Jagged
Page 61
That was sweet but I felt my eyes narrow. “How can you be scary, nosy, irritating, and lovable all at the same time?”
Cotton grinned even as he shrugged. “It’s just me.”
It was and had been since Alana died.
“You gonna take pictures or is there more of my world you wanna rock?” I asked, being flippant in the face of sudden uncertainty.
“I’m gonna take pictures but only after I say one more thing.”
I looked to the blue skies and muttered, “Great.”
“Zara,” Cotton called.
I looked at him.
“Alana was like you,” he said quietly and I pulled in a breath because, from Cotton, this was the highest of compliments. “She was young but old at heart. She knew what she wanted and God smiled His Heavenly light on me when she found that in me. Never happier in my life than when I had her, not before, absolutely not after. The age we had between us never touched us, not with the love we had. Her parents didn’t like it but she didn’t care. The day I won them over, I reckon, was the day she died. They’d watched me stick by her side through the better but mostly through the worse. This man of yours is who you think he is, I see you think you got that, too. And, if this man is who you think he is, I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Now you’re tippin’ the scales, Cotton,” I kept up with my flippancy, this time in order not to cry. “You’re supposed to balance lovable and grumpy. Now you’re bein’ way more lovable than grumpy.”
He sucked back more coffee, then handed me his cup, stating, “Then you best get off your keister, girl. There’s mountains to climb and pictures to take.”
I looked again to the skies and repeated, “Great.”
“Up,” he grunted, shoving up to his feet.
I sucked back my coffee and followed him.
Then I followed him through the scrub and rocks and boulders and I did this successfully not falling down the side of the mountain or, less dramatically, twisting my ankle.
And Cotton showed me beauty.
It was what I knew it would be, a marvel watching a master at work even if it was simply watching a man snap pictures.
That didn’t mean I didn’t do it with my mind weighed heavily with thoughts about what he said.
This sucked, shadowing a great morning.
But Ham and I had never finished talking about his history, his problems with women. So much had happened since then—we’d been involved with Zander, Xenia dying, work, and settling into life together—we never got back to it.
And he’d never told me he loved me. I’d told him he was the love of my life, but he never shared anything close to that sentiment. Not with words.
And I’d learned the hard way with how I grew up, with the way Xenia went off the rails, that Cotton was right.
I had to look after myself.
Which meant I had to talk to Ham.
* * *
I sat on the couch in Ham’s office at The Dog, my legs crossed under me.
After my early morning in the mountains with very little sleep and an evening on my feet carrying drinks, I was dog-tired. There was nothing I wanted more than to fall into bed and sleep until tomorrow where I could go back to work and make more tips in hopes of using them to win my sister’s son into my life.
But my eyes were on Ham at his desk. He was standing, bent over the desk scribbling stuff in books and shoving money in moneybags he’d put in the safe when he was done cashing out completely. And it occurred to me that, unless we were in bed or Ham was stretched out watching TV, he rarely sat. Years of life working on his feet, he was used to it and kept them, probably out of habit.
“Tell me about February.”
Those words were said in my voice because they came from my mouth.
Ham, still bent over the desk, tipped only his head back to look at me.
“What?” he asked.
I’d started it. I didn’t mean to. I had other things to say. Other things to ask.
But I’d done it because I wanted to know. I’d wanted to know for a while. So I had to go with it.
“We never got done talkin’ the other night at The Rooster. You didn’t get to the part about February Owens.”
Ham didn’t move, body nor eyes, when he asked, “What about her?”
This wasn’t new, awesomer, forthcoming Ham. This was don’t-ask, don’t-tell Ham and him going back to that, especially on this particular topic, sent a chill spreading over my skin.
Even so, I carried on.
“I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise, darlin’, that after that went down, I didn’t avoid it. They had a special report on what happened with Dennis Lowe, an hour long, on one of the channels and I watched it. They said all the men who got killed were her”—I paused before I said—“lovers. Even her ex-husband got it.”
“And?”
And?
That was it? And?
I couldn’t say I knew what I wanted to get. His confirmation they were lovers coupled with a firm declaration it was over, he was over it, and he’d moved on would be good. What would be better would be his firm declaration he’d moved on because he’d realized he’d always been in love with me.
What wasn’t good was and?
“Were you her lover?” I pushed.
“Yes,” he answered.
I waited.
He said no more and went back to scribbling something.
I had no idea how to take this except badly.
“Ham?” I called.
“Yeah,” he said to the desk, not looking at me.
That chill on my skin grew colder.
Then I looked to the side. This was not the right time. I was tired. It was after three in the morning. And Ham obviously wasn’t in the mood.
I should never have said anything.
“Zara, you got somethin’ to say?” Ham asked and I looked at him to see him again looking at me.
I shook my head. “No.”
Ham nodded and went back to doing the shit he had to do to finish the night at the bar.
It wasn’t until we were in the truck that either of us spoke again and it was Ham who did it.
“Care about her,” he declared.
I looked to him, seeing his face illuminated only by the lights of the dash so I couldn’t read it, and I asked, “What?”
“Feb,” he answered. “Care about her. Always will.”
It was then I knew I really should never have said anything.
