I started forward, but found my way immediately blocked by both Billy and Cletus.
“Now, wait. Wait a minute.” Cletus held me by my upper arms, keeping me in place. “Just hold your horses.”
“Jennifer, please accept my apology. That was ungentlemanly. We shouldn’t have laughed.” This came from Billy, who hovered at my side. He lifted his hand like he wanted to place it on my shoulder, but instead pulled his fingers through his dark hair. “I’m very sorry.”
I glanced up at him and shrugged, a rigid smile on my face. “It’s no big deal, I’m used to it.”
I was used to it—being laughed at, being the butt of jokes—I didn’t know why I was acting so silly. It was no big deal. No. Big. Deal.
My words appeared to frustrate Billy because he frowned, his icy blue eyes warming as they moved over me. “You’re a nice kid. And you shouldn’t be used to people laughing at you. That’s not right.”
Cletus was holding very still, and was being uncharacteristically quiet, but his eyes were wide and watchful as they bounced between us.
I spoke without thinking, wanting to diffuse his guilt. “Oh, it’s fine. I’d rather make people laugh than make them cry.” Billy winced and I realized too late what I’d said: I’d made them laugh, and they’d made me cry.
“Ugh!” My face fell into my hands and now I was laughing. “I always say the wrong thing.”
“Maybe you just need practice,” Cletus said very carefully, his tone communicating that his words held more than one meaning.
I peered through my fingers and found Cletus and Billy looking at each other, something meaningful passing between them.
Billy sighed. Then he nodded. Then he turned his attention to me.
Cletus let go of my arms and took a step back, stuffing his fingers in his pockets. Billy, meanwhile, inserted himself in the space Cletus had just vacated.
“Maybe you just need practice,” Billy repeated Cletus’s words softly, his smile small and coaxing.
I studied him with bemusement, my hands falling from my face. I couldn’t think of anything to say, mostly because I didn’t understand what was happening. My gaze drifted to Cletus. He was leaning one shoulder against the wall and his eyes were studiously downcast, as though the hallway carpet was incredibly fascinating.
“Jenn,” Billy said, drawing my attention back to him and his earnest expression.
“Yes?”
“How about if I help you? I can help you practice.”
My mouth fell open and I’m sure my face communicated my alarm. “Why would you do that?” I asked before I could catch myself.
His smile widened and he looked at me like I was adorable.
Adorable.
Not a hot mess.
And that made my tender heart feel both more and less tender.
“Because you’re a nice person,” he said simply, shrugging and making me smile; but then he added with a glimmer of mischief behind his eyes, “And maybe, if you’re feeling generous, I’ll get a banana cake out of it.”
After having my freak-show in the hallway, and reluctantly accepting Billy Winston’s offer of help, I assisted Billy and Cletus in the kitchen as they divided up the desserts. Under Cletus’s watchful eye, Billy and I traded cell phone numbers so we could make plans. Then the three of us carried slices of cake and pie out to their family.
Call it bravery or call it temporary insanity; whatever it was, I made a point to bring Ashley and Drew their pie and cake.
Drew accepted his warily—as he had every right to do—and Ashley accepted hers with a small, private smile. Then I sat myself down next to Ashley, looked at Drew straight on, and said, “Now, getting back to our discussion, there’s no need for you to procure a pressure cooker. You can borrow mine.”
Ashley’s smile grew. “Excellent idea. Don’t you think so, Drew?”
Drew’s silver eyes narrowed on me. I met his gaze, using mine to (hopefully) communicate repentance and make a plea to start over.
Still squinting, Drew finally said, “It’s not like we need a pressure cooker year round. If we used Jennifer’s then we could all do our canning together, make quicker work of it.”
Ashley turned her friendly smile back to me. “Fantastic. Let’s do that. When do you harvest your fall garden?”
The relief I felt was considerable, because I’d been avoiding Drew Runous for over a year. It would be nice, not having to run the other direction each time I caught sight of him.
