“. . .[N]o varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
~Jennifer~
“I know you’re going through this silly phase of rebellion, and I understand wanting to try out the fashion fads, but could you please dress for work tomorrow? We have that photographer coming by the bakery and a Skype call with Jacqueline about the meeting in New York.”
My mother, looking harassed, threw herself into the chair across from me, slapping her notebook down on the counter and opening it to an earmarked page.
It was Friday, eleven days after my first kiss. My life would now be measured in days since my first kiss, because that’s how dually amazing and devastating it had been.
I hadn’t yet picked up my bananas from the store, and I had a long evening of special orders ahead of me. I was tired because I hadn’t been sleeping much.
I missed Cletus and I didn’t know how to stop missing him. Kissing him had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. Even before the kiss my feelings for him had grown tangled. I’d wanted to be with him all the time, talk to him about nonsense, listen to his ideas, likes, and troubles, and share mine.
Not helping matters: his body, and face, and voice, and eyes.
Crap.
Throwing myself into work only helped marginally, but I didn’t really have a choice. Fall was a busy time of the year for weddings in the Valley. Everyone wanted their photographs staged against the canvas of autumn colors.
“Jennifer? Did you hear me?”
Shaking myself from my musings, I nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll make sure I’m in costume tomorrow.” I made a mental note to set my alarm for thirty minutes earlier.
I’d been wearing comfortable clothes on a more regular basis since my date with Billy, both around town and to work. At present I was in a new pair of jeans and a T-shirt one of my pen pals from Germany had sent some years ago. I’d used it as a sleep shirt until just last week. This was the second time I’d worn it during the day or in public.
A fact that irked my mother to no end.
“Costume?” she asked, the sharpness of the word snagging my attention.
I glanced up from the wedding cake I was decorating—white fondant with yellow, purple, and red leaf accents—and met my mother’s glare.
“Yes. Costume.”
She made a sound similar to a huff, but it also had elements of a snort. “What are you talking about?”
“I just meant I’ll wear one of the yellow dresses, and I’ll do my hair and such.”
Her mouth fell open. “Are you telling me you think of your everyday clothes as a costume?”
I set down the tiny rolling pin I’d been using for the fondant on the counter and stared at my mother. We were alone and I was tired. And I was agitated. Therefore, I didn’t think twice about my response.
“Of course it’s a costume, Momma.”
“I thought you liked looking pretty?”
I paused, studying her, the stunned hurt in her eyes. I had two options, and neither struck me as very appealing. I could continue pretending like I enjoyed playing dress up every day. Or I could tell her the truth.
The last several weeks, fighting against her constant objections to my hair and clothing choices, had strained our relationship. But then, did we really have much of a relationship? My pen pals knew more about me—about my hopes and dreams—than my own mother.
I decided to tell her the truth. If I were in her shoes, I’d want the truth from my daughter. But I also wanted to be respectful, because she was my mother and she loved me, even though she didn’t really see me.
“Honestly, Momma? I don’t like those dresses, and they don’t make me feel pretty. They make me feel like a fool. They make me feel like I’m playing a part. I don’t like the color yellow and I don’t want my hair to be blonde. And that’s the truth.” I kept my tone cautiously calm because I didn’t want her to think I was insulting her choices or priorities, I wasn’t. I just wanted different for myself. I wanted to be honest, and I wanted her to listen and understand.
My mother’s face fell, disappointment shining in her eyes. Eventually, the disappointment became hurt, then frustration. “I guess I’m sorry, then. I’m sorry I wanted better for you than I had for myself. I guess I’m sorry you don’t like all the time and energy and countless hours I’ve put into building your brand, building you up to what you are.”
“It’s not me,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
“What? What did you say?”
“It’s not me. I’m not the Banana Cake Queen. I don’t like being a brand, I don’t like the attention, I don’t like having my picture taken, I don’t like serving people cake and having them gawk at me. I never wanted it. I never wanted any of it!” My voice had lifted to a shout as my confession built, one truth on top of another, one frustration bleeding into the next. I was a soda bottle that had been shaken for years, and the top had finally popped off.
She gasped, wincing as though I’d slapped her, and stared at me like I was a stranger. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester. What has gotten into you? You do not raise your voice to me.”
I swallowed the bubbling bitterness in the back of my throat. I wanted to honor my parents. I loved them. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But how was I supposed to breathe when I wasn’t even allowed to think?
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” She stood, drawing herself up, her chair scraping against the kitchen tile.
“I’m sorry I lifted my voice.” I was sorry.
She nodded, looking cautiously pacified. “And what else?”
