Beard Science(24)

Mrs. Simmons turned a horrified shade of white and the deli fell silent.

Cletus gave me a small, conspiratorial smile, then to a gaping Mrs. Bradly he said with a wink, “Keep the change.”





CHAPTER 11


“The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.”

 Charlotte Brontë



~Jennifer~

“Why’d you thank that horrible woman?” Cletus asked, unwrapping his sandwich. We were presently sitting at one of the public picnic tables just off old Cooper Road Trail. It was warm for October. I took advantage of the mild weather, opting to leave my yellow cardigan in my car.

“Who? You mean Scotia Simmons?” I asked, wiping my fingers on a napkin.

“Yep.” Cletus nodded, then took a big bite of his cheese steak.

“Did I thank her?” I tried to recall.

After exiting the mall to the parking lot, he’d pointed to his car—a Buick I didn’t recognize—and told me to follow him. He’d held my sandwich hostage as he’d strolled away. Reasoning I had no choice if I wanted to eat a dinner with personality, I conceded and followed Cletus and his new-to-me Buick up the mountain road to the trail turn off.

We parked. He waited for me to exit my car, walked us to a picnic table set right next to the mountain stream, and there we were.

“You did thank her,” he answered after he swallowed his bite. “She said something about you gaining weight and you said, ‘Thank you.’”

“Oh. That.” I shrugged. “She said I’d gained weight so I assumed she meant I was looking healthy.”

Cletus raised an eyebrow at this, staring at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Why would you do that? Clearly she was waving her obloquious flag.”

“What does obloquious mean?”

“It means she’s a hateful bitch.”

I started and my eyes widened at this, because I couldn’t remember him ever using such strong language before. And yet, some part of me felt relieved and grateful for his use of the words. I felt oddly vindicated and . . . supported. Like he was on my side.

Even so, I didn’t remark on his word choice, instead explaining my modus operandi. “I find that it makes everything nicer for me if I turn insults into compliments.”

He lowered his sandwich to the table. “You do this often?”

“Yes. All the time.”

“How often? Once a month?”

“No. Every day, usually,” I answered easily and honestly.

But then as he continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed and stern, I squirmed a tad under the weight of his glare. I realized abruptly how that sounded.

But that can’t be true. I’m not insulted daily.

. . . am I?

“Who is insulting you daily?”

I dropped my eyes to my sandwich, attempting to conduct a mental tally of the last month.

Yesterday morning, Momma said I was having “an ugly day.” The day before, my father said I had more hair than sense. The day before that, my father asked if my picture was next to the word stupid in the dictionary.

I counted back two weeks and, sure enough, each day included at least one or two episodes of my mother criticizing my appearance or my father commenting on my lack of brains. I frowned at my discovery, because it was a discovery, and attempted to parse through the suddenly less-than-ideal picture of my home life.

Was this actually my reality?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was. My parents spent a lot of time telling me how unlikeable I was. Why would they do that?

I couldn’t admit the truth to Cletus, because the truth made me pathetic, so I waved away his glower and forced a cheerful grin. “No one. Sorry. That came out wrong. I misspoke. No one is insulting me daily.”

My neck felt hot and itchy. I thought about taking another bite of my sandwich but decided against it, instead glancing out over the water to the cliff on the other side.

“Is it your daddy?”

I shook my head, even though—looking back now—my father was the main reason I’d developed this habit. “Don’t worry about it. I misspoke.”

“I don’t think you did, Jennifer. Is it your momma?” His voice softened and that only made me feel worse, like something pitiful.

I set my jaw and cleared my throat, standing from the table and walking to the edge of the stream.

“Jenn?” he called, pushing the issue.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said without turning around.

He was silent for a beat and I felt his eyes on my back. For some reason I was precariously close to crying. But that was silly. I was silly. I wasn’t hurt. I was fine.

And I was immensely relieved when Cletus heaved an exaggerated sigh and asked irritably, “What do you want to talk about?”

