When in Rome(42)

“They both died when I was ten.” I swallow. “They were big outdoorsy people and loved to go on extreme hikes for vacations. There was a freak accident while they were camping for their anniversary in Colorado. Storm came out of nowhere…and…there was a lot of lightning, and well, they didn’t make it off the mountain. My grandma took over guardianship and raised me and my sisters after that.”

Amelia’s hand drops to mine and she squeezes. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is nothing but gentleness. And the way she’s looking at me, it’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that. Like she wishes she could take care of me. The skin of her hand is soft, and the smell of her bodywash is something warm and comforting, and because I suddenly find myself wanting to lean into her and kiss a line up her exposed throat, I stand up. Pulling my hand out from hers, I head into the kitchen just behind the sofa. There. A much-needed barrier.

“It was a long time ago. No need to be sorry for anything.” Where’s my metal trash can? I’ll happily climb inside and pull down the lid right now, because I like being Oscar the Grouch. That trash can is comfy, and I’ve really made it homey in there. Keeps strangers out, and even better, keeps beautiful singers who will only treat my heart like an all-you-can-eat buffet at a distance.

She hesitates a moment. “Okay. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“Nope,” I interrupt while slapping my baseball hat back on my head, knowing she was going to offer to talk more about it. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is talk. About anything. Ever. Words make me uncomfortable. And why would I share anything with her when she’ll be gone before I know it?

She laughs lightly—but not with amusement. It’s more like bewilderment. “I don’t know what to think about you, Noah.”

I pick up my keys. “Just don’t think about me at all and you’ll be fine.” I want to look back at her, which is why I don’t. “I’ll be back late. There’s leftover vegetable stew in the fridge. Don’t take any more sleeping pills. Oh, and by the way.” I pause and give into temptation, looking back at her wide puppy dog eyes one last time tonight. “You can’t have my pancake recipe. It’s a secret.”





Chapter 16


    Noah


After parking my truck, I walk to The Pie Shop, and see that my sisters have already beaten me here. It’s dark outside so I’m able to see a straight shot into the lit-up shop, card table in the center of the usually open area, junk food on the countertop, and my sisters all gathered around the table drinking and laughing. It’s Saturday night, aka our night to get together and play hearts. We’ve been doing it since I came back to town three years ago. And since none of us ever have anything to do on the weekend (singletons party of four) we rarely miss a Saturday night. Despite the fact that we’re pretty much on display, it’s after business hours, and the town knows not to disturb us. Because if there’s anything citizens of Rome, Kentucky, love, it’s familial traditions. No way in hell they’d stand in the way of that.

I open the door and step inside to the cheers and whistles of my overzealous baby sisters. “There he is! Casanova!” yells Emily, with her hands cupped around her mouth.

“No! Not Casanova…something more tragic and brooding. Romeo, for sure,” says Madison.

I flip them all off and go over to the counter, where I set down the case of beer I picked up on the way in. It looks like each of my sisters brought a case, too, so I take this one into the back to stick in the fridge for next week. When I return to the shop front, my sisters are still debating my nickname. They think they are absolutely hilarious.

Emily is kicked back with her tube-socked feet up on the card table, catching jelly beans in her mouth in between debates. Annie is sitting cross-legged at the table, reading a book and minding her own business as usual. And Madison is sitting on the card table, painting her toenails. She always keeps nail polish in her purse for moments like this.

“Gross,” I say, coming over and taking the brush from her hand, returning it to the bottle, and screwing on the lid. “Now the shop is going to smell like this shit tomorrow.”

She sticks her tongue out at me acting more like the children she teaches than an adult. Then again, teaching has always seemed like an odd career choice for her. She’s always loved to cook—even teaches a cooking class one night a week during the winter—and I always thought she’d end up going to culinary school. Instead, she surprised us all by staying in Rome and following in Emily’s footsteps, becoming an elementary-school teacher. Sometimes I worry that Madison adheres too much to what Emily wants—even down to both teaching at the same school—when actually she’s more fit to something freer. More explorative.

“You’re just annoyed because we gave you a nickname, Lover Boy,” says Madison.

“Don’t call me Lover Boy.” Well, shoot. That was a mistake. I know better than to tell these ladies not to do anything, it just makes them want to do it that much harder and with greedy smiles on their faces. Look at them. Their eyes are glowing now. Annoying me is their calling.

Even quiet Annie shuts her book and plays along. “Why not, Lover Boy?”

I groan and grab a beer from behind me on the counter. I’d leave if I didn’t love them so much.