“She was playin’ Cinderella, ridin’ her first bike . . .”
I run my hand through Presley’s hair again, but as the song continues the lyrics take on bigger, more relevant meaning. I feel the heat of Sofia’s gaze, watching me—this different part of me she’s never seen—with fascination. I see JD’s eyes all over Jenny, almost willing her to turn her head. But she’s not looking at him. Across the campfire, through the smoke and licking flames, she’s keeping her blue eyes straight on me. And while I sing about precious memories—old loves and new—I stare right back at her.
“In her eyes I’m Prince Charming, but to him I’m just some fella, ridin’ in stealin’ Cinderella.”
? ? ?
I’m a picker—one of those guys who combs over the leftovers just before everyone’s about to head home. At the food table, by the light of the fire, I see that JD is also one of those guys. I put the last chicken leg on my plate, and JD goes for the last of the beef tips. I coat the chicken with my homemade barbecue sauce and he asks, “That’s your sauce?”
“Yep.”
“I heard it was pretty good.”
I offer him the spoon. “You heard right.”
He douses his own plate, then licks his fingers and shovels the bite-size beef into his mouth. He gives me the thumbs-up while he chews.
“My brother mentioned a party on Tuesday. Think you’ll be goin’, or will you be too busy?”
I’m really hoping he has something else to do—then I’ll get Jenny all to myself. I mentally rub my hands together—eager for the prospect.
He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Pretty mush cleared my schedbudle por de wheek.”
My brow furrows as his words get harder and harder to understand. Then I peer closer . . . because something just doesn’t look right.
“Ib my pace pubby, Thanton? It peels pubby.”
“Holy mother of fuck!” I jerk back, revolted.
Because Jimmy Dean doesn’t have the face of a Calvin Klein model anymore.
Now he resembles the lead role in a production of the goddamn Elephant Man.
“Are der pebbers in dis?” he asks.
Pebbers?
Peppers.
Uh-oh.
? ? ?
“You unbelievable bastard!”
“It was an accident!”
“Accident my ass!”
“I didn’t know—”
“Nana said she tol’ you he was allergic to peppers!” Jenny yells from the side of her truck, after a Benadryl-chugging JD is loaded into the passenger seat.
“I put pepper flakes in it, Jenn—I thought he was allergic to actual peppers! Not the goddamn flakes of peppers!”
And the awful irony of it? I’m telling the truth. After this I’m gonna have to seriously recalibrate my horseshit detector when listening to the outrageous claims of innocence from my clients. Apparently sometimes it’s not utter horseshit—no matter how much it may sound like it.
“I hate you!”
“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Extreme!” she screeches, making me flinch. “You tried to poison him!”
I kick the tire of the truck. “If I wanted him poisoned he’d be fuckin’ dead!” I run a hand down my face. “But, maybe you should think about postponin’ the weddin’; at least until JD doesn’t look so”—I motion to the passenger window—“like that.”
Her eyes flare. So do her nostrils. “That’s why you did this? You think you can sabotage my weddin’, you rotten sonofabitch?”
“What? No!”
Now that is actual horseshit.
“You listen to me and you listen good,” she hisses. “I’m gettin’ married on Saturday and I don’t care if I have to wheel him, half-dead, down the aisle and prop him up against the goddamn organ to do it! Until then you stay away from us! I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear you—I don’t want to look at you!”
“When did you turn so fuckin’ stubborn?” I yell.
She stomps her way around the back of the truck, replying, “When you became so fuckin’ selfish!”
“Jenny! Wait . . .”