Page 4 of August Lane
“No, it’s not.” If she let Terry love her, she might love him back.
That would mean convincing herself that being the latest pit stop for his wandering eyes was enough to build a life on.
She’d leave that misery to Shirley, who was still wailing in the distance.
“I only took that necklace because you wanted me to. That’s all we ever did.
Say yes to each other when we should have been saying no. That’s not love. It’s just lazy.”
His lip curled. “So, you used me.”
Again, she thought of Birdie, who’d been buried three months ago today. This was how she’d chosen to mark the occasion, with a busted lip and a stomach full of whiskey, anything to dull the image of that open casket.
August sat on the ground, lowered her face to her palms, and muttered, “I don’t know. Probably.”
Terrance cursed beneath his breath. August looked up and spotted a police car easing along the curb. The lights were off, but Shirley rushed out of the house and pointed in August’s direction.
“Goddammit, girl!” Terrance yelled. “Why’d you call Bill?”
Shirley covered her face and started sobbing again.
“Midnight brawl,” a familiar voice drawled. “Ain’t you too old for this, August?”
August took her time meeting Bill Parnell’s eyes.
As always, his deputy sheriff’s uniform was wrinkled and two unfastened buttons away from respectability.
His cattleman hat, however, was pristine, blinding white against his ebony skin.
At some point, he’d probably told her a story about where it came from—some backwoods fairy tale that was completely unverifiable.
He extended his hand, beckoning her forward with a finger quirk.
She had the urge to defend herself, remind all these people that she was just a thirty-one-year-old woman having a bad night.
This was not a new chapter in that same old pitiful August Lane story they’d been telling themselves for years.
“I’m drunk,” she mumbled, then managed to stand on her own. But she stumbled, and he had to prop her up, anyway.
“Don’t say that too loud.” He guided her toward his cruiser.
“Then I’ll have to take you to the station instead of dropping you off at Birdie’s.
” His eyes widened as soon as he finished his sentence.
“Her old house. I mean… Shit, I’m sorry.
” He snatched the hat from his head and looked down as if they’d been transported to her grandmother’s graveside.
Birdie had been gone long enough for people to say her name in hushed tones, but also recently enough that no one could believe she wasn’t still rattling around the house where she’d lived for decades.
“Don’t take me there.” August kept her eyes averted so he wouldn’t see how panicked she was at the thought of sleeping in her old bedroom.
She hadn’t been back since the funeral. Birdie’s extended family had been in and out of the house—picking over her things, cleaning, crying.
And all of them had a bone to pick with August, the person they’d entrusted to take care of her.
August couldn’t deal with their questions.
She couldn’t handle their bitter comfort, like they resented being forced to offer any.
They hadn’t been brave enough to face Birdie’s mental decline and hated being around the person who had.
August slid into the back seat, slumped low, and closed her eyes. Bill slammed the car door closed, and the jolt made her stomach roll again. “Can we hurry up?” she grumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty. But I need a destination first.”
She told him her address, an apartment complex on the opposite side of Arcadia. He gave her a disapproving look. “How long have you been staying over there?”
August stifled a groan. This was the worst part about this place. You couldn’t even get arrested without people sticking their noses in business that wasn’t real business. “A few months,” she said. “It’s not as bad as people say.”
He sucked his teeth and turned on the ignition. August looked out the window, but the motion made her nausea worse. She closed her eyes again and listened to the radio. She wished it were louder. Sometimes she’d put on headphones and turn up the volume until her jaw ached from the vibrations.
“So, uh… Terrance has always been a little misguided when it comes to women. Should probably leave him alone until that divorce is final.”
“Done,” August said without opening her eyes. She fell silent, praying Bill would stop talking so she could focus on holding back her bile. But the next song ripped through her concentration like razor blades.
Bill shouted, “Oh ho!” and turned the volume up to a window-rattling level.
“Arcadia’s finest. One of ours plays on the radio, you gotta sing it.
That’s the rule. You know the words, right?
” He didn’t wait for her answer and started belting a strained, keyless soprano that made the agony of listening to Luke Randall sing “Another Love Song” infinitely worse.
She used to think this would get better. Eventually, she’d hear that song and listen to it like Bill did, as a familiar piece of fluffy nothing that drifted in and out of her life on the whims of a DJ. But now she knew it would never feel that way. Each time would be a new haunting.
You know the words, right? Of course she did. They were hers. At seventeen, she’d written one of the biggest country hits in the world. Then she’d given it away.
“You know…” Bill shook his head. “I love this kid, but I always figured he was a gridiron dummy back in the day. Just goes to show, you never know some folks.”
Bill pulled into the apartment complex and turned to face her. “Heard he’s coming to town for your mama’s concert. How cool will that be? Two local legends at once.” He frowned, studying her face. “You okay, August?”
The music was louder now that they had parked. Luke whined “ I just want to write a love song ,” just as August shoved the door open, pitched forward, and vomited.