“I’m not sorry I don’t like being the Banana Cake Queen. I feel like I’m a character in the theme park of my life, and it’s a lonely place to be. That’s the truth and you wanted to know.”
My mother stiffened, lifting her chin, and staring daggers of disillusionment at me. She picked up her notebook and clutched it to her chest.
“I have nothing to say to you if you’re going to behave this way.”
With that, she swept out of the room.
I stared at the chair where she’d sat. I stared for a long time, my chest aching with fear. I wasn’t afraid she’d disown me or toss me out. She wouldn’t. But she’d never look at me the same. I’d been an achievement she was proud of for so long, and I didn’t know where I fit in her life if I wasn’t her pride and joy.
Maybe I didn’t fit. And that thought made me cry.
Or maybe I cried because I was tired of being pathetic. Maybe I cried because I wasn’t what my momma wanted, and I wasn’t what Cletus wanted. Maybe I cried because I didn’t know who I was or what I really wanted.
My plan for last Monday had been to give Cletus the thumb drives. Unfortunately, at the time, I could only find four of the five data drives I’d hidden around the kitchen. After tearing the kitchen apart, I discovered the fifth hiding in a box of gluten-free flour. No one but me messed with the gluten-free stuff, so I decided to leave it there until . . .
Well, until such time as I crossed paths with Cletus again.
If our paths cross again.
That thought made me sad.
Regardless, last Monday I was going to give him the video copies, release him from our deal, then put my pride on the line once more and ask him out on a date. The cookies had been baked especially for the occasion. It was an old family recipe. Legend was, my grandfather Donner had wooed my grandmother with his vanilla cookies.
But Cletus didn’t want my cookies.
He wanted a sex-goddess with experience. He wanted a sex-goddess’s cookies.
I was a fool.
Since our final lesson, since that life-changing kiss, just the thought of him caused heart palpitations. I suffered from late-night insomnia, reliving the moment over and over. I frequently daydreamed about him, his mouth, how he’d held me, how amazing he’d felt. I’d caught myself more times than I could count touching my lips, remembering and wishing. If I had a nickel for every time I’d thought about how fantastic the kiss had been, I’d own all the nickels in the world. Every single nickel.
For Cletus, it had been tutoring. He’d been helping me practice. Poor, ignorant, inexperienced Jennifer Sylvester.
I didn’t want his help. I wanted . . . Well, I wanted him. And I wanted him to want me. Me. Just as I was. I wanted us to be equals.
But that is never going to happen.
I slid to the floor and pressed my face against a kitchen towel, crying for who I wasn’t. However, a while later, when the tears finally stopped, when my head ached and my eyes were scratchy, and the pity party was officially tiresome, I heard a little voice in the back of my head. This is pointless, Jenn. What are you actually going to do about it?
I stared at the cabinet in front of me and realized I was tired of feeling helpless. I wasn’t going to be helpless. Not anymore. I was taking control. I was going to figure things out, for myself, by myself. If I’d learned anything in the last few months, it was that I couldn’t live my life to make other people happy. So I was going to start there.
I needed to be true to myself.
By God, I was going to be true to myself!
But first, I needed to go pick up the bananas.
***
I used more bananas in a week than most people ate in six months. Usually, I picked up the bananas Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. But on this Friday I didn’t make it to the Piggly Wiggly until near closing time.
Between the three wedding cakes, other special orders for Saturday, and my mother’s visit—and my subsequent sob fiesta—I didn’t leave the bakery until 9:30 PM and the store closed at 10:00 PM.
I threw on a black sweater over my T-shirt because it was cold. The sweater was fitted, meant to be worn over the thin material of a dress, not the thicker cotton of a T-shirt. Therefore, it was a little tight around my chest.
Jeans, black sweater, and high heels—because that’s all I had with me—I quickly parked and rushed into the store. I was so singularly focused on making it to the produce department on time that I wasn’t watching where I was going. Coming out of the long grocery aisle, I collided with a solid wall of person and would have fallen on my backside if the wall hadn’t grabbed my arms to steady me.
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t looking.” I glanced up, ready to dash past, but all thoughts of bananas fled my mind as my eyes connected with the stern visage of my older brother.
I gaped at him.
And he glared at me, some emotion I couldn’t quite read flaring behind his blue eyes.
“Isaac.” I breathed his name, my heart giving a painful leap just before falling to my feet.
“Jenn.” He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more. But then his eyes dimmed and he released my arms. “Watch where you’re going.” Isaac glanced behind him.
He didn’t sound angry. He sounded carefully disinterested. And his apathy made my heart crack, a new kind of pain spreading through me like a shockwave.
“Hey, isn’t that your sister?”
