I studied her. “Because of your disorder?”
“I’m the only person responsible for my actions and decisions.” She lifted her chin but still didn’t lift her eyes. The way she said the words, it was like she was repeating a mantra, and that mantra was important to her.
On the one hand, I agreed with her—for obvious reasons. Personal responsibility was a big deal to me given the fact that I grew up with an abusive father who blamed everyone and everything else but himself for his actions.
If you’d listened the first time, I wouldn’t have beat you.
If you’d stayed out of my chair, I wouldn’t have locked you in the shed for two days.
If you’d had my dinner ready on time, you wouldn’t have that black eye.
People who thought initiating violence was ever justified weren’t people I wanted to know.
On the other hand, Shelly’s disorder meant she was a victim of her own mind. She didn’t want to be rude, to be cold, to be exhausting.
But maybe, more than that, she doesn’t want to be a victim.
I decided it was best to neither agree nor disagree. Stepping carefully, talking people out of a mood was a specialty of mine. I’d perfected it over the last twenty-four years, being Duane Winston’s even-tempered twin. I’d spent my life translating for my brother in an effort to keep us both out of trouble.
So I said, “And recently, you’ve been making some great decisions.”
That brought her eyes back to me. Since I had her attention, I made the most of the opportunity, unleashing as much charm as I could manage with an evocative grin.
Now she did smile. I had to blink against the blinding brilliance of it. Held transfixed, I knew I could easily grow addicted to seeing this woman smile.
“An example being?”
I lowered my gaze suggestively. “Following me into the supply closet.”
When I brought my eyes back to Shelly’s, she was watching me with that hazy expression. “You’re an excellent distraction, Beau.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes, when I look at you, all my thoughts, all the plates I’m spinning in my head, they stop. And for a few seconds, it’s peaceful. You make me witless.”
I shrugged, twisting my lips to the side so I wouldn’t laugh at the irony of her statement. “I have that effect on people.”
“Yes, you do.”
That did make me laugh. “I was joking.”
“Then it was a bad joke.” She leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table, giving me the impression she wanted me to understand something important. “I don’t want to creep you out, but I’ve been watching you for over a month. Everyone likes you.”
“No, not everyone.”
“Name one person.”
“My father.”
Dammit.
The admission erupted before I could catch it. Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, as she inspected me.
“Tell me about your father.”
I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear about him.”
“Please tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re perfect. I want to know why. I want to know what formed you.”
“I’m not perfect.” I glanced over the back of my booth distractedly, looking for Simone. She should have returned with our drinks by now.
“Please.”
I looked to Shelly, who was watching me with an echo of her “please” and I blinked, startled by the desire there. Was that desire to know me? I couldn’t remember a time when someone had ever asked me about my father. For that matter, I couldn’t recall a time when someone had ever asked about me, my childhood, let alone what formed me.
My siblings knew. There was no need to discuss it.
Folks in town knew. Or, if they didn’t know for sure, the rumor mill kept them well fed with hearsay.
No one asked about who I was, what made me me.
Unsettled, I cleared my throat and shifted my attention to the window behind her. The sun was in its last throes of setting, lighting up the sky with soft pinks and purples. Daisy’s sat high on a hill, where the Valley road connected with the Parkway, and the view of the mountains was spectacular. Misty peaks, usually blue, now dotted with the reds, yellows, and oranges of fall, and shrouded in the warm glow of sunset.
I loved this place, this Valley and these mountains, but I’d never known anything else. Shelly spoke of her parents as being the best, and my momma fit that description. What would it have been like to have a father I looked up to? Rather than one whose actions were a roadmap of how not to be, whose behavior was the opposite of what I wanted for myself and those around me, and whose presence I despised.
“Beau.”
“I’m not all that interesting.” I scratched my jaw.
“You’re completely fascinating.”
“No. Stop. Please, no. Don’t flatter me. I hate it when people flatter me. Anything but that.” I kept my tone deadpan, knowing she had difficulty deciphering sarcasm and wanting to make the job easy for her.
She narrowed her eyes in a reprimand, but her mouth tugged to the side with barely suppressed amusement. “You are fascinating. Nothing irritates you.”
I gave her a sly smile. “You irritated me, but—”
“I irritate everyone.”
“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t irritate me now.”
“Sooner or later I will.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I irritate myself.”
“That doesn’t make you special. Everyone—well, everyone with any self-awareness—gets irritated at themselves.”
“When have you been irritated at yourself?”
I squirmed in my seat. “All these questions.”
“What’s wrong with my questions?”
“Nothing is wrong with them, it’s just—”
“Here you go.” Simone appeared abruptly at my elbow, hurriedly plucking dishes from a tray and arranging them haphazardly on the table. My burger, Shelly’s pancakes, tater tots, and two waters.
“Where’s my shake?”
“We don’t have ice cream, we’re out. You’ll get plain old apple pie instead. I’ll bring it over in a minute.” Simone dismissed my irritation with a flick of her wrist, turning a smile to Shelly. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, just give me a wave if you do.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.
I glowered my disappointment for a half second.
No shake?
But apple pie.
Okay. That’s cool.
Shrugging off the last of my discontent—and anticipating apple pie for dessert—I reached for the ketchup.
“You’re not upset?”
I glanced at Shelly, pulling the plate of tater tots toward me. “Pardon?”
“About the shake?”
“Nah. I like apple pie fine. Actually, it’s my favorite, so it all worked out.”
“You are ridiculously easygoing.”
I sent her a mock-glare of suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about the tater tots? Because it’s too late. They’re mine and you can’t have any.”
“You don’t talk about yourself. You’re not used to it.” She said these words like she’d just solved one of life’s most important puzzles. “You focus on others, you draw them out, and you’re unfailingly accommodating. That’s why everyone likes you.”