Chapter 10Gage

T

he overhead sun is scorching, too hot for what’s supposed to be late summer. I peel off my black T-shirt, which absorbs the heat like a sponge, and tuck it under my arm as I walk out on the dock. Barrett’s grandparents’ pond is the perfect place to spend such a day, diving in and out of the cool water and laying on one of the long plastic floats soaking up the rays.

A flash of red catches my attention. Rayne sits on the farthest edge, kicking her feet in the water. Clouds of tiny droplets spray the air with each foot lift. Her brown hair hangs loose, barely past her shoulders and curlier than I remember, meeting the back of her red tank top, which is open lengthwise down the middle, laced together in a crisscross pattern with a black fabric strip. Peeks of skin, sun-kissed and coppery brown, show through.

She must be expecting Preston. I glance around, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so I walk toward her and take a seat. She looks over and smiles, her lips a perfect match to her shirt.

“Hey, Gage. I’ve been waiting on you.” Her voice is mellow, almost musical.

I narrow my eyes. “Waiting on me? Why?”

“Because, silly, I brought you something.” She pulls a large picnic basket onto her lap and rifles inside until she locates a round pie tin. It’s covered in foil. She sets the basket to the side and folds the top partway back. The crust is a golden brown, and when she digs the fork in, crimson fruit and filling pours out. She rakes on a large bite and extends it in my direction. “Cherry pie. I knew how much you wanted some.”

Shouldn’t she be waiting on Preston? Having a picnic with him? Still, my mouth waters at the sight of that pie. It looks so good, I can’t resist, so I lean forward, mouth open.

One taste won’t hurt.

The sweet cherries are almost on my tongue when the wooden board I’m sitting on unexpectedly gives way and cracks down the middle, the jarring movement sending me into the pond headfirst. I flail my arms against the water, bursting back through the surface.

My breath escapes me, my heart beating 90 miles a minute. The red digits of the alarm clock say 7:32 AM as I sit straight up in my bed, the covers tousled and half hanging off the side, my pillow on the carpet.

A small sliver of sunlight peeks through the six-inch gap of the open window, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness while the memories of last night filter in. Preston and Rayne’s first date. Our chance meeting in the kitchen. That cherry pie reference.

So that’s where the crazy dream came from.

I fumble off the mattress and slip on the pair of gray basketball shorts and navy T-shirt that are slung over the desk chair. The hallway is empty, the entire house quiet. Preston’s door is still shut. No doubt he’s asleep after that late night they all had by the pool. When his Mustang pulled out a few minutes before 11, I’d mistakenly thought that’d be the end of it. But Jaycee and Barrett stayed, moving back and forth between the shallow end and the attached hot tub, and within ten minutes, were joined again by a solo Preston. That’s where they all stayed until about 1 AM, when Mom and Dad came home and interrupted their private party. After that, it was finally quiet enough to fall asleep.

I trudge downstairs and look into the garage. Dad’s car is gone. Usually one Sunday a month they get up early and head to the country club to have brunch with friends. Sometimes Mom enjoys a few spa services while Dad takes in a round of golf. And if that’s where they are then…

I walk through the back hallway to the kitchen. It’s dark. Abandoned.

Exactly what I thought. No breakfast.

My stomach growls in protest so I grab my wallet and head out the front door. The weekend farmers’ market runs until noon, and lots of people talk about how much good food’s available. Here’s hoping they didn’t exaggerate and that the quick half-mile walk will be worth it.

People crowd the pavilion, the monotonous hum of their voices creating an electrified static. Like bees buzzing in a hive. Occasionally, one of the old men gathered around the produce crates laughs out loud as a sort of punctuation mark to the whole back-and-forth. Vendors line the edges with coolers of free-range eggs and gallon jugs of fresh milk from the dairy. Bushel baskets of red tomatoes, strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries seamlessly merge with truck beds brimming with shucked ears of corn and green okra pods. On the outskirts of the crowd, food trucks serve a variety of hot foods and coffee.

For a minute I almost feel as if I’m part of something good. Decent. Wholesome.

