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CADENCE

I gaze out the window at the same green hills I’ve seen every day since I can remember. If I try hard, I can re-imagine the view to be full of skyscrapers, honking traffic, flashing lights, and crowds big enough to get lost in — all the things that I’ll never experience in Beaumont City, population 3214 and shrinking.

The founding brothers Beaumont and their ilk obviously had delusions of grandeur when they declared this little patch of fertile dirt a city . Or maybe the name was aspirational, and they dreamed of growing into it one day. I wish they had.

Imagine if they’d succeeded and this place had become a bustling metropolis? Would I be living in a high-rise with my bedroom in the clouds, close to the heavens? A tiny apartment would come with an even tinier list of chores, which would leave room for me to read a lot more books or maybe live a larger life with someone ultra-romantic and sexy… that certainly sounds like heaven. Would I like city living better or worse than a tiny cabin in the woods?

Maybe one day I’ll stretch my meager savings to try one or the other. It’s taking forever to get ahead with the pittance I earn between my work at the library and the allowance I get from dad to help out around the house with Mom. I’ll need a third job, if I’m ever going to be able to get where I want to be, but I don’t know where I’d find the time for that. Or the energy.

I sigh. Life’s hard enough without adding more strain. And I guess I’m lucky to be able to save as much as I do. At least I don’t need to buy food or pay rent while I’m living at home, and Dad generously pays for my car’s gas… I should be more grateful.

The brush in my hand snags on a knot in Mom’s hair, and the sudden loll of her head pulls my wandering mind back into awareness. I apologize at once and pay special attention to making sure the bristles run more smoothly. Unbothered, Mom stares straight ahead, her expression blank. Any ability to complain about her care was silenced over a dozen years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do my best to treat her well.

“There you go,” I say, as I pin the last loose end of her fading auburn hair into its signature bun. “All done.”

With the task of readying her for the day complete, I move around to view her from the front, but after one look at her appearance, there’s no denying that so much is still missing. There’s no light in her eyes, no color in her cheeks, and no warmth radiating from her in waves of love. It’s been so long since she looked like the woman I remember. She doesn’t even smell the same.

I lift her discontinued perfume from the dressing table and hold it to my nose. It doesn’t smell the same straight from the bottle as it had when I used to catch a whiff of it on her skin when she hugged me. The sheer absence of her soul these days makes my heart ache all the more for her once-comforting presence in my life. I lean forward and spritz a little of the precious scent below her ear, where her steady pulse pretends she’s still with us. I breathe in as I kiss her cheek and then lean back to view her again. If only she looked more alive.

I set down the fragrance bottle, open her long-untouched makeup drawer, and pull out her old blush and the bright lipstick she used to apply religiously each morning, as if nobody — not even her own family — was ever allowed to know the true nature of her smile. She doesn’t smile anymore, but if I could just make her look the way she used to…

She neither agrees nor disagrees to my request to make her over, so like every other task I perform to care for her, I do it anyway. It’s the only way to get through the days, and the longer we live this Groundhog Day lifestyle, the more I believe it’s for Dad’s benefit more than it is mine or Mom’s. We’d probably both be better off if she was in a home, but Dad would never agree to it. In sickness and in health has gripped him by the balls with love and guilt and grief. He won’t let go; can’t let go.

And so here we are. Stuck. Every day the same, spent trying to preserve someone who’s long gone, while my own life passes by unlived.

I sit back to assess my work, but if I was hoping for some semblance of warmth or animation in my mother’s face, I’ve only disappointed myself. Her blank expression is as vacant as ever, leaving no trace of her true essence.

The back door closes below. “Cadence?” My father’s voice calls before the lowest step creaks and his footsteps climb in an approach.

“I’m upstairs.” But he already knew that. Where else would I be?

The door swings open, and he gasps. “What have you done?” He marches over to the tissue box and yanks out a couple. “She’s got physiotherapy this morning. She can’t go into Morrinsville looking like one of the back-alley tramps that roam the streets there. People will think we’re mistreating her. How could you be so disrespectful?” He holds Mom’s head in place and rubs at her mouth, smearing the lipstick and making everything so much worse.

I push up from my stool and head into the adjacent bathroom to wet a facecloth. “I just wanted to see her face the way she made it up every day. She never looked like a tramp .” I say it quietly and keep my head down. Disagreeable eye contact will only be perceived as insubordination, which will incur wrath I don’t have the energy to suffer today. There’s no arguing with my father — well, no winning, anyway — so why bother fighting when I can smile, nod, and let it blow over? It’s the fastest, easiest path to regaining my peace.

