Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(109)

He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”

“Apparently.” I said under my breath, It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon to be ex-Sylvester) on behalf of her daughter. It was up to Jenn to stand up to her mother, set and enforce boundaries. Jenn needed to be the one to call the shots. I knew that.

But I didn’t have to like it.

Maybe once we get married. . .

A knot of unease twisted in my stomach, adding a heaping helping of restlessness on top of my frustration.

Over Thanksgiving, we’d—

Well, I’d—

Damnit.

The truth was, we’d discussed marriage. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that. If or when she needed help planning the wedding, I surmised she would ask me.

But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. And when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.

Boy. Friend.

Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? Good lord.

Then again, in her defense, marriage wasn’t the only thing on her mind as of late. Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and on top of that, her momma was going through a tough time, seeing as how Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester was a real pain in the ass.

I’d hardly seen her for going on six weeks. When I did see her, it was either a Winston family affair where we had no privacy, or me showing up after work at the Donner Bakery. We’d fooled around a little—a very little—but mostly, Jenn had been exhausted.

Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, and maintained her homestead, plus car maintenance and absolutely no expectations.

That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of hopes. Unfulfilled hopes meant I may have been frustrated by the lack of Jenn’s time and attention, but I wasn’t allowing myself to dwell on it. I looked to the future, to a time when Jenn’s momma was less dependent, and folks hadn’t yet cheated on their New Year’s diets with baked goods.

In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.

But now, the time was night. New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time.

Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a sour expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.

But there was no Jennifer.

I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.

“Go on with the set if you want, I’m making that call and I can jump back in when I’m done.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case and then leaned it against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.

“Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”

I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say hi to Jenn from Drew on the off-chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say hi the next time I happened to see her.

Why did people do that? Send salutations through other people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed. If today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to “say hi” to Jenn, would have dropped my chances of being an unwilling messenger precipitously.

Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.

Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.

Useless.

If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.

Navigating the room easily, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.

Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall of the Green Valley community center, aiming for the front door and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passers-by and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.