Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(39)

“I get it. It doesn’t make it any less awkward,” I told him.

The uncomfortable vibe was logical on several levels.

Sometimes people who survived a tragedy were marked by it. There was a distinct Before and After in their family history. Some never returned to the before.

Culturally, there were the psychological constructs of classism to be considered. A judge and his well-to-do wife vs. rural West Virginia. There was an automatic divide between the you alls and the y’alls. The existence of privileges and protections that didn’t apply equally.

And of course then came the resulting isolation from a traumatic event that could leave people in their own impenetrable social bubble. No one else could possibly understand how they felt about their daughter’s disappearance. And they were surrounded by people here in Bootleg Springs who felt their own sense of ownership over the case.

Walls were necessary for survival sometimes.

I knew that better than anyone.

I slipped. Back to the stairwell, the blood, the sound of footsteps. The razor’s edge of fear sharper than any blade.

I felt the slow slide of nausea roll through me. But I brought myself back, calmly. I could tiptoe that line. I could remember without suffering. Much.

“Are you okay?” Jonah asked, concerned. “You went pale.”

“I guess I’m a little less steady than I thought.” It was the truth, though not necessarily for the reason he suspected.

He opened the passenger door for me, and I gratefully sat.

“I’m taking you home. We’re going to work out a training plan that fits your health, and then you’re taking a nap.”

“No sex? Ten whole minutes, and you’re still not sure you want to consummate our physical relationship? Sheesh. What’s a girl got to do?” I teased.

“Don’t be a brat. I don’t like seeing you go pale like that. You’re going to have to get used to having someone care.”

Get used to having someone care.

I’d used the physical distance from my family to insulate myself. They’d always worried about me. Adopted Shelby. Nerdy Shelby. I was more interested in reading books on the weekends than going out with friends and kissing boys. To be fair, the boys weren’t great kissers. And the friendships I had didn’t thrive on conversations about Myers-Briggs personality types that I found fascinating.

I was different, and I fit as best I could by keeping little pieces to myself.

“Maybe it was the fruit?” I mused.

“Your body is detoxing from artificial sweeteners,” he predicted.

He looked over his shoulder before easing onto Bathtub Gin Alley, and then he took my hand. Maybe he wasn’t ready to make a decision yet, but I could tell in which direction he was leaning. Reassured, I let the memories fade and focused on the feel of the sun on my skin through the open car windows.





*



Q. How do you handle a dispute with a neighbor?



Nadine Tucker: Step 1. The friendly nudge. “I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but could y’all do me a favor and not…” Step 2. The gentle warning. “Do you remember how we talked about this or are you touched in the head?” Step 3. “If you do that one more time, I will burn your life to the ground.” Step 4. I’ve never had to activate the nuclear option.





21





Jonah





“This is Build A Shine.” I pointed to the cedar-shingled building on our right. “You can flavor your own moonshine. Want to give it a try?”

My mother pressed a hand delicately to her mouth. She was hangover chic in khaki shorts, a soft polo, and very large sunglasses. “I think I’ll pass on that today.”

I chuckled. “You’re so hungover right now, aren’t you?”

I could feel her glaring through those sunglasses as we continued our stroll. “I’m trying to set a positive example for my son,” she complained.

“Mom, I’m thirty-one.”

“Not yet. Not ’til Saturday. Don’t age yourself faster. It just makes me older,” she reprimanded.

“You haven’t aged a day,” I told her.

“You’re a good boy, Jonah.”

“I learned from the best.”

We wandered up a side street and headed toward Main Street and the park. “This is an adorable town,” she observed. “Even hungover I can appreciate it. Did you know I got a nice little note typed up and slid under my door today?”

I could tell she was gearing up for something.

“They kicking you out already?” I teased.

“No, they just wanted to make sure I knew that my son kissed Shelby Thompson last night.”

“Mom!”

“Jonah!” she teased.

“The inn did not hand-deliver a gossip note to you,” I argued.

She smiled, and I slung my arm over her shoulder.

“Okay, maybe they didn’t deliver a note, but the front desk clerk and the girl who delivered my hangover care pack this morning both made sure to mention it.”

“I don’t know if it even means anything yet,” I said, anticipating the motherly concern. I’d gotten Shelby home, set her up with water and more pain relievers, and tucked her into bed for a nap. It made me feel useful. Being able to do something. To fix something or make it better.