might have changed their mind.

But then my eyes fell on the journal—­exactly where I had left it. For a moment, the sight of the brown leather left a sinking feeling in my gut until I noticed the small slip of paper below it, with the words: Please leave here, neatly scrawled across it.

The handwriting looked too familiar not to recognize. I doubt I would ever forget it after having stared at it for so long earlier—­after trying to decode the words they'd formed.

I took a second to glance around to see if anyone was watching me—­expectantly or not—­then snatched the journal and paper from the desk and walked quickly toward the booth I always sat at.

I flipped through the pages until I found the one I was looking for, but only had time to see that there was something written below my note before I had to stash the journal next to me when one of the waitresses walked up.

“Well, well . . . Deacon Carver. What can I do for you tonight?” she asked. Her voice dripped with sex, and her tone held so much meaning. The look she gave me promised a night I knew I needed after the day I'd had.

I couldn't remember her name, I rarely tried to remember their names, but I remembered
her
. If I hadn't already known from personal experience that she was bat-­shit crazy, I had no doubt I would have told her to come to the house that night.

Unfortunately for her—­and my memories—­I didn't forget girls who wrecked houses and screamed like banshees when they found out I didn't want to be tied down, and I also didn't have the patience to deal with her now.

I'd been consumed with stress and guilt all day over finding what I thought was the beginnings of a fucked-­up suicide note, had just released a year-­and-­a-­half's worth of pent-­up anger on Charlie because I couldn't seem to control myself around her lately—­and was hating myself for it—­and now this waitress was keeping me from seeing what had been written back to me.

“Absolutely nothing,” I responded gruffly. “Whoever is cooking right now, tell them I need the usual for Graham and me. To go.”

I stared at her expectantly until she turned with an exaggerated huff, and waited until she was back in the kitchen before pulling the journal back up.

The relief that pounded through my veins as I read the note written back to me was so intense that my hands began shaking.

They hadn't been about to commit suicide—­
she
hadn'
t been about to
, I internally amended as I stared at the neat, feminine handwriting.

A harsh, relieving breath forced itself from my lungs, and I had to set the journal on the table when the shaking of my hands made it too hard to read the words again.

And again.

She'd added more to what I had originally thought was the beginning of a suicide note, and now thought might be a poem. If what was in front of me then had been written down earlier that afternoon, I probably wouldn't have spent hours panicking that this girl was going to kill herself.

I wouldn't have said what I had to Charlie.

I ran my hand through my hair, agitation poured from me as I tried to force her face from my mind.

With a rough breath out, I focused on the poem . . . but after reading it again, I still felt depressed as shit for the girl. Because if this was supposedly about her relationship with a guy, then she had no fucking clue that he was using her, or that she was nothing more than the best friend. Because those words pretty much summed up how Graham, Knox, and I all talked to, and thought of, Grey.

Sister. This girl wasn't in a relationship, she was thought of as a sister.

After grabbing a pen from a different waitress as she passed by, I added a ­couple words to the last line, and wondered why the hell I was smiling over the fact that she'd left my other changes in as I wrote back to her.

You're alive! Christ, you have no clue how damn scared I've been all day. But I think we might have other problems now. This relationship . . . are you sure you want to be in it?
You say you're always there for this guy,
listening to him about everything apparently . . . so who's there for you?
Who's listening to you? I don't know you, and you don't know me—­or, hell, maybe we do; this is Thatch
—­so you don't have to listen to anything I say. But from what I'm reading, I think you're putting way more of yourself into the relationship than he is. Find someone who would write these words about you.

Who listens to your sad songs

The shoulder that you cry on

Out on that ledge you walk on

When you're sinking

Who
knows your
keeps your secrets locked up

When
I'm
there's no one you can trust

I know it's much more than just wishful thinking

Just say the words and
(
you
know)
I'll be there

Before I left Mama's with dinner for Graham and me, I placed the journal back on the greeter's desk with the same piece of paper just below it. Only this time, I copied her words in my own writing on the back, warning anyone who saw the journal not to move it.

 

Chapter Five

Charlie

May 31, 2016

I
PRACTICALLY RAN
into work the next morning; my footsteps only slowed once I was inside and spotted my notebook where I'd left it the day before. I glanced around at the few workers already inside—­none of whom were looking in my direction—­and walked up to the greeter's desk.

I took the torn paper between my fingers, and eyed his scrawl in wonder. I didn't realize I was smiling until I had flipped the paper over numerous times, looking at each side and how our words mimicked each other's.

But the smile faded when I read the note he had left for me.

I wanted to write back, saying that I'd thought
he
was listening to me, but knew those words sounded immature and ridiculous given the situation. Just as my excitement to hear back from a stranger had been.

What I had been expecting, I couldn't say, but it had been more than that.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe I did read too many romance novels.

