But that is never going to happen.
I slid to the floor and pressed my face against a kitchen towel, crying for who I wasn’t. However, a while later, when the tears finally stopped, when my head ached and my eyes were scratchy, and the pity party was officially tiresome, I heard a little voice in the back of my head. This is pointless, Jenn. What are you actually going to do about it?
I stared at the cabinet in front of me and realized I was tired of feeling helpless. I wasn’t going to be helpless. Not anymore. I was taking control. I was going to figure things out, for myself, by myself. If I’d learned anything in the last few months, it was that I couldn’t live my life to make other people happy. So I was going to start there.
I needed to be true to myself.
By God, I was going to be true to myself!
But first, I needed to go pick up the bananas.
***
I used more bananas in a week than most people ate in six months. Usually, I picked up the bananas Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. But on this Friday I didn’t make it to the Piggly Wiggly until near closing time.
Between the three wedding cakes, other special orders for Saturday, and my mother’s visit—and my subsequent sob fiesta—I didn’t leave the bakery until 9:30 PM and the store closed at 10:00 PM.
I threw on a black sweater over my T-shirt because it was cold. The sweater was fitted, meant to be worn over the thin material of a dress, not the thicker cotton of a T-shirt. Therefore, it was a little tight around my chest.
Jeans, black sweater, and high heels—because that’s all I had with me—I quickly parked and rushed into the store. I was so singularly focused on making it to the produce department on time that I wasn’t watching where I was going. Coming out of the long grocery aisle, I collided with a solid wall of person and would have fallen on my backside if the wall hadn’t grabbed my arms to steady me.
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t looking.” I glanced up, ready to dash past, but all thoughts of bananas fled my mind as my eyes connected with the stern visage of my older brother.
I gaped at him.
And he glared at me, some emotion I couldn’t quite read flaring behind his blue eyes.
“Isaac.” I breathed his name, my heart giving a painful leap just before falling to my feet.
“Jenn.” He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more. But then his eyes dimmed and he released my arms. “Watch where you’re going.” Isaac glanced behind him.
He didn’t sound angry. He sounded carefully disinterested. And his apathy made my heart crack, a new kind of pain spreading through me like a shockwave.
“Hey, isn’t that your sister?”
I tore my eyes from my brother’s passive profile to the woman behind him. Tina Patterson, a stripper at the Pink Pony who worked with Hannah Townsend. But unlike Hannah, Tina was also a big fan of stirring up drama. It was well-known around town that she was frequently in the company of the Iron Wraiths.
To her left and right were two faces I didn’t recognize, but from the insignias on their leather jackets, they were also members of the motorcycle club.
“That’s your sister?” One of the men, a large, bald fella with the word Drill on his jacket, stepped forward and into my space. I backed away, but the man continued to advance.
I heard Tina laugh and the other man groan loudly, saying, “We don’t have time for this, Drill.”
“Just give me a minute, Catfish.” Drill placed his hand to my right on the aisle shelf, caging me in. “Hey, aren’t you the Banana Cake Queen?” His eyes moved down, then up my body.
“I’m . . . I’m Jennifer. Nice to meet you.” I stuck my hand out between us, unable to dissociate myself from ingrained good manners.
The one called Drill glanced at my hand and cracked a crooked and oddly charming smile as he slipped his palm against mine. “You are too fucking cute, Jennifer. I’d like to eat you up.”
“Oh, shit. No way.”
A new voice, one I recognized as Timothy King’s, called from down the aisle, drawing both Drill’s and my attention.
I sucked in a sharp breath and braced myself, because seeing Timothy forced my brain to move past the hurt of my brother’s indifference.
Incredibly aggressive, handsy, with a suspicious inability to hear the word “no,” Timothy King was a looker. I’d never been alone with him, as I’d never had a cause to be. But he’d cornered me outside the community center one evening, placed his hands on my body, and tried to kiss me. I’d been afraid then, because it was dusk and there weren’t many people in the parking lot, and I was afraid now.
“Hey.” Drill tugged on my hand, drawing my eyes back to him. His sharp gaze moved over my face and his grin waned. “You don’t like that guy?” He tilted his head toward Timothy who was almost even with us.