Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(29)

“Oh, well, you know. Some big executive overruled that idea.” I shrugged, flipping on the faucet and reaching for his plate, ignoring the twinge of unidentified emotion making my chest feel too tight. “All press is good press, or something like that. They already try to pass me off as the bad girl of country, and I guess my new nickname, ‘Devil’s Daughter,’ doesn’t change that any, so . . .” Truth was, I hated the nickname. I hated it.

“Yeah, why’d they do that? Why dress you in all that black leather and such?” He accepted the wet plate I handed over, leaning his hip against the counter.

“I don’t know. Sex sells, maybe? When I signed with the label, I didn’t realize an image revamp was required. But I shouldn’t care. And it kind of makes it easier, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

I felt myself settle, relieved at the benign direction of the conversation. This felt comfortable, like old times, back when I was teaching music and drama at the high school and Jethro would come over on Sundays. I’d make him dinner, he’d fix up the house, and then I’d help him study, first for his GED and then later for his AA.

“Well, if I can wear a costume, play a part up there on stage—this vixen role they’ve defined for me, something so hugely different from the real me—it should make it easier to separate my real life from my stage life. Make sense?”

“I guess so.”

I handed over the big pan I’d just scraped clean and picked up the frying pan I’d used to make the squash flowers. “Anyway, letting them dictate the brand part means they let me dictate the music part. Every single one of the songs I wrote for this album was greenlit on the first pass, and that’s no small accomplishment with these people.”

“It also helps that you’re an amazing musician, Claire. Don’t forget about that.”

I suppressed the instinct to deny or deflect his statement, instead forcing myself to say, “Thank you, Jet. I appreciate that.” Look at me, I’ve matured.

“Oh my!” Jet reared back, his hand coming to his chest in a movement that could only be described as dainty. “Did you just accept a compliment? Did Claire McClure just accept a compliment? Did that just happen?”

I made a face at my friend while scrubbing the cast iron skillet, careful not to use soap. “Well, not if you’re going to give me shit about it, I won’t.”

He laughed, likely at my exasperated expression; exasperated expressions on other people were his favorite.

“Then I shall not give you shit. But I do want to mark this day down on my calendar as momentous. All it took was a big record contract, one platinum album, and a fancy trip to Italy for you to start putting on airs.”

I laughed too, flicking water at his face with my fingernails. “Shut your dumb face.”

He caught my wrist before I could flick any more water and pulled it down, lowering his voice to say, “Claire. That ain’t lady-like.”

I laughed harder. This was something Jethro and I used to chuckle over. Every so often, Ben would tell me I wasn’t behaving in a lady-like way. This used to irritate the heck out of Jethro, and so he’d make fun of Ben, and that would make Ben laugh, and then we’d all be laughing.

“Did I ever tell you, I loved it when you did that?”

“What?” He dried my hand and then released it, grinning at me.

“I loved how you diffused those situations with humor, intervened with Ben when I didn’t have the right words. Thank you for doing that, it meant a lot.”

Jethro’s grin waned, his gaze turning inward, introspective. “Is it weird that sometimes I felt like Ben and I were different species? I loved him, Lord knows I did, but he did things that made no sense to me.” Jethro seemed to pull himself from a memory, the side of his mouth curving good-naturedly. “Like when he’d say that shit to you, as though he was your father or drill sergeant instead of your fiancé. Used to piss me off, honestly.”

“No, not weird. I get it.” I flipped off the water, taking the towel out of Jethro’s hands to dry my own. “His disappointment often caught me off guard too. Like, one time, I was painting my toenails in the living room and it made him mad.”

“Exactly. I remember once he threw a fit because I ordered him a hamburger with cheddar cheese instead of Swiss. But then, I’d fuck up in a big way—like huge—and he’d forgive me right on the spot, wouldn’t even get mad. Like he’d expected it and had just been waiting there, ready to extend grace.”

I bit the inside of my lip, studying the laugh lines around Jet’s eyes, feeling like we’d both been abruptly caught in a rising tide of melancholy. But at least we were together . . . Except, were we? Really?

Jethro missed Ben. He still missed Ben a lot. Whereas, I didn’t. I didn’t feel the grief of a wife losing her husband, and what did that say about me?

I’d struggled for so long to miss him. I’d talk about him wistfully to folks, trying to force it, saying all the right things. But ultimately, I felt like a traitor for not missing him more, guilty about not being devastated, which—in the end—devastated me.

Currently inspecting me just as he’d done at the dining room table, like he was looking for something, Jethro had his mouth as though a thought sat on the tip of his tongue. I stood still, meeting his gaze, no longer panicked by whatever it was he was looking for.