I started to crumple the torn out paper, but stopped and placed it inside my notebook instead. After closing it up, I placed the notebook inside my waist-­apron pocket behind the check holders, and got to work.

F
IVE HOURS INTO
my shift, on one of the many journeys up to the front of Mama's Café to greet newcomers, something caught my eye.

A napkin on the greeter's desk with a familiar scrawl on it, and the words:

Where
'd you go? I'll come back for you.

I inhaled softly, and a stupid,
stupid
fluttering took up residence in my stomach. One I knew needed to go away because there was no reason for it to be there in the first place, but one that was there nonetheless.

I glanced at the three ­people in front of me, quickly taking in the confused looks they were giving me before slapping my hand down on the napkin and pulling it close to my body.

I whirled around to see if anyone was watching, waiting for someone who would have a reaction to that note . . . but there was no one. Just residents of Thatch eating, others serving, nearly all ­people I had known most of my life. None of them paid any attention to me, or the chaos of emotions flooding me.

Again,
stupid
fluttering and emotions that made no sense. Because this person was nothing more than an opinionated stranger, and I was making him and this situation out to be much more than they were because of my obsession with romantic fiction.

“Um, table for three?” I asked through the lump in my throat, and shoved the napkin into one of my pockets so I could grab menus. “Right this way.”

By the time I left work that night, my notebook was on the desk, the slightly crumpled piece of paper had been smoothed out, and had my plea not to move the book facing up. No words had been added to Ben's song, but there was a note left to the stranger.

You gave me relationship advice that was a few years too late; I didn't know you expected a response. Since you want one: Thank you, stranger. I'll mak
e sure to remember your words for the next guy who comes into my life.

I didn't work the next day, but there was a response waiting for me when I came in the day after. And though I tried to watch the front desk as much as possible, I never saw anyone take my notebook. I had studied almost everyone who sat in the café, studied everyone working . . . no one seemed to touch it, and no one seemed to watch me. But by the time my shift had ended that day, there was already a response.

Is this where I say that I'm sorry that you aren't with this guy anymore? Because I'm not. I don't know if it's because that guy was a dumbass for treating you the way he did, or if after reading most of what you have written in this journal,
I've decided that I want to be the one who gets to listen
to you.

Those are big words, stranger. Words can be deceiving. Are you so sure that once you find me, there will be any words to listen to at all? Maybe this is all I have . . .

Your words have kept my interest longer than any girl has ever been able to. I
'll take my chances. Who are you?

Won't that ruin everything?

Because it could, and would, ruin everything for me. I was just Charlie. Shy Charlie who struggled to talk to anyone outside of Jagger and Grey, and who definitely couldn't talk to guys. Shy Charlie, who, in the real world, had a toddler and no clue what she was doing with her life.

 

Chapter Six

Deacon

June 3, 2016

I
GROANED INTO
my hands as I scrubbed them over my face, and leaned back in the driver's seat of my car. “This thing is gonna be a disaster.”

“What?” Graham asked as he shut the passenger door. “The dinner?”

“The dinner. The wedding. The whole damn thing.”

A low laugh rumbled from him. “Don't tell me you suddenly hate Harlow again?”

I slid my gaze over to him and narrowed my eyes. “No. But her older sister sure as hell hates me, and I have to be paired with her.”

We'd just finished the rehearsal for Knox and Harlow's wedding, and it was the second time I'd ever seen her sisters. I was also hoping it could be the last. But seeing as Graham was walking her younger sister down the aisle, and I was walking with the older one, and we were about to head over to the rehearsal dinner, I knew I still had at least another day with them.

Graham's face went blank for a second before he smacked my arm. “You didn't.”

“Didn't what?”

“Dude, she's married and has kids!”

My face pinched. “No. Hell no. I'm not about to have some guy coming after me for trying to sleep with his wife, and no way in hell would I touch a chick with kids. But I flinched away from one of her kids when they came running over to her, and she got pissed.”

Graham smirked. “Yeah . . . what'd you say to make her get pissed, though?”

He knew me too well.

I turned on my car and pulled out of the parking spot before I gave a slow shrug. “I don't know, something about kids and Satan and maybe connecting the two.”

Another laugh, this one louder. “I'm putting money on it right now. Hundred bucks you'll be the first of us to have kids.”

A sickening feeling filled my stomach, causing it to churn. “Fuck that. The day I get married is the day I see the doctor about making sure that shit isn't possible.”

“A thousand,” Graham amended. “Thousand dollars.”

“Done. I will enjoy taking your money when Harlow pops one out.”

It wasn't as though I had an aversion to humans under the age of ten, I just . . . okay, I had an aversion to them. A strong one.

