The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(60)

“And babe,” he kept at me, “we got folks who work in the city and live in Matlock because they think it’s country living and they feel better about their carbon footprint when they buy honey from Trapper’s hives at the farmer’s market to put in their designer yogurt, but they drive all the way to the city every day. Those folks buy a gorgeous handmade card for four dollars from Macy’s. The rest of Matlock is firmly blue collar and they wouldn’t buy a four-dollar card even if they felt sorry for you because they can’t afford that shit.”

“It’s nice you’re explaining this, Toby, but I didn’t really care.”

“You did.”

“I really didn’t.”

“I call bullshit, Addie, ’cause you did,” he returned. “Yeah, Brooks getting taken was extreme, but most folks were just relieved that had a happy ending and pissed as shit at Stu for bein’ his usual total asshole for pulling that goddamned lunacy. No one looks down on you and no one pities you. Half the folks you live around are you. They live paycheck to paycheck and save for a vacation on a beach in Florida at a shitty-ass motel, which is what they can afford. Only thing they think about you is that you’re a good mom and you got hustle, doin’ extra, makin’ cards to put gas in your car.”

I thought about this.

And I thought that was what I’d think if I saw a cute card at a place like Macy’s, the owner told me who made them, and I knew it was a single mom struggling to make ends meet.

I’d think she had hustle.

And I’d admire that.

“You know, I ever met your fuckin’ father, I’d punch the asshole in the throat,” Toby rumbled in his pissed-off growl as he set us to moving again.

“What’s that about?” I asked, looking at his angry profile as I walked beside him.

“Because that shit’s about you doin’ without when you were a kid and people, probably bullies at school, givin’ you shit about it and that dug deep and planted roots, and now you gotta put the effort into plowing those motherfuckers out.”

Holy crap.

He was right.

“How do you know so much?”

“Because I was a kid with my own issues and I wasn’t bullied, but I watched those dicks at work, so I know how they played nasty.”

“Did you put a stop to it?”

He looked down at me.

He put a stop to it.

We both faced forward.

“What were your issues?” I asked as he halted us at an intersection across from the square.

He looked to the light, then to me.

“Nighttime talk. Not we’re-about-to-eat-ourselves-sick-at-the-Matlock-Christmas-Fair talk.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, glancing at the light.

His arm around me squeezed, so I tipped my head to look up at him again.

“I was a second son with an older brother who was perfect. Got all As and Bs. Total gearhead, workin’ side-by-side with Gramps and Dad and Dave at the garage from the minute he could lift a wrench. Captain of the football team, dating the homecoming queen. And all I remember of my mom was a sense she was pretty, anyone wears her perfume and I get a whiff, I immediately think of her and the fact she destroyed my father. We had so many ‘Aunt Whoevers’ growin’ up, I couldn’t even name them all. So that’s just a taste.”

“Oh,” I whispered, giving him a squeeze with the arm I had around him. “Definitely nighttime talk.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, glanced at the light and set us moving again.

I looked to the big town square that was two blocks long, one block wide and was now covered in colorful tents.

“Game plan,” I declared. “We find those chocolate nut clusters that Deanna was talking about and then we can meander.”

“I’m down with that,” Toby agreed.

“I think Deanna and Charlie might be here. Hang tight. I’ll text her and see if she’s located them yet.”

We’d made it to the square, so Toby guided us off the thoroughfare and I reached down to get my phone out of Brooks’s bag. I texted and shoved it into the back pocket of my jeans.

And it was then I realized I was feeling fine.

No.

I was feeling me.

To tell the truth, I’d actually forgotten who me was.

In fact, I didn’t think I was certain I knew who me was.

Until right then.

As crazy as this might sound, this centered around it being a vintage embroidered jacket day.

I wore one over a sage thermal Henley, the buttons at the collar I’d unbuttoned down to hint at cleavage and a thin rock ’n’ roll scarf that had fringed ends that hung to my thighs but was still warm since it was wool and long enough I could wrap it around twice. Also, my black stone-washed jeans, black cowboy boots, and I’d dug out my black oversized beret that made me look like a hippie, gypsy, Stevie Nicks rock ’n’ roll queen.

For his part, Toby was in his usual. Faded jeans. Boots. Long-sleeved vintage Eagles tee. Beat-up leather jacket. And he had on one of those awesome extra-large beanies that drooped at the back and made him look badass and dope.

And Brooklyn was no slouch. Over baby long johns he had baby jeans with some rips in them, a flannel shirt, a baby army jacket, and a beanie a lot like Toby’s that was orange and fit a lot snugger to his skull. On his feet, those yellow-tan baby work boots, and mittens that went with his hat were on his hands. All of this an awesome yard sale score I’d found at the home of one of those Matlock residents Toby was talking about. One who worked in the city.