Текст книги "Perfect Kind Of Trouble"

Автор книги: Chelsea Fine

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

The answer was no. I didn’t know Daren Ackwood. I saw him through the kitchen window sometimes, and I was always aware of him when he was working in the yard—especially when he didn’t have a shirt on—but I didn’t know Daren Ackwood, and he didn’t know me. We never spoke. We never interacted. Frankly, I’m surprised he knows my name.

For a moment we just stare at each other, him seated leisurely with his legs spread apart and me standing in my last pair of high heels with a bored expression.

“It’s good to see you.” His eyes slip over me with another dirty smile lifting up his clean-shaven face.

Oh, he’s trouble, all right. The kind of trouble I can’t afford to get into.

I’ve heard more stories than I care to admit about Daren’s sexual prowess. All through high school, Lana kept me up to date on all things Copper Springs, including Daren the Woman Whisperer—that’s what she called him.

According to Lana, and every other girl at Copper Springs High, Daren was some kind of god in bed. I doubt any of the things she told me were true, but they certainly gave Daren quite the reputation.

Regardless of the rumors, I know his type. They charm and seduce and leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake. I have no intention of being a left-behind heart. Not for Daren or anyone else. So I’m careful to keep my expression neutral as I glance over his wrinkled clothes.

“Nice outfit,” I say. “Did you forget to go home last night?” I raise a judgmental eyebrow, just to drive home my disapproval.

His dirty smile grows. “Something like that.”

Whore.

“Oh, hello! You must be Kayla.” An older gentleman with thick white eyebrows and balding hair and a cheerful expression emerges from a door at the back of the office. His short, round frame wades through the minefield of papers and over to me. “I’m Eddie Perkins.” He holds out his hand.

I shake it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.” His cheery face sobers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Yes, yes. My dad is dead. We’re all sad.

I smile politely. “Thank you.”

“I’m pleased that you showed up,” he says. “Your father didn’t think you’d come, you know, but I’m glad you proved him wrong.” He smiles warmly then looks around. “Now where… are my… glasses…?” He pats down his suit coat and turns around in a circle as he searches the pockets of his pants.

“On your head, Eddie,” Daren says.

He taps his head until his hand smacks against the reading glasses propped in his sparse white hair. “Oh! There they are.” He smiles as he pulls the glasses down and sets them on his face. “I’m always forgetting where I put them. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“since everyone is here should we get right down to it?”

I look around and pause. “Everyone?”

The lawyer pulls off the glasses he just put on. “Yes. You and Mr. Ackwood were the only two requested.” He shoves a hand into his inner coat pocket and comes up empty, muttering, “Now… where is my handkerchief?”

Wrinkling my brow, I say, “My dad asked that Daren be here?”

“Yes. Oh, here it is.” The lawyer pulls a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket and starts cleaning his glasses.

I blink a few times. “Why?”

Daren answers, “Your dad owes me some baseball cards.”

I stare at him. “Huh?”

“You are both here to sign papers, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins tucks the handkerchief into his coat pocket and props the eyeglasses back on his face. “But first we need to go over your father’s will.” He scratches his head. “Where did I put the will?” He looks at his messy desk. “It was just here a moment ago.” He shuffles a few papers around then starts digging through a tall filing cabinet.

“By the coffee pot,” Daren says.

“Oh, that’s right.” Eddie smiles as he retrieves my father’s paperwork from a small kitchenette in the corner.

I love that my father’s will was carefully filed between a set of ceramic mugs and a bottle of powdered coffee creamer.

“I still don’t understand,” I say.

Mr. Perkins looks at me and shrugs. “Perhaps your father’s baseball card collection is why Mr. Ackwood’s presence was requested.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren corrects. “Turner was just holding on to the cards for me. Kind of.”

I look at Daren first then the lawyer. “I thought my father didn’t have any belongings to bestow to anyone. I thought he gave everything away before he died.”

“Most everything.” Mr. Perkins gestures to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

I look at my only seating option and inwardly groan. Daren is sitting on the fake leather couch with one tan arm stretched over the backrest while the other casually hangs off the armrest, stretching out his broad chest, and his right leg expands out with his opposite ankle propped on the knee. God. Could he take up any more space?

His brown eyes dance with amusement like he knows just how obnoxious his splayed-out limbs are and is waiting to see how I react. I pointedly avert my gaze and situate myself on the far end of the sofa, squeezing my hips as close to the other armrest as possible to avoid touching him. He looks at me with a hint of a smile. I ignore him and cross my legs with a deep inhale.

Daren smells good. Really good. Like oranges or lemons or something. Clean and fresh.

How in the hell does he smell good when he’s wearing a walk-of-shame outfit and yesterday’s deodorant?

Mr. Perkins leans his round frame against his cluttered desk as he silently reads through the will then looks up. “What it comes down to is this: Mr. Turner donated Milly Manor to the town of Copper Springs and designated a few personal items to some of his close friends.”

I tilt my head. “He left personal items to friends?”

He nods. “There were a few things he wanted to give to his loved ones.” He refers to the papers. “He donated all of his books to the local library. He left his golfing equipment to Gus Ferguson—you might know him as Golf Cart Gus. And his antique furniture and record collection he gave to Valerie Oswald.”

I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. My father donated everything but a handful of possessions, and of course he left those things to a guy named Golf Cart Gus and some woman I’ve never heard of before. Typical James Turner. Slighting his daughter, even in death.

