“Bad day, Deputy James?”
“Not at all.” I lifted my head and glared at Boone. He stood at the edge of my desk, sipping a cup of coffee even though it was just before 6:00 PM. A few weeks ago, during one of his rare conversational moods, he’d been complaining about not being able to sleep at night. I’d told him to quit drinking coffee after 3:00 PM.
“It’s almost six, Boone,” I said, returning my eyes to the file in front of me, if not the whole of my attention.
“It’s decaf, James. And why’re you in a shit mood?”
“I’m not.”
I was. But Boone and I didn’t talk much even on his chattiest days. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have with anyone, least of all at work, two hours past the end of my shift, with a roommate who barely said hi and goodbye.
I’d gone for a walk last night, and then I’d returned and laid next to Rae on her bed. She’d slept fitfully, but I hadn’t been able to sleep at all. I kept thinking about all those people who were obsessed with her, trying to break into her house, trying to get to her.
In particular, I thought about the man who she’d fought off with a curling iron. I’d looked him up. He had an arrest record three miles long. He’d brought rope and zip ties to her house. Chief among his charges were domestic abuse and sexual assault, and I could not stop thinking about it.
And then I thought about what she’d said, that her decisions were her own.
You get a say in what you do. You do not get a say in what I do.
I didn’t know how that worked. My parents didn’t love each other that way, neither did Jess and Duane from all outside appearances. They were partners, they made room for each other, they took each other’s wishes into account. Could I be in love with someone and not have a say in their life, their safety? Would I be okay with that? I didn’t think so. I wanted a say. And I wanted her to have a say in my life too.
Flipping through the file in front of me, I grimaced as my eyes moved over the image embedded in the printout. More tragedy today, and on a Sunday too. God rests, but death doesn’t. A multicar accident with one casualty, all because some teenagers were trying to pass a Toyota Corolla on a switchback.
Boone didn’t leave my desk right away. I sensed his loitering presence, heard him sip loudly from his cup of coffee. But eventually, he drifted, leaving me to my notes from Deputy Evans’s brief description of the event during our phone call. He’d been the first officer on the scene, which meant he was also on his way over to Mr. Rossi’s house right now to break the news about the man’s youngest daughter.
I swallowed around a lump, thinking about my sister Jess and her husband, Duane Winston. I still couldn’t believe she’d married him. He was . . . reckless. When they lived here, he drove too fast and had always pitched a hissy fit whenever I’d pulled him over for speeding.
Rather, for Duane it had been a hissy fit. The man didn’t say much, just glared like his eyeballs were made of lasers and my face was the target. But maybe, if he’d seen what I’d seen, if he’d been privy to the mountain of tragedy caused by taking roads too fast, he would be more careful, especially with my sister and nephew in the car.
I hope he’s careful now. I hope he keeps them safe. And I hope Jess lets him.
For the millionth time since leaving the carriage house before dawn, my thoughts turned to Rae. She wanted us to be people existing adjacent to each other with no overlap. She wanted easy and fun, a love affair without investment, without making room for each other, without compromising, without all the difficult work that built a foundation and helped it last. But I’d suspected this from the beginning, hadn’t I? Being with her was too easy.
This isn’t going to work.
Just the thought made me feel like I couldn’t breathe, yet it was the truth. This was what I’d been trying to avoid. But now I loved her, and I didn’t know how to stop or what to do. I wasn’t going to push her into making room for me in her life if she didn’t want to. She had to want me there. And she had to want a place—a say—in my life too.
Falling when I should’ve stayed upright.
We’d drift apart, I knew we would. There was nothing anchoring us together, nothing—
“Jackson James.”
I blinked, my eyes coming up to find Cletus and Jethro Winston standing where Boone had been just moments prior. Wait . . . that was a few moments ago, wasn’t it? What time was it?
I frowned, checking my watch, surprised when I saw the time. “It’s past seven.”
“So it is.” Jethro plucked the file from my hands, closed it, and set it on the desk. “Let’s go, James.”
I glanced between the two of them. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going for a beer,” Cletus said, giving me a somber nod. “But you should probably change first, seeing as how your shift ended three hours ago. You don’t want another violation thingy for wearing your uniform while off duty.”
I changed out of my uniform, but I had no intention of grabbing a beer with the Winston brothers. I thanked them for their offer and begged off, claiming it had been a long day. Once we were in the parking lot, they watched me walk over to my truck, slide inside, and attempt to start the engine. It wouldn’t turn over.
That’s when Cletus moseyed up and asked if I was having car trouble.
And now here I was, forty-five minutes later, sitting in Genie’s Country Western Bar, at a booth, Jethro and Cletus Winston staring at me from the other side, and I could not have been more surprised or perplexed by the evening’s events.
“How was work, Jackson?” Jethro asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since approaching me at the station. Like usual, he wore his smirky, careless, ghost of a smile.
“Fine,” I said, not wishing to discuss work with Jethro. I didn’t imagine he had much respect for law enforcement if his prior arrest record was anything to go by. “Why am I here?”
“Glad you asked.” Cletus pushed his beer to one side and placed his arms on the table, leaning forward. “We will now discuss your relationship with Ms. Ezra.”
I’m glad I wasn’t drinking anything as Cletus spoke, I’m sure I would’ve spit it out. “Excuse me?”
“You are excused.”
“No, Cletus.” My eyes cut to Jethro’s, then back to Cletus. “What—why would I be discussing Ms. Ezra with you two?”
He cleared his throat. “Firstly, in our culture, traditionally, men do not discuss the trials and tribulations of their romantic relationships with other men, not like the womenfolk do. I believe this leads to unnecessary angst, heartbreak, and the blockage of essential harmonizing hormones which aid mental wellness. You should talk to someone, and it should be us.”
“Oh really? Why you?”
“I was just getting to that. Secondly, you should discuss the matter with me because I have superior deductive reasoning skills. You should discuss the matter with Jethro”—he lifted a hand toward Jethro, like I couldn’t see the man right in front of me—“because he has expertise in the field of study you wish to traverse, wooing and marrying a Hollywood starlet and keeping her in a state of perpetual bliss. And you should discuss the matter with both of us because we have an excellent and proven track record maintaining healthy relationships with exceptional women, and also because you have no brothers.”