Without thinking too much about it, I responded, “If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?”

“Alaska,” he said immediately, drawing my attention back to his handsome face. He’d also abandoned his food and was in the process of walking over to me.

“Alaska? What’s in Alaska?”

He crossed his arms and stopped just three feet from where I stood, facing me. “The sky.”

“We have sky here, too.” I motioned to the blue expanse above our heads. “A whole stretch of it, right in front of you.”

“Yeah, but the sky in Alaska is bigger, closer,” he said with an edge of impatience; I got the sense he didn’t like my insistence that we change the subject. “Like the heavens are sitting on your doorstep, and going for a stroll among the clouds is entirely plausible, if you felt so inclined.”

Despite the hint of displeasure in his tone, his description of Alaska had me smiling. “I had no idea you liked the sky so much.”

“I do. I do like the sky. I like looking up and being surprised by what I see. It doesn’t happen too often, but when it does . . .” he paused, breathing out, his gaze moving over my face, “when it does I’m usually in Alaska.”

“The sky here isn’t surprising?” I thought about what might be meant by a surprising sky. I was usually inside all day, working at the bakery, and likely missed any sky-related events that might qualify as surprising.

“Not usually. Sure, it’s pretty.” He shrugged. “But pretty is boring. Give me the startling shades of an Alaskan dusk over the prosaic prettiness of a Tennessee sunset. That’s what I like.”

His description had me grinning wider and taking a step closer to him; I liked how his face lit up as he spoke about the Alaskan sky. “What do you mean, startling?” Really, I just wanted him to keep talking.

Cletus tilted his head back and forth in a considering manner. “In the spring, the sunsets are red and orange. But in the fall, they’re dark purple with streaks of lavender and indigo, the most beautiful color I’ve ever . . .” Cletus’s frown was subtle as he trailed off, and his eyes grew distant, like he was silently debating weighty matters.

Suddenly, he announced, “Your eyes aren’t purple. They’re blue. Dark blue.”

I squinted then, blinked rapidly, feeling suddenly self-conscious of my eyeballs and stumbled back a step. “I know that,” I stammered. “They just look purple sometimes.”

Cletus charged forward and secured my chin with his fingers, stepping close and holding me still. He examined my irises. “They’re reflective.”

“Pardon?” I’m sure I now resembled a startled animal.

“They reflect the opposite color that surrounds them. You wear green or yellow, they’re purple. But if you wear orange, they probably appear sky blue.”

I nodded lightly, careful to hold his gaze, not wanting him to stop touching me, not wanting to miss the opportunity to look at him up close. Or maybe I just wanted to be close to him. Either way, I liked the way his nearness made my tummy flutter and my chest feel tight.

“Something like that.” My voice cracked; I cleared my throat silently. “But if I wear black or white—”

“Then they’re true. Then they stop telling falsehoods.” His stare refocused, probed deeper, moving beyond the surface color of my irises to the person inside.

The full weight of Cletus’s piercing gaze, especially this close, was . . . unsettling. I flinched, just a little, but held my ground. Even so, a betraying blush rose to my cheeks. His eyes skimmed over my face; I saw him take note of my high color, the side of his mouth hitching in a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.

“Why’s your face so red?” he whispered, his eyes now hooded as they moved to my mouth.

“It’s hot out here,” I croaked, willing my legs to hold my weight.

At least, I was hot.

“Am I making you nervous?” His voice lowered an octave.

“Yes,” I answered with complete honesty.

His grin hitched higher as his fingers released my chin. Cletus’s thumb skimmed lightly down my neck in a purposeful slide, making me swallow reflexively, and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. But when he moved completely away and back to the picnic table, I felt the loss of him. I felt dizzy with it. And the dizziness was disorienting.

“I told you, you’re going to have to stop being scared of me sooner or later.” Cletus picked up his sandwich again, took a big bite, then spoke around the food, “Eee em nomon ealk anesis redklos.”