Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(92)
Endeavoring to suppress the simmering, constant void that had stalked me for the last thirty-one days, I studied the paint and did not dwell upon how much I missed and worried about Charlotte. I selected a few swatches from the wall. I compared one named True Taupe to another one named Faun. These two colors looked exactly the same. This realization had me growing more irritated than I had a right to be about paint swatches.
Disgusted, I put the two cards back in their holders and crossed my arms, determined to find white. Just white. Not eggshell, not steam, not cloud, and not fucking ecru either. Just. White.
These last few weeks hadn’t been easy. “Hindsight is 20/20” was a gentler phrase for the realization that one has been a total ass. I’d wanted to speak with Charlotte about Roscoe’s information, understand her perspective on our shared history, but I didn’t want to bring it up at the end of a long day, when she was tired, when she barely had enough energy for a quick text message exchange. We only spoke at the end of the day and all of hers were long ones. Thus, I’d said nothing and allowed color swatches to inflame my temper until my frustration reached a crescendo.
On the one hand, I didn’t deserve to be part of Charlotte’s or her kids’ lives.
On the other hand, what the fuck was I doing? This was a waste of time. Time I could’ve spent with Charlotte and Kimmy and Joshua and Sonya and that other one, earning my place, earning respect by showing up, rolling up my sleeves, and doing the work, just like Charlotte had done at The Pony.
Instead, here I was, morose and stilted, grumpy about the naming conventions of white paint.
That’s not why you’re grumpy.
My frown tightened into a scowl. Roscoe’s elucidating info dump wasn’t the only source of my tension. Worry about Charlotte’s lack of sleep, how much she carried and balanced, how distracted and exhausted she always sounded—especially recently—plagued me. It made me more and more restless to do something, to help, to step in and step up.
But the other worry also continued to plague me, holding me captive in a limbo of inaction. As much as I wanted to clear the air between us, ease my restlessness with action, to contribute, to lighten her burdens, I still worried how she and the kids would be treated, gossiped about, and shunned if someone spotted me at her house.
My desire to redeem myself and earn a place in their lives didn’t negate their safety and well-being.
Granted, her idea to excuse my visits as bookkeeping business for The Pony had merit, but I didn’t want to use that pretext unless my need to see her or her need to see me constituted an emergency. How many times would folks believe I needed “help with my books” before they turned the phrase into a euphemism and threw shade at Charlotte and her children? I reckoned three—four, if we were lucky. Squandering those two or three opportunities just so I could work on proving myself was entirely out of the question.
As I paced the paint aisle, I battled unsuccessfully to put a lid on my resentment.
Things would be so much easier if Charlotte would simply allow me to sell The Pony, donate an obscene amount of money to my mother’s former garden club, and—I dunno—make a show of getting baptized by one of those people in the white robes, or whatever those other fellas did who needed a big, splashy, public redemption.
If I didn’t find a way to visit her and the kids soon, to check on and help her without putting them at risk or misusing our one solid pretext, then I’d be left with little choice. I would take matters into my own hands, and with or without her agreement, I’d make a show of—
“Hank?”
My head whipped toward the sound of my name and I straightened, surprised to find Jackson James standing at the end of the aisle.
“Oh. Hey, Jackson.”
“Looking for paint?” he asked, strolling forward, a friendly smile on his stupid face.
I squinted at him. “No. I’m looking for the US presidential Chia Pets. Isn’t this the aisle?”
His smile didn’t fall, but he did press his lips together like he couldn’t allow himself to laugh at my sarcasm even though he found it amusing. “Nah. Just latex paint here. I think the US presidents are in aisle six.” He lifted his basket toward the back of the store. “In between plastic sheeting and paint thinner.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled, my attention snagging on the contents of his basket. “Are you patching a wall? What happened? One of your raging parties get out of hand?” Yep. More sarcasm from me.
Everyone knew Jackson James didn’t throw parties, or drink, or eat good-tasting food, or have fun. If he were a paint color, he’d be beige. If he were a food, he’d be dry, white toast. How a firecracker like Charlotte had ever dated his boring ass, I had no idea.
“No. I mean, yes. I am patching drywall, but it wasn’t a party,” he said, also glancing at his basket. “Rae and I were over at Charlotte's place last night for dinner, and—”
“Wait, what?” My feet carried me closer. He now had my full attention. “You were at Charlotte’s last night?” She hadn’t said anything in her text messages.
“Yeah. Rae’s only back in town for a bit. She’s got another shoot next week, but she wanted to see Charlotte. We brought her and the kids dinner. Frankie is sick, and we wanted—”
“Frankie is sick?” Alarm had me standing straighter and my focus narrowed on Jackson’s tired-looking eyes. Had he stayed, or had Raquel stayed, to help Charlotte? I hoped someone had stayed. “What do you mean, he’s sick? How sick? What does he have?”