All things considered, the rest of the evening was surprisingly nice. The Winston siblings, like their momma, were genuinely kind. And the people they chose as partners were also lovely. Duane and Jessica made a cute couple; Ashley and Drew fit perfectly together; and how Jethro fussed over Sienna warmed my heart.
The evening was surprisingly nice despite not typically enjoying large groups of people. In fact, I usually avoided groups as a rule. Being homeschooled probably had something to do with it. Not all homeschoolers are this way, but my momma didn’t see the need for me to socialize with kids my age. Now, in my twenties, group dynamics felt alien and intimidating.
But once I relaxed and just allowed myself to be, being a part of this group—the Winston group—was easy. They didn’t stare or expect me to perform. I didn’t have to say another word once Ashley and I finished our conversation about canning. An hour passed where I didn’t say anything at all. I just listened, and blended, and enjoyed myself.
“Let the record show, never say never to Cletus Winston.” Cletus nodded once at his assertion, a smugly satisfied smile on his features.
At present, Cletus was walking me to my car. I’d lost track of time and when I realized it was after 10:00 PM, I made my excuses. He jumped up from his seat and offered to see me out, and so here we were.
I glanced at him and rolled my eyes. “Fine. You were right. I’ll never say never to Cletus Winston.”
His smile widened briefly, but then he cleared his throat and wiped all humor from his features. “We have a lesson on Monday and you have new homework.”
“I do?”
Cletus opened the driver’s side door of my car. “You do. This week, and once a day for the next month, you are going to change one thing.”
I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Just that. You are going to change one thing every day for the next month.”
“Change what?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”
I frowned at him, a bubble of discomfort making me squirm. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
His smile returned, but now it was sly. “Nope.”
“Cletus.”
“Nope.” He shook his head stubbornly. “No, ma’am. You have to decide. It can be anything, anything at all. Change the route you take to work, change the lipstick you wear, or go crazy and change your hair color. The only rule is, it has to be something you want to change. You have to want it, not your momma, not your daddy, not your dog, you.”
I glared at him. The freedom he gave me felt too unwieldy, too foreign. But it also felt exciting.
“I don’t have a dog,” I deadpanned.
“There’s an example. Change your doglessness.”
“Fine,” I finally said, both smirking and glaring as I slid into my car. “Fine. I’ll change my underwear.”
He barked a laugh and took a step back as I shut my door. I started the engine, and rolled down the window. “Now, don’t go crazy,” he teased.
I pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t see me smile as I reversed out of my parking spot. But as soon as I turned onto the main road, I let the grin loose. And I grinned almost the entire way home.
Almost . . . because as soon as I pulled into my parents’ driveway, the weight of my day—my day before bringing compassion cake to the Winston’s—caught up with me. My mother would be home. And so would my father. I still had to deal with the consequences of saying no to my mother.
With a heavy heart, I parked my car and forced myself to leave it.
Maybe they’re asleep.
But I knew they weren’t. The entryway light was on. My father always turned the entryway light off when he went to bed.
My foot just touched the porch landing when my father pulled open the front door, his expression thunderous.
“Jennifer Anne Sylvester, get yourself inside this house right now.”
I sighed quietly and nodded, walking past him through the door. My mother was waiting for me, dressed in her blue bathrobe, makeup still on her face.
“So glad you finally decided to come home.” Her arms were crossed and her eyes were a little wild; her voice was laced with barely contained hurt and fear. “Do you know how worried we were?”
“I’m sorry.” Guilt and disappointment—in myself—made it hard to breathe. I hated letting my mother down. “I should have texted and let you know—”
“No. You should have come straight home,” my father corrected, his tone both flat and furious. “You have no business being out this late.”
They stared at me, displeasure and irritation etched on their features. My stomach turned, I felt a little queasy.
My momma broke the heavy silence, her words dripping with frustration. “You’re in jeans, Jennifer. Are you trying to ruin everything? Everything we’ve worked for?”