They had imaginary friends, which weirded the shit out of me. They never shut up. Constant babble about any-­ and everything, as long as it didn't make sense. They smelled. They were always covered in food. They sneezed on you. And they pooped on themselves and other ­people . . . including unsuspecting teenage mechanics holding them while their mom searched for her wallet.

No baby should be able to produce so much shit that it comes out of their clothes. It isn't natural. Almost a decade later, and I still had nightmares about it.

Anyone who wanted kids was out of their damn mind.

We pulled up to Jagger and Grey's warehouse—­since it had a big-­enough space for all of us—­just after Harlow's older sister and her family did. The glare she sent toward my car was enough to make me want to ditch the dinner.

“Do you think we could ask Harlow if we could switch sisters?”

Graham sighed as he opened the door to step out of my car. “If it makes you more comfortable . . . then no.”

“Asshole,” I mumbled under my breath as I stepped out, and pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the lock screen.

Something like disappointment settled in my stomach when there was nothing new, and I sighed through my nose as I put my phone away. My mind was already away from Harlow's terrifying sister, and back at Mama's Café. My thoughts on nothing but a journal full of words ­people just didn't say out loud . . .

My next step faltered when I looked up and caught Graham watching me.

“What are you doing?”

I let my eyes dart around us, then said in an unsure tone, “Walking . . .”

“You checked your phone every three minutes during the rehearsal, and twice while we were driving. I know what phone that is, Deac. Can't you keep it in your pants for a ­couple nights, for Knox?”

A disbelieving huff burst from my chest. “A ­couple nights? I haven't gotten laid in—­” I cut off quickly, and tried to think back to when the last time had been. “It's been almost a week.”

Graham's surprise didn't last. “Doesn't matter. It's Knox's rehearsal dinner and wedding. Put the phone away until after the wedding. Besides, you'll probably find a girl there tomorrow.”

I followed him toward the warehouse, but I was already itching to check my phone again.

This thing with the journal couldn't go on forever; it had already gone on long enough without someone else taking it. And I needed to know who it belonged to.

I owned two phones: one for family and friends, another I affectionately called “Candy” for the girls who fell in and out of my bed. It made things easier for me. I didn't want to have to worry about who might be calling when my personal phone rang. On the other hand, Candy was full of contacts that usually began with “Don't Answer!” and was a way for girls to feel like they could get in touch with me whenever they wanted, but really only could if I wanted them to. I'd been called an asshole for it on more than one occasion . . . I thought I was a genius.

Since I'd put the number to Candy in the journal that morning, I'd been stressing over whether or not I would ever hear from the owner of the journal. Considering how many women in Thatch had Candy's number, I figured there were three options: She already had my number and would know who had been writing to her as soon as she entered it into her phone—­and it would all be over then. She would already have my number, still contact me, and it would be over once the message popped up from a Don't Answer contact. Or we somehow wouldn't know each other, and this would continue . . . that is,
if
she decided to contact me at all.

But if I didn't hear from her by the next afternoon, I was going back to Mama's to look for the damn journal before getting ready for the wedding.

Charlie's car came into view then, as we turned into the alley of the warehouse, and my stress over hearing from the girl subsided as something else filled me.

For a year and a half, all I had wanted was to tell Charlie exactly what I thought of her—­what I thought of how everyone treated her. I'd thought it would feel like a weight was lifted once I finally did.

I'd been wrong.

Ever since she'd shut the door four days ago, and I'd left her car only halfway fixed, a nagging feeling had consumed me. I'd told myself at first that it was only because I was waiting for Jagger's call—­because I knew it would come. But as the days passed, I knew that wasn't it.

It was the look on Charlie's face after I'd finished laying into her.

Acknowledgment. Agreement. Defeat.

Her expression played through my mind on repeat, and each time I saw it, I felt like even more of a bastard.

Guilt swirled through me when we walked into the warehouse, and I looked over to see Charlie finishing setting up the table. She had her head down as ­people poured inside, trying to be invisible as she always did. When she glanced up and caught me watching her, she froze.

Her blue eyes pierced mine as the same emotions that had been haunting me flashed across her face.

Maybe if I hadn't been so damn worried about some girl committing suicide, I wouldn't have lashed out at her. Or maybe that was inevitable. Maybe I wouldn't have felt like shit for doing it if I hadn't been reading some other girl's deep thoughts all week. They were making me have feelings. I didn't like it.

“Look who's here,” Graham said under his breath. “Have you talked to her?”

“Who?” I asked without looking away from the girl across the room.

“Charlie,” he hissed. “Have you talked to her since last weekend at Mama's?”

Yeah, it was no question that I fucked up if I'd refused to tell Graham about my run-­in with Charlie on Monday.

“Uh, n—­”

“Deaton!”

I looked down as Keith came running through the room toward us, and held out my hand for him. “Hey, kid!”

