“I hope you guys have a good night,” she says. “And just remember our family owns a lot of farmland and equipment that can rip you to shreds and scatter the pieces across multiple fields, never to be found again.”
“I will keep that in mind. Sierra’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
“She is.” She smiles and goes back to the counter to get her food. I leave the bar, go upstairs to shower, and head to Sierra’s. Before I start my car, I find myself staring at my phone, voicemail pulled up. It’s like I’m possessed, doing something I know will cause harm.
I have no control.
I press play on the next message.
“I told my therapist that I still call you,” Sierra says. “And she said I need to stop. Calling and acting like you’re still alive won’t allow me to move on, she said. I’m not ready to move on yet and I don’t know why everyone acts like that’s a bad thing.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the date of the next voicemail. A month and a half goes by before she leaves another, and everything inside me tells me not to listen.
So I don’t. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the car, and roll out of the parking lot. The engine revs and I pass a slow truck, crossing over a double yellow line. Oh well. Really, I should be more careful. I have a record, one with a recent arrest. If I get an unforgiving cop having a bad day, a simple speeding ticket could set me back more than a few hundred bucks.
Sierra’s house isn’t far from the bar and I’m there in less than fifteen minutes. If I’d gone the speed limit, it might have taken longer than that though, to be fair. Her house is off a private drive, and I pass by the large antebellum-style plantation house on the way. The driveway to Sierra’s little brick house is gravel, unlike the stone-paved path that leads to the Belmont family mansion.
Being born into a family with money is unfathomable. Being born into one with money and history blows my mind. Since internet stalking Sierra’s ex wasn’t creepy enough, I went and looked up her family history as well.
If it weren’t for the Belmonts—the first Belmonts, that is—Summer Hill wouldn’t be here. They were the first to settle in this area, and though their establishment in the south was thanks to the slave trade, later Belmonts turned into abolitionists. The original farmhouse that Sierra resides in is rumored to have been part of the Underground Railroad, or so Wikipedia says.
I park next to Sierra’s BMW and get out, taking a minute to soak in what I can before going to her door. I know she has cats, likes to be outside and wants to start a garden—or at least she did at the time when she left that message. I have to push all that aside and pretend I don’t know anything else about her.
This old house is over a hundred years old and has gone through a series of renovations. The yard is neat but not professionally landscaped like the large white house. Light from the sinking sun reflects off crystals and gems hanging from the trees around the front, and what looks like sea glass is scattered amongst the rocks on either side of the sidewalk leading to the covered front porch.
Planters full of dried and dead plants hang in planter-boxes from the wooden rails of that very porch, long forgotten, but at one time loved. The boxes are hand-painted in bright colors, matching the pillows on the wicker lounge chairs on the porch. Wind chimes and old, metal and glass lanterns hang above them, swaying slightly in the thick, summer air.
I count three birdhouses and even more bird feeders hanging from the trees on my way to her front door. A miniature fairy garden is set up in the weed-filled stone circle around a large Angel Oak. I pause, lifting my head to see the full length of its twisted branches. More crystals and a wind chime made from antique spoons hang, looking out of place yet perfectly at home at the same time.
Is this part of why people around here think Sierra is weird? The eclectic style of the front yard is welcoming to me, though it’s hard to narrow down exactly why. Conforming to social norms and doing what you think you should do has never been my strong suit. I have a love/hate relationship with my inability to give a shit about what others think. Finding someone else who marches to the beat of their own drum is incredibly satisfying.
An old carriage lantern hangs by her front door in place of a porch light. My heart skips a beat when I knock on Sierra’s door. I’m never nervous around women. No one has ever mattered before. Not like Sierra.
It only takes a few seconds for her to answer the door. The sight of her takes my breath away. She’s wearing a pink dress with her hair down around her pretty face. A gray and black tabby cat is nestled in her arms, sleepily blinking at me.
“Hey,” she says and steps aside, welcoming me in, and then closes the door.
“Hi,” I say back.
Sierra bites her lip and looks down at the cat. “This is Tinkerbell.”
Right. Tinkerbell and Dolly are her cats. I remember that from her messages. “Oh, uh, hi Tinkerbell. She’s a good-looking cat.”
“Thanks. I think so, of course. But I’m biased. My other cat is super pretty too, but she’s not very friendly. She’s already hiding, but don’t take it personally. She only likes to be around people when she decides it’s okay. I can’t even pet her half the time.”
I nod, looking into Sierra’s eyes. She blinks and looks away, shaking her head.
“Sorry. I’m nervous and rambling,” she says.
“Don’t be nervous.” Sierra gives me a half-smile. “No pressure tonight, remember?”
“I remember.” She walks away from the front door, going into the living room. Her house is neat, smells amazing, and is decorated in a similar fashion to the front yard. While her walls are painted a light grey, splashes of color pop almost everywhere I look.
“So, what do you want to do tonight?” she asks and sits on the couch. Tinkerbell lazily moves from her arms, stretching and then settling on the arm of the couch next to Sierra.
“Whatever you want to do.” Seeing she’s barefoot, I take my shoes off and join her on the couch. “Did you eat yet?”
“I ate half a bag of shredded cheese,” she says and then laughs. I’m laughing right along with her. “I eat when I’m nervous.”
I lick my lips and lean in. “Do I make you nervous?”
Sierra inhales, making her large breasts rise under her dress. God, she’s gorgeous. “Yes.”
I could push her, have fun with it, and make her squirm. But I don’t. Because Sierra is different. So much different. Instead, I take her hand in mine, running my thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist.
“Don’t be nervous.”
She nods quickly and pushes her hair behind her ear.
“Did you make those dessert-ish things yet?”
“I actually just finished a batch before you got here. I made the dough this morning with the intention of bringing you some at the bar if you were working. The dough has to chill for a while,” she explains and gets up, leading me into her kitchen. “I stuck them in the oven to keep them warm.”
“Is that what smells so good in here?”
“It might be part of it. I put lemongrass oil into the diffuser. It’s my favorite scent. It has a nice, subtle sweetness to it, don’t you think?”