“Are you accusing me of insulting your mother?” His tone expertly holds both a warning and a pre-judged admonishment, which I know from experience not to fuck with. Everyone in town who’s ever found themselves called into his office at the high school knows not to fuck with him when he uses his principal’s voice. It’s always followed by an ending the receiver won’t appreciate, because he has a knack for knowing exactly what you want and how he can ruin it for you.

“No, Daddy.” I shoo him away from Mom, brush the larger remnants of broken tissue from her lips, and gently wipe away the mess he’s made. “I know you want her to look respectable and dignified. I want that too.”

“Then don’t ever do that again.” He growls, snatches the lipstick off the dresser, and shoves it deep into his pocket. “Her oatmeal is cooling on the table,” he says once I’m done. “She doesn’t like it cold.”

Didn’t , I think to myself. I’m not sure Mom’s taste or temperature receptors in her mouth have been connected to any level of comprehension since Dad’s horse kicked nearly every functional ability she had clear out of her head. It was a horrific thing to have happened, and time hasn’t lessened the impact it’s had on our family, but out of love, we strive to keep our care for her as close as we can to the way she preferred to live. She was our everything, so what else can we do, right? This is a question I’ve been pondering a lot lately.

I move out of Dad’s way, and he lifts Mom into his arms for the journey downstairs. I can tell from the strain in his face and neck that it’s getting harder for him. I don’t mention it, because it’d only incite another argument, where he’d accuse me of disrespecting my mother by making her live below us on the bottom floor, like a peasant , but I’m going to finish clearing out the downstairs bedroom this week. At some point, his back is going to give out on him, and he won’t be able to defend his stubborn behavior.

If he feels guilty about her being alone on the ground floor, he could share the downstairs room with her — if he wanted to. He doesn’t, but he’ll never admit to it. I’m not sure he could handle being any more confronted by his loss. He can barely be around her as it is.

He sets her into the armchair at the table, and then, chore done , he grabs his car keys from the counter. “Michelle will be here to collect her for her appointment before you have to leave for the library.”

I nod and watch him kiss the top of Mom’s head, his supposedly loving gesture more driven by routine and duty than actual desire or emotion. There’s a resounding emptiness in it that makes me want to cry. Mom doesn’t even blink.

“Have a good day at work,” I say, putting on a brave smile.

“You too, Cupcake.” He pauses at the door. “Is that loathsome man still reading his way through the shelves?”

He’s talking about Daryl Winters, Beaumont City’s very handsome and incredibly misunderstood scapegoat for everyone’s misplaced judgments, and one of the only men in this county who’s curious and worldly enough to read beyond the realms of sports biographies and thrillers. He’s basically the only guy in town worth talking to if you want to hold a decent conversation, and our talks always leave me hopeful of one day experiencing even a fraction as much of the world as he has. It’s refreshing to share time with someone who thinks outside of boxes; who’s not limited by conventions or what others may think of him.

Nearly everyone around here disapproves of Daryl, but I’m grateful every time I see his face. Generous with his time and his smiles, that well-read mountain man makes me feel seen and valued like nobody else, and his brief visits to the library are always the highlight of my day. He’s my guiltiest pleasure, and if it wouldn’t shatter the fragile, hard-won stability my family has recreated since Mom’s accident, I would gladly strip myself bare and stroke that sweet and clever, silvering fox from his bearded face to his big-footed toes.

He is so many wonderful things. He’s smart and kind and thoughtful. And a retired rodeo champ, a computer whiz, a philanthropist… but none of that matters one bit to my father or the people of Beaumont City, so my secret yearnings will remain a fantasy. While he may come with a head full of intriguing brains and delightfully low-slung jeans full of promise, he also comes with a reputation — one that clashes violently with the protective layer of enforced chastity my father has built around me.

Daryl Horndog Winters is a filthy, perverted, womanizing ass-fucker, and the whole town knows it.

And that’s why a walk of shame from a night with him doesn’t just last the time it takes to walk a few blocks home the next morning, it lasts a lifetime. Any woman caught within arm’s reach of him is assumed to have questionable morals simply by association, so we’re all very aware that any local woman who actually succumbs to his salacious charm will suffer a far worse fate.

Sally Carruthers hooked up with him nearly four years ago and still can’t make eye contact with any of us for longer than two seconds before her face turns beetroot-crimson. She used to be one of the happiest, liveliest women in town. Now she’s basically converted to nun-hood in an attempt to redeem herself in the eyes of her neighbors, but no matter how she tries to rid herself of people’s judgment, she’s forever been tarred with a prickly shame-brush for willingly participating in Daryl’s debauchery.

Just last week, I asked if she’d like to see any of the new romance novels I received into the library. Like me, she used to love a good stack of smut, but instead of leaping for a chance to get at these rare, fresh reads, she ran straight out the door and left her uninspired quilting book on the counter, unissued. It’s so sad.