“Guess who I am!” he shouted.

“Thousand bucks,” Graham whispered. I didn't have to be looking at him to know he was smirking.

“He's funny,” I murmured back defensively, then bent down to get on Keith's level. “Hmm, I don't know. Are you Iron Man again?”

“No!” Keith said, and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Guess again.”

“Spider Man? Magneto?” When he continued to shake his head, I said, “I'm running out of ideas here.”

“I'm Mommy's hot dog tonight!” he said as he puffed up his chest, the cheesiest grin covered his face.

“Oh gosh. It's hot
date
, buddy.”

My head snapped up at Charlie's voice, so close now to where we were, but she was staring at Keith, and very clearly avoiding looking at me.

“That's what I said!” Keith said in exasperation.

“Charlie,” I murmured as I stood.

She tried to smile, but it fell flat. That was when I noticed she was shaking. “Come on, it's time to go.”

“Go? You're not staying for dinner?”

Charlie looked up at Graham at his question, and shook her head firmly once. “No, I was just helping your parents set up in here. Keith and I are going out—­”

“Yeah! 'Cause I'm her hot date.”

“Right,” she said with a flash of a smile, and ran a hand through Keith's wild hair.

“You don't have to leave because you're not in the wedding,” Graham said. “I think Knox and Harlow wanted you here. We all want you here.”

Charlie pulled Keith closer to her, and took a step toward the doors. Her head tilted slightly and her eyes narrowed like she was studying Graham. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, unsure. “No, it's fine. We already have plans.”

“All right. See you tomorrow?”

She nodded faintly in response to Graham's question, but with each step she took away, her head was bowing down more and more—­already trying to be invisible.

I took a step forward, and reached out toward her. “Char—­”

She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes again.

Acknowledgment. Agreement. Defeat. And a warning—­clear as day in those blue eyes—­not to say anything more.

I dropped my hand as I choked back my next words. Whether they would have been an apology, or something else to hurt her more, I wasn't sure. With a stiff nod, I turned back around, and tried to ignore the disappointment radiating from Graham.

“Good effort.” Frustration leaked from his words.

“Whatever, man.”

Charlie

June 3, 2016

I
CREPT OUT
of the room I shared with Keith late that night, book in hand, and made my way to the living room for a little “me” time. Something that had already been a luxury since Keith was born, and something that had been nonexistent in the week and a half that I'd been working at Mama's Café.

But after everything since I'd moved home—­or, more accurately, all the crap with Deacon—­I needed this time.

I didn't care that I would be dead on my feet for my shift the next morning. Who needed sleep when there were other worlds to get lost in? Made-­up lives that you wished could be your own? Fictional men to swoon over—­ones that were in no way linked to Marvel Comics or a notebook almost a mile away in a locked-­up café?

I moved things out of the way in the fridge until I found my secret stash, and grabbed a cold bar of chocolate before walking back toward the couches.

I'd just gotten a lamp turned on and myself settled under a blanket when Grey plopped down next to me.

I froze from tearing open the wrapper for a few seconds, then slowly resumed what I had been doing as I watched her watching me.

“Hi,” I said warily, and handed her a small chunk.

“So who are you reading about tonight?” she asked as she popped the chocolate into her mouth. “Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty? Belle?”

“None of the above. I told you I don't read fairy tales. Did I wake you?”

She shook her head slowly as she chewed. “Aly just fell asleep a ­couple minutes before I heard you going through the fridge. He's cute,” she said suddenly, and gestured to the guy gracing the cover of the book on my lap.

My eyes narrowed in suspicion. Grey never wanted to talk about the books I read unless it was to make fun of them, and she was sitting and speaking stiffly. I knew her well enough to know she was wasting time before talking about something personal.

“If you've suddenly changed your mind and want to start reading romance, I'll get you a good one to start with.” When her face twisted, I continued. “That's what I thought. Why do I have a feeling you're down here for a reason?”

“What's going on between you and Deacon?”

Irrational, betraying heart.

I didn't want to feel anything for Deacon Carver other than the loathing he felt for me, and I hated that just hearing his name could cause this kind of chaos inside me.

My eyebrows rose in surprise at her blunt, unapologetic question.

“What do you mean?” I hoped my tone rang with naïveté rather than the unease I felt over having this conversation with her. I didn't want to talk about Deacon with
Deacon
, let alone Grey.

One of Grey's eyebrows rose slowly, and I knew in the look she gave me that I hadn't succeeded in seeming clueless. “Charlie.”

“What?” I asked defensively when she didn't continue. “There
isn't
anything going on between us, I don't know why you're even asking.”

“No? So I was imagining the hostility emanating from you when he was here fixing your car?”

“What host—­”

“And then I guess I just thought I saw you give him a look that could slay the world's strongest man earlier tonight?”