I tore my eyes from my brother’s passive profile to the woman behind him. Tina Patterson, a stripper at the Pink Pony who worked with Hannah Townsend. But unlike Hannah, Tina was also a big fan of stirring up drama. It was well-known around town that she was frequently in the company of the Iron Wraiths.
To her left and right were two faces I didn’t recognize, but from the insignias on their leather jackets, they were also members of the motorcycle club.
“That’s your sister?” One of the men, a large, bald fella with the word Drill on his jacket, stepped forward and into my space. I backed away, but the man continued to advance.
I heard Tina laugh and the other man groan loudly, saying, “We don’t have time for this, Drill.”
“Just give me a minute, Catfish.” Drill placed his hand to my right on the aisle shelf, caging me in. “Hey, aren’t you the Banana Cake Queen?” His eyes moved down, then up my body.
“I’m . . . I’m Jennifer. Nice to meet you.” I stuck my hand out between us, unable to dissociate myself from ingrained good manners.
The one called Drill glanced at my hand and cracked a crooked and oddly charming smile as he slipped his palm against mine. “You are too fucking cute, Jennifer. I’d like to eat you up.”
“Oh, shit. No way.”
A new voice, one I recognized as Timothy King’s, called from down the aisle, drawing both Drill’s and my attention.
I sucked in a sharp breath and braced myself, because seeing Timothy forced my brain to move past the hurt of my brother’s indifference.
Incredibly aggressive, handsy, with a suspicious inability to hear the word “no,” Timothy King was a looker. I’d never been alone with him, as I’d never had a cause to be. But he’d cornered me outside the community center one evening, placed his hands on my body, and tried to kiss me. I’d been afraid then, because it was dusk and there weren’t many people in the parking lot, and I was afraid now.
“Hey.” Drill tugged on my hand, drawing my eyes back to him. His sharp gaze moved over my face and his grin waned. “You don’t like that guy?” He tilted his head toward Timothy who was almost even with us.
I didn’t answer, instead alternating my wide-eyed stare between the giant, bald biker with sharp blue eyes and Timothy King as he approached.
“Looky who we have here.” Timothy’s gaze moved down, then up my body, much like Drill’s had, and I tensed in revulsion.
Mysteriously, Drill’s perusal felt less threatening. It didn’t make much sense, since Drill was almost twice the size of Timothy. Where Tim was lanky and tall, Drill was even taller, but with the addition of rippling corded muscle. To put things into perspective, I was fairly certain his neck was the size of my waist.
“Back off, King.” Drill straightened, stepping slightly in front of me. “The lady doesn’t like you.”
“But I like the lady, and we’re old friends.” Timothy smirked, dipping his head to the side as though to catch my eye.
“Both of you, fuck off,” Isaac growled, his hand wrapping around my upper arm and tugging me to the side. I looked up and found my brother glaring at both men. “She’s off limits. Both of you.”
Drill held his hands up. “Hey, I get it. If my sister had that rack and those eyes, I wouldn’t want someone like me near her either.”
Timothy King crossed his arms, his eyes still moving over me, but remained silent.
Isaac frowned at the bikers, looking frustrated, then dragged me out of the aisle and away from their cluster. “I’ll meet y’all outside.”
“Twilight, we need to go.” This reminder came from the one called Catfish.
My brother nodded. “Yes, sir. Let me just see to this.”
This? Did my brother just call me a “this”?
“Fine. We’re leaving in five minutes, with or without you.”
Isaac didn’t answer, he just kept tugging me by the arm away from the other bikers. Five rows down, he made a sharp turn and released my arm. I twisted, backing away, sidestepping down the aisle. Movement behind him caught my attention; Tina had followed. She stood at the edge of the aisle, watching us with a smirk on her face.
“What are you doing?” Isaac scowled. He lifted his hands from his sides and shrugged. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m picking up bananas,” I said dumbly, explaining myself.
He huffed a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “At ten o’clock at night? By yourself?”
I nodded.
His gaze flickered over me. “And then what? Why are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?”
“With no modesty. Like a loose woman.”
I gaped, struggling to make sense of his words. “I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with this. I’m not dressed—”
“What the fuck would you call what you’re wearing?” Isaac spoke through clenched teeth, making me flinch.
Somewhere behind me a new voice chimed in with, “Clothes.”
I glanced over my shoulder and found Cletus peering around the end cap, a mask of clueless affability firmly in place. I blinked at him, stunned by his sudden appearance.
Cletus then added unnecessarily, “I am also wearing clothes.”
Isaac’s jaw ticked and he crossed his arms, refocusing his enraged glower on Cletus.
