Oh good Lord!
I closed my eyes, scrunching my face and shaking my head. “This is a joke, right? Jethro set this up? He’s seeking revenge because I made him tell the Tanner twins story at Christmas.”
“No. This is not a joke. I know I sound crazy, I know I do. I mean, I’m twenty-two and I live at home with my parents. Look at me. I’m a joke. I’m the Banana Cake lady. No one wants to marry the Banana Cake lady. But Cletus, I work seventy hours a week at least. When would I meet anybody I don’t already know? Someone who doesn’t think of me as a joke? Plus my father would never let me leave the house if he knew I was going on a date.” Jennifer’s voice cracked with emotion.
Crap.
She’s going to cry.
This was a situation that required neutralizing. I placed my hand over hers and gave her a squeeze.
“There, there.” Fruit cake. “Calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she screeched, wrenching her hands away. “I’m always calm. I always do as I’m told. I just want this one thing, this one thing for myself. Doesn’t everybody want to find someone? I don’t need love, just respect would do. And don’t most people want a family? Then why is it wrong when I want it? Why does that make me crazy?”
“It’s not the wanting part that makes you crazy. It’s the blackmailing-me-into-marrying-you-and-giving-you-a-baby that brings your mental health into question.”
Jennifer straightened her spine, her full lips parting in what looked like confusion at first, then horror. “Oh no, Cletus. No, no. I don’t want to marry you. No, not you. You misunderstand, I want you to find me a husband. I would never marry you.”
Uncertain if the situation called for relief or resentment, I stared at Ms. Jennifer Sylvester in abject bewilderment.
She huffed a tired laugh and buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, that came out all wrong.”
“No, it came out right. I wouldn’t want to marry me either.”
She laughed again, this time sounding a touch hysterical. “You know, you’ve always been really funny.”
“How would you know?” I gave her the side-eye. It was a serious question. “As far as I can recall, we’ve never spoken to each other directly before now.”
“Yes, but I listen.” Her response was muffled from behind her fingers. “No one talks to me, so I listen.”
“Jennifer, you’re not helping your case here, unless you’re trying to come across as a crazy creeper.”
She laughed again, less hysterical but maybe more desperate, her head falling back to the headrest. “Maybe I am a crazy creeper. Maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe I’m a lost cause. And if that’s the case, that’s fine. But I need to try.”
Jennifer brought her eyes back to mine; even under the shadow of her hat, the depth of sadness and resolve there startled me. “And you’re going to help me do it.”
CHAPTER 5
“I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better . . .”
― Helen Keller, The Story of My Life
Cletus
“I don’t like her.” Beau’s announcement was punctuated by the office door clattering against the wall. He’d just burst through it.
I surmised my brother expected me to react to his declaration. I did not react. I was too busy booking a trade through eTrade Pro and had just ten seconds to finalize it.
“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”
I confirmed the limit order, waited for the verification screen to load, then grudgingly presented Beau with my attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”
He’d caught me on the wrong day. Actually, the wrong week. I wasn’t inclined to field complaints. Though it was Thursday, four days after my uncomfortable encounter with Jennifer Sylvester, I was still fixating on it. I’d been distracted since Sunday.
The morning after Jennifer had made her demands, I’d neglected to introduce Beau—who’d returned from a work trip to Nashville that same morning—to our newest mechanic. He’d walked into the shop, they’d spoken, and he’d instantly disliked her. Akin to today, in an atypical exhibition of anger, Beau had stormed into the shop’s office, demanding she be let go.
I didn’t know what had passed between them. I didn’t care. I wasn’t firing her.
“She might be a decent mechanic, I’ll give you that. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”