Almost.

Mrs. Knight, loving grandmother of four by declaration and gossiping old biddy by reputation, hunches over a tub of fresh-cut flowers, chatting with the lady by the cash register. “Why Preston Howard decided to date her is a mystery to most of us. I mean, she’s a sweet girl, bless her heart, but she ain’t…”

The hairs bristle on my neck as I push through the crowd, heading for the briny sweetness of maple bacon floating in the air. I finally make it to the large chalkboard menu standing out front of the food truck when I see her.

Rayne sits on the decorative fountain’s stone wall, cross-legged, eating a pile of biscuits and gravy. I walk over and take a seat beside her, ignoring the persistent protests gurgling from my belly.

“You might want to feed that.” She smiles and points to my stomach. “He sounds angry.”

“Very angry. Irate even.” The smile drops from my face. “Okay, I’m starving. There was no breakfast at home.”

She pouts and traces her finger down her cheek like a tear. “Aw, poor baby. These biscuits and gravy sure are good, though.” She shoves another mouthful in, and then licks the fork up and down.

“You dirty, dirty tease.”

Her shoulders collapse as she blows out a loud breath, pretending to send up the white flag. “I guess I can share.” Without warning, she plunges a forkful of biscuits dripping with gravy in my mouth, and I have to slap my hand over my lips to keep it all in.

She forks another bite, this time putting it in her mouth, and smiles as she chews. The morning sun glints off the strawberry blonde highlights that mix with her brown hair, which is pulled up in a messy bun. Unlike last night, she doesn’t have on a stitch of make-up and for the first time, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose is visible.

This is a wild and wonderful girl. Most of the ones I’ve ever met would’ve licked the pavement before sharing a utensil with me, but then there’s Rayne, completely unfazed, scarfing down her breakfast like she’s perfectly comfortable sitting here with me.

I swallow and clear my throat. “So, what’s the verdict on last night? Good first date?”

She nods and presses her lips together in a firm line, the response a little more lackluster than I anticipated. “Yeah. It was… fine.” Most of Preston’s first dates ended with the girl all high-pitched and giddy, fawning all over him and asking about “next time.” But Rayne’s staring at me as if there’s a lemon lodged under her tongue saying the mother of all qualifying words. Fine.

Before I can ask, Mrs. McAlister interrupts us, sprinting toward Rayne, waving one hand in the air while clutching a plastic clamshell container of blueberries in the other.

“Rayne?” She screeches. “Bless your heart, hun, I saw you over here with…” She pauses a beat and stares at me with dead eyes. “Preston’s brother… and I just had to tell you to tell your Mama to buy some of that stain cleaner in the purple bottle. It’s on the top shelf at the Piggly Wiggly. It’ll get that tea stain right outta the crotch of those—”

“Thanks. I’ll tell her,” Rayne says, her eyes expanding to three times their normal size as she flits them between me and Mrs. McAlister. Pink swirls appear in her cheeks and reach down her neck.

“Hey, isn’t that Mrs. Knight over there at the vegetable truck?” I butt in, pointing to the 1950-something black Ford that’s backed in on the pavilion’s far edge. “There’s a good deal on zucchini today—four for a dollar—and I heard her saying earlier she was going to buy him out.”

She whirls around, grinding her fists into her hip bones, then blows out a loud breath to match her foot tapping. “That greedy hussy thinks the world revolves around her. She’s not gonna get all my zucchini.” With a quick glance over her shoulder to remind Rayne about the stain treatment, she stomps off in a quest for reasonably-priced veggies.

“So…” I nudge Rayne’s knee with mine. “Fine, huh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have the time, if you have the biscuits.”

Five minutes later, she’s re-enacted the entire tea-in-the-lap incident, demonstrating with frenzied hand gestures how everyone basically assaulted her crotch in an attempt to get it all cleaned up. In her words, a freaking fiasco.

By the time she finishes the story, every biscuit crumb has vanished and my sides ache from doubling over in laughter.

The entire time, I keep thinking how damn lucky my brother is.