I once hoped to broker a friendship over our spicy common interest and dreamed that one day, we might be gal pals who shared our darkest and most intense secret desires. Then maybe I could’ve found out what it was like to be fucked in the ass. Or fucked at all, for that matter. Much to my annoyance, although my imagination is wild, I’m lacking any actual experience. I’m desperate for any crumbs of insight that’ll help me piece together the truth that must lie somewhere between the rumors I’ve heard and the plethora of spicy fiction I consume. But considering Sally no longer wants to admit she reads erotic tales, I doubt she’ll ever want to share her own.

I’d love to find out why, because apparently, sex with Daryl inspires a deep, permanent sort of remorse. Whatever he offers in the bedroom must be the very definition of true depravity. His allegedly non-missionary — and therefore too unorthodox for this small town — ways, are often spoken about in hushed whispers and giggles, and I would have managed to ignore it, but it’s really the only interesting thing anyone in this town ever talks about.

Which is one of the biggest fucking problems with small towns.

There’s very little a girl can do to escape her boredom around here without sending up a giant signal flare that brings in the gossips. They blow everything out of proportion, and then crank up the old rumor mill, to produce enough shit to smear your reputation in a campaign that’ll get you shunned six ways from Sunday.

If you want any peace or privacy while you’re stuck in Beaumont City, you must live like a saint. You can’t do anything too wild or fun or exciting. And you definitely can’t do Daryl.

Especially when your father is the highly respected school principal, who somehow still wields an unsettling amount of power over everyone who has ever graduated through the doors of Beaumont High, and their parents, and their parents’ parents. People speak of him as if he’s the backbone of this community, and he may well be, considering the effort he invests in others. Every man and his dog loves Vander Malone, and it’s really fucking confusing that lately, I find myself struggling to feel the same.

Whoever he manages to be around them; it’s not the same guy I see at home. If he treated me half as well as he does everyone else, I could see their point, but he doesn’t. I get constantly poked with the stern end of the principal stick, and I can’t actually remember the last time he did something supportive. He has not been the loving father and husband they all believe him to be in a long time. These days, he feels more like a thief who’s slowly but surely stealing my will to live, and he spends so much time avoiding his wife, I can’t understand how anyone could still think he cares for her at all. Nearly everyone seems to be under some illusion that he’s the best husband any woman in a vegetative state could ask for — if she had the capacity to speak — but it’s a lie.

The good townsfolk of Beaumont City are looking through a rose-colored mirage he’s painted over the truth, so they perceive things the way he wants them to. They seem to think he’s home all the time, devoted to Mom’s care, but he’s always elsewhere, earning his reputation as a pillar of the community instead of being around to prop up his own family. I would have thought actions speak louder than words, but it seems most people would rather believe his cheery narratives over what they see with their own eyes. And the worst part is, their warped perceptions and insane reverence of him have overflowed into my life, making it impossible for me to build any kind of sustainable bond with another human.

On those rare occasions when I get a break from Mom, if I try to be with anybody in a way that might subtly progress toward a bedroom, I end up back at home, isolated, and sighing my ass off in failure. Nobody in this town has the balls to besmirch, disgrace, or defame Vander James Malone’s sweet, innocent Cadence. Even strangers passing through get redirected and run out of town if they look my way with any interest. It’s like the whole town decided that poor man has been through enough, and they’ve collectively rendered me off-limits so he doesn’t acquire any added stress that may come of his helpful daughter needing to divide her time and loyalty between her family and some new love. I’m so cloaked in this town-wide protective layer of prevention, that I may be the only girl in town who can be alone Daryl Winters without everyone assuming we’re fucking.

Apparently my reputation as the most virtuous, untouchable goody-two-shoes in town is iron-clad enough to brush away of the deviant fuck-boy rumors that swirl around Daryl like flies. I mean, Daryl comes to the library every day it’s open, so there should be all sorts of shit being said about us, but there’s nary a whisper about his D going anywhere near my V — or my A, as would be assumed with him involved. I’m pretty sure the general belief must be that I would ever engage in that sort of activity with him, which is both a blessing and a curse, because despite nobody believing we’d hook up, I’m pretty sure we’d both be into it. I know I would.

So far, Daryl’s been too sweet to cross that line though. He knows the judgment a woman falls under by being with him, and he’d never allow me to befall that kind of aftermath.

I give my father a shrug. “If you’re talking about Daryl Winters, he’s still showing up to get a new book every day. Like clockwork.” I intentionally keep my tone far more nonchalant than it’d be if I expressed what I actually feel toward my favorite bearded eye candy. “He’s about halfway through his first wall of books. It’s kind of impressive.” I keep any real appreciation from my voice, but Dad still jumps on the tiny amount I did express.