“Hey, Cletus.” Tina stepped forward, sliding next to Isaac and pressing her body against his. “How’s Duane doing?”
“Disease free,” Cletus responded easily. I felt him step just behind me—his presence hovering and reassuring—but still, what in tarnation is he doing here?
“Has he grown tired of Jess yet? Tell him I say hi,” Tina purred, ignoring Cletus’s implied insult. Or maybe she didn’t understand it.
Tina Patterson and Duane Winston had a long history of an on-again, off-again relationship. Over a year ago, Duane had called it off for good.
I heard the irritation in Cletus’s voice as he remarked, “You know what your biker name should be, Tina? Dirty Pie.”
“Don’t you mean cutie pie?” She slid her hand into my brother’s jacket.
“Nope. I mean Dirty Pie.”
“This is none of your business, Winston.” Isaac disentangled himself from Tina and stepped forward, grabbing my arm again. I was so stunned by the action, I stumbled forward. “This is between my sister and me.”
“I thought you didn’t have a sister.” Cletus quickly moved to my other side, but he didn’t put his hands on me. His gaze narrowed on where Isaac held my arm. Cletus’s mask of affability slipped, his eyes burning blue and hot.
“Fuck off,” Isaac growled to Cletus, then lowered his furious face to mine. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Does our father know you’re running around town, in the middle of the night, dressed like this?”
I flinched, confused and hurt and overwhelmed by his outrage. My brother hadn’t spoken to me in eighteen months. I’d been daydreaming about what we might talk about when the time came, how I might get through to him, reach him, the person he used to be.
Looking at him now, I saw no trace of the sweet boy I used to know, no trace of the boy who used to take me on hikes, the boy who was my best friend.
“What are you—”
“You are disgrace, Jennifer Anne. I can’t believe our parents are okay with this. God tells women, you are responsible for the lust you inspire in others.”
These were words I’d heard my father say on more than one occasion. From my father they were hurtful, but I could handle it. I was used to it. But from my brother, the words felt like barbed weapons, piercing my heart.
“I’m pretty sure God never said that,” Cletus announced flatly, reaching for Isaac’s hand, swiftly prying it from me, and inserting himself between us.
“Yes, He did,” my brother ground out.
“No. He didn’t,” Cletus continued. “God wouldn’t say something so stupid. The Creator of the heavens doesn’t care what her hair looks like, and He doesn’t care what she’s wearing. I’m pretty sure He’s got his hands full with more weighty matters, like dark matter, and black holes, and ISIS, and ignorant bikers of the criminal variety.”
“Winston, this is the last time I’ll ask you nicely to mind your own damn business,” Isaac seethed, his hands balling into fists.
“Besides,” Cletus went on philosophically, “you think those dresses your parents have her in don’t inspire lust? You think men all around these parts aren’t daydreaming about bending her over and lifting her skirt and—”
I gasped and, clearly forgetting myself, quickly covered Cletus’s mouth with my hand. But I was too late. Isaac shoved me to the side and lifted his fist, intent on pummeling the words from Cletus’s brain. A sound of fear and despair escaped my throat before I could catch it, and the world lurched forward in slow motion. I braced for his fist to make contact, wincing in terror.
But it didn’t happen.
Cletus blocked him, then leaned to the side in a remarkably agile movement for such a large man. Isaac ended up putting his fist through the shelf of canned goods, hitting his forehead in the process. Incensed and undaunted, he spun and walked right into Cletus’s left hook, and the sickening sound of bones crunching filled my ears. I covered my mouth to suppress another gasp as Cletus followed the first punch with a second, the momentum of which threw Isaac backward and against the shelves.
My brother fell to the ground, his head banging against the bottom shelf on the way down. Blood gushed from his nose, mouth, and a cut on his left eyebrow, flowing to his white shirt and leather jacket.
Tina stood to one side, gawking at Cletus.
But instinctual worry for my brother sent me rushing forward. “Oh no!”
Before I could reach Isaac, Cletus wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me from the floor.
“I have one more thing to say,” Cletus growled, my back pressed to his front, his beard against my temple. The quality of his voice—low with scarcely restrained rage—made me stiffen and grow still in his arms. The dangerous intensity behind his words sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine.
“Do you honestly think God would make a creature as lovely and talented and good as your sister, and then make the way she looks something sinful? Something to be ashamed of? No. He wouldn’t. If anything, your sister—her face, her body, her mind, and her heart—give glory to Him. And she shouldn’t be hidden. You don’t hide something that remarkable away from the world, like your parents have done, like you want to do. That’s the true sin.”
Then, immediately, Cletus turned me in his arms, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and announced, “Time to go.”