The Perfect Stroke(11)
“I didn’t clean up. I just took my coveralls off.”
“And let your hair out of its prison.”
“My hair wasn’t in a prison,” I tell him, self-consciously pushing my fingers through it.
“It’s a crime to keep that hair covered up, sweetheart.”
“Listen, Gray…”
“It’s beautiful, like the color of a flame that shines in the moonlight. It reminds me of bonfires we have back home.”
I want to ridicule his words for being way too poetic, but instead they make the butterflies in my stomach jump around. The words should sound totally fake, like a man trying to get in a girl’s pants a little too hard. Instead, he makes them sound sincere, as if he truly believes it. Suddenly, the thick, curly monstrosity of hair on my head and my freckles don’t feel like a sore spot to me anymore, and that’s crazy. I can almost feel myself blush at the way he’s staring at me. Damn. I clear my throat, needing to pull this conversation back to even ground.
“Weren’t you supposed to tell me about your sisters?”
Something moves through his face and he watches me for a minute before leaning back against the cushioned seat in our booth. “What about them?”
“Were they named after colors, too?”
“Flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Yep. If you ask me, they got the better card in the draw.”
“Well, not necessarily. You’d be awful silly with the name Iris.”
“Point made. In any event, I have three sisters. All younger, all designed to drive each of us brothers batty, and all named after flowers.”
“Well, driving brothers batty is what sisters are supposed to do.”
“Do you do that to your brother?”
“I don’t have any, but if I did, I’m sure I’d make that my goal.”
“What about sisters? Or…”
“No one, just me.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
His apology is sincere, and the grave look on his face is testament to that, but it makes me feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t know me. Why would he be sorry? I shift in my chair, not sure how to react to this man. “It is what it is. So what’re your sister’s names? Daisy, Rose, and Iris?”
“Spoken like a woman who clearly doesn’t know my mother,” he says with a laugh.
“Okay, I’m almost afraid to ask… but what are they?”
“Petal, Maggie, and Mary. Mary being the youngest—eighteen.”
“Well, Petal is a little strange, but still it’s kind of pretty, I like it. Those aren’t bad names. I don’t even see flowers in them, though I guess Mary…”
“Short for Marigold.”
“Umm… okay, not horrid. And Maggie?”
“Magnolia.”
“Yikes. Okay, that one might be a little…”
“Named after the tree under which she was conceived at a free love rally.”
“Oh my.”
“Exactly.”
“Your mom must be quite the character.”
“She is. Are you going to ask about Petal?”
“I figured that one was self-explanatory.”
“Lotus Petal Lucas.”
“Umm…”
“There you go, that’s the look.”
“What look?”
“The look my brothers and sisters have seen every time someone asks our names.”
“So, I take it if you ever have kids, there will be no names after flowers or…”
“I doubt I’ll ever have kids, but Green did.”
“You don’t want kids?”
“I don’t want the wife that comes with them.”
“A wife doesn’t have to come with them exactly, not these days. My mom didn’t exactly stick around.”
“They’re still there somewhere, ready to cause trouble. Not worth it. Besides, my life isn’t one that would make having a kid easy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m on the road a lot.”
“You’re a salesman?”
He gets a strange look on his face. “Something like that. Anyway, I don’t really want to settle down, and kids definitely make you do that.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’m not sure what my life would have been like without Banger and this small town, so I can see that.”
“You’re happy here?”
“For the most part. I don’t have any complaints. And Claude might be horrible, but at least it’s not named after a tree I was conceived under. Then again, knowing my mother, she probably doesn’t know the tree nor the man who was there.”
“Banger wasn’t your real father?”
“He was, in every way that mattered,” I tell him, daring him to argue.