An angry eleven creases deeply between his eyebrows as he plunges them downward. “There is nothing impressive about that man, Cadence.” His warning tone is back, and I sigh inwardly, where he can’t hear it and accuse me of active rebellion. “He’s not to be trusted, and if he tries anything with you — if he so much as looks at you the wrong way — I want to hear about it immediately. You understand?”

“Of course,” I say without pause, to avoid an unpleasant reaction. My father thinks he gets to decide what the wrong way is, but I’ll be the judge when it comes to how people treat me, and I happen to like the way Daryl looks at me. I wish he’d do more than look. I’d beg him, if I was bold enough, but it wouldn’t do any good. My father is an intimidating man in these parts, and it’s in his best interest to keep me single and home taking care of Mom through whatever means possible, so single and home I am. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m an acquired taste and not some stunning creature men fall instantly in love with, but I could be a legit fucking princess with a magical pussy and beer flowing from my nipples, and there still wouldn’t be a man in town willing to come up against the great, all-powerful, Vander James Malone.

“Good girl.” He lingers a moment, studying me, and then he smiles. “Your mother would be so proud of you, Cupcake.” He taps the doorframe a couple of times, as if there’s more he could say but can’t quite express. Instead, he nods once and heads out the door.

I wait until his tires are crunching the gravel on the driveway before I look Mom in her dead eyes and sigh. “Without me, he’d have to accept you’re gone and never coming back. He’d have to stop pretending this is all okay. He’d have to grieve you and let you go, the way I have. And he’d have to realize that even though your life was stopped short in the middle, it’s possible for our lives to move on, for mine to begin.”

I collect a spoonful of runny oatmeal and take it to Mom’s lips. Some vague muscle memory makes her receive it, and I wait until that same sort of reflex makes her swallow. “Oh Momma, it would be best for everyone if you went into a full-time care facility. He acts like it’s a kindness to keep you here, but the only person that’s serving is him.” I stir the oatmeal, feed her another spoonful, and sigh as I wipe the bit that dribbles from her mouth.

“He loves you so much, and I can understand why it might be hard for him to look at you, but that only leaves me to carry most of the burden for the decisions he’s made. He doesn’t want to be here, and I can hardly breathe out of line, let alone speak my mind. I love you, Mom, but I have to believe you would have wanted more for me. I feel like I’m trapped in one place, while time keeps moving on without me, and I’m terrified I’ll wake up in ten years, or twenty, or fifty, still having been a side character in someone else’s story instead of the main character in mine. How do I break free?”

I’m not expecting a response, but I get one. It doesn’t come from my mom or from anywhere outside of myself, it comes from within. It’s the one word that’s been circling in my mind for years now.

Leave .

“Easier said than done,” I mutter at the bowl of slop in my hand. “Who’s going to make sure Dad doesn’t flip out? What if he has another total breakdown?” The emotional rollercoaster was bad enough when this first happened, and things have finally settled into something manageable. Sort of. I let my head fall back with a growl. “The only one doing what they want here, is him. Did you always have to be the strong one before I unwillingly fell into the position?” I ask Mom. “I can’t remember; I wasn’t even twelve.”

I search her sweet face, trying to recall a time when the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t so glaringly absent. “It drives me crazy, Mom. Dad and I both had our hearts equally broken that day, but I had no other option to handle the repercussions as best I could because he refused to. How is it okay that a child was made the crutch for his masculine fragility? I was made to become an adult overnight — in every regard except gaining any actual authority over my life.”

I snort out my frustration and scrape the surplus oatmeal off the bottom of the spoon before taking it to Mom’s mouth. “His absolute minimal input around here is driving me mad. I swear, he’s used my kindness against me to create a system where I’m too exhausted and scared to challenge him about it. He knows I don’t want to have to put his already busted heart back together again any more than I want to be the one to break it beyond repair. So, I’ll just sit here and do my daughterly duties, like the good little girl everyone thinks I am, and he’ll never have to face his problems or take accountability for them. Gah! Why the fuck does he have this much power?”

I slam the empty bowl down on the table and push back my chair with a screech, because I know the answer.

He has that power because I fucking give it to him.

And suddenly, I’m done.

I’m done giving everything I have, only to get nothing in return. Worse than nothing. I’m being left in deficit. Drained. Robbed .

I support other people all the time, but there’s nobody supporting me. The one person who claims to love me, intentionally denies my needs and reinforces a narrative of charitable expectations, to keep me trapped in a never-ending cycle of giving, and it’s chewing through years of the life I should be out enjoying.

Well, no more.

I’m breaking out, and I know exactly who I want to help me do it. Daryl- the-horndog-ass-fucking-Winters, you had better be ready to swing your big-dick energy my way when you come to the library today.