It was not a surprise he cared about her or always would. He was that kind of guy. He was also the kind of guy who was honest. I’d asked. He gave me the truth.
Cotton grinned even as he shrugged. “It’s just me.”
It was and had been since Alana died.
“You gonna take pictures or is there more of my world you wanna rock?” I asked, being flippant in the face of sudden uncertainty.
“I’m gonna take pictures but only after I say one more thing.”
I looked to the blue skies and muttered, “Great.”
“Zara,” Cotton called.
I looked at him.
“Alana was like you,” he said quietly and I pulled in a breath because, from Cotton, this was the highest of compliments. “She was young but old at heart. She knew what she wanted and God smiled His Heavenly light on me when she found that in me. Never happier in my life than when I had her, not before, absolutely not after. The age we had between us never touched us, not with the love we had. Her parents didn’t like it but she didn’t care. The day I won them over, I reckon, was the day she died. They’d watched me stick by her side through the better but mostly through the worse. This man of yours is who you think he is, I see you think you got that, too. And, if this man is who you think he is, I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Now you’re tippin’ the scales, Cotton,” I kept up with my flippancy, this time in order not to cry. “You’re supposed to balance lovable and grumpy. Now you’re bein’ way more lovable than grumpy.”
He sucked back more coffee, then handed me his cup, stating, “Then you best get off your keister, girl. There’s mountains to climb and pictures to take.”
I looked again to the skies and repeated, “Great.”
“Up,” he grunted, shoving up to his feet.
I sucked back my coffee and followed him.
Then I followed him through the scrub and rocks and boulders and I did this successfully not falling down the side of the mountain or, less dramatically, twisting my ankle.
And Cotton showed me beauty.
It was what I knew it would be, a marvel watching a master at work even if it was simply watching a man snap pictures.
That didn’t mean I didn’t do it with my mind weighed heavily with thoughts about what he said.
This sucked, shadowing a great morning.
But Ham and I had never finished talking about his history, his problems with women. So much had happened since then—we’d been involved with Zander, Xenia dying, work, and settling into life together—we never got back to it.
And he’d never told me he loved me. I’d told him he was the love of my life, but he never shared anything close to that sentiment. Not with words.
And I’d learned the hard way with how I grew up, with the way Xenia went off the rails, that Cotton was right.
I had to look after myself.
Which meant I had to talk to Ham.
* * *
I sat on the couch in Ham’s office at The Dog, my legs crossed under me.
After my early morning in the mountains with very little sleep and an evening on my feet carrying drinks, I was dog-tired. There was nothing I wanted more than to fall into bed and sleep until tomorrow where I could go back to work and make more tips in hopes of using them to win my sister’s son into my life.
But my eyes were on Ham at his desk. He was standing, bent over the desk scribbling stuff in books and shoving money in moneybags he’d put in the safe when he was done cashing out completely. And it occurred to me that, unless we were in bed or Ham was stretched out watching TV, he rarely sat. Years of life working on his feet, he was used to it and kept them, probably out of habit.
“Tell me about February.”
Those words were said in my voice because they came from my mouth.
Ham, still bent over the desk, tipped only his head back to look at me.
“What?” he asked.
I’d started it. I didn’t mean to. I had other things to say. Other things to ask.
But I’d done it because I wanted to know. I’d wanted to know for a while. So I had to go with it.
“We never got done talkin’ the other night at The Rooster. You didn’t get to the part about February Owens.”
Ham didn’t move, body nor eyes, when he asked, “What about her?”
This wasn’t new, awesomer, forthcoming Ham. This was don’t-ask, don’t-tell Ham and him going back to that, especially on this particular topic, sent a chill spreading over my skin.
Even so, I carried on.
“I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise, darlin’, that after that went down, I didn’t avoid it. They had a special report on what happened with Dennis Lowe, an hour long, on one of the channels and I watched it. They said all the men who got killed were her”—I paused before I said—“lovers. Even her ex-husband got it.”
“And?”
And?
That was it? And?
I couldn’t say I knew what I wanted to get. His confirmation they were lovers coupled with a firm declaration it was over, he was over it, and he’d moved on would be good. What would be better would be his firm declaration he’d moved on because he’d realized he’d always been in love with me.
What wasn’t good was and?
“Were you her lover?” I pushed.
“Yes,” he answered.
I waited.
He said no more and went back to scribbling something.
I had no idea how to take this except badly.
“Ham?” I called.
“Yeah,” he said to the desk, not looking at me.
That chill on my skin grew colder.
Then I looked to the side. This was not the right time. I was tired. It was after three in the morning. And Ham obviously wasn’t in the mood.
I should never have said anything.
“Zara, you got somethin’ to say?” Ham asked and I looked at him to see him again looking at me.
I shook my head. “No.”
Ham nodded and went back to doing the shit he had to do to finish the night at the bar.
It wasn’t until we were in the truck that either of us spoke again and it was Ham who did it.
“Care about her,” he declared.
I looked to him, seeing his face illuminated only by the lights of the dash so I couldn’t read it, and I asked, “What?”
“Feb,” he answered. “Care about her. Always will.”
It was then I knew I really should never have said anything.
It was not a surprise he cared about her or always would. He was that kind of guy. He was also the kind of guy who was honest. I’d asked. He gave me the truth.