“Of course, Gus and Valerie weren’t requested for the reading today because Mr. Turner settled his affairs with them before his passing.” Eddie pushes his glasses up with a plump finger and looks at us. “Which brings us to his unfinished business with the two of you.” He leafs through the folder and distractedly says, “Although I don’t believe… it concerns Mr. Turner’s… baseball card collection.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren repeats.

I snap my eyes to him. “Why are you even here?”

“Uh… because your father and I had an arrangement concerning my baseball cards. Have I not made that clear?”

“Oh, you’ve made it clear. You’ve made it crystal clear,” I say, feeling my pulse rise. “I just don’t understand why my father is leaving a bunch of crap to people I don’t even know.”

Daren mocks an offended look. “You know me.”

“Do I?” I say, mimicking his sarcasm. “No. I know of you, but I don’t know you. So forgive me if I don’t understand what you’re doing at the reading of my father’s will.”

His charming good looks ice over and a muscle works in his jaw. “I spent more time with your father than you ever did. If anyone’s presence here is unmerited it’s yours.”

Our eyes lock in a gaze of mutual contempt. Daren’s attendance at this very personal, and somewhat heartbreaking, will reading makes me want to howl. He knows nothing about my father and me. Nothing.

Mr. Perkins clears his throat and we break our gaze to look back at him.

“James Turner’s last wishes were to leave something to you both. Something he entrusted to me.” He sets the folder down and scratches his head again before scurrying about the messy room. “I know I had it here somewhere…”

I have no idea what the bumbling man is looking for now, but after spending two minutes with him, I’m impressed he managed to leave his house today without forgetting to put on pants.

Daren leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches Mr. Perkins fret about the room. I watch as he laces his long fingers and casually taps the pads of his thumbs together.

“Ah, yes. Here it is.” The lawyer holds up a DVD then slips it into a large TV across the room and cues it up. “James put together this will himself just a few months ago. I only opened the initial package last week. Inside, he requested that the two of you be present for this video message.”

He presses Play and my father appears on the screen. His brown hair is grayer than I remember, his green eyes a bit faded, and he’s thinner than ever before, but everything else about his youthful face is the same. He was in his fifties when the cancer took him, but he looked like he was thirty and probably acted like he was twenty. Mom always said that’s what she loved most about him—his childlike silliness. That’s what I liked most about him too.

My heart twists and I drop my eyes to concentrate on a small tear in the couch. That was a long time ago. I look back up.

James Turner is dressed in a tweed jacket and tie, and has his thin-rimmed glasses on. He looks like a college professor from the ’50s. All he’s missing is a pipe and a mustache. And he really did smoke a pipe when he was alive.

He was an eccentric man, always goofing around and doing odd things. But he was good to our family when I was young. My parents divorced when I was six, but before they broke up we used to go on a family picnic every Sunday. My dad would send my mom and I on little scavenger hunts for things like white roses and four-leaf clovers and then we’d lay our blue-and-white-checkered quilt on the grass and eat fried chicken until the sun set.

That was before my mom decided she’d rather be single and swept me off to Chicago. And before my dad decided he didn’t want a family anymore.

I stare down at the couch rip until I hear my father clear his throat. “Hello, Kayla and Daren.” I look up. “If you’re watching this, then I assume I’m dead. Which is unfortunate, because I really liked being alive.”

I already hate this.

“Nevertheless, now that I’m gone I have a letter I want to leave to you—to both of you. The only catch is that you two must agree to wear handcuffs while retrieving it.”

I blink, not sure I heard him correctly.

He smiles. “It’s really the only way to ensure that you stay together and cooperate with each other. You’re both only children with circumstances that have taught you not to rely on others, and being such, I’m sure your first instincts will be to separate and go at it alone. So you’ll understand why I feel the handcuffs are necessary.”

My jaw drops. It actually falls open in shock.

Handcuffs?

Handcuffs? What the hell?

He continues, “I’m sure this sounds preposterous and I have no doubt you both hate this idea but you might someday thank me for it anyway.” He winks at the camera. “Happy hunting.”

And the screen goes black.

Is he—what in the—why would—

WHAT. THE. HELL.

I shift my eyes from the lawyer to the TV and back to the lawyer. I don’t even know where to start.

“That’s it?” I say, stunned. “That five-second message is the entire video from my deceased father?”

Mr. Perkins nervously nods.

I let out a sharp exhale in disbelief. My father has a chance to say his final words to me and he chooses “Wear handcuffs” and “Happy hunting”?

If he weren’t already dead I’d go kill him myself.

Daren puckers his lips and furrows his brow. “I don’t get it.”

Mr. Perkins inhales slowly. “It seems Mr. Turner wants you and Kayla to be handcuffed together while you go find a letter.”

My jaw is still hanging open like a broken nutcracker soldier. What the hell is happening right now?

“Yeah, I got that. But go ‘find’ a letter?” Daren squints. “What does that mean? Is the letter lost?”

I drop my face into my hands, trying to get a grip on the emotion swelling behind my eyes. James Turner couldn’t be a normal father, oh no. He couldn’t just leave me a message saying he loved me or that he was sorry for being a deadbeat dad these last few years, no way. He had to be his usual pompous self and leave me some cryptic video note.

I pull my head up and blink a few times. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Mr. Perkins refers to his papers again before reading out loud, “ ‘If Kayla and Daren work together while handcuffed, they should be able to complete their task in a single day.’ ”

All words fail me. I want to cry and scream and laugh hysterically. I might do all three. Right here on this squeaky black couch. In front of God, and Mr. Perkins, and Daren effing Ackwood.

“It’s going to take a whole day to pick up this letter?” Daren looks just as baffled as I feel. “Where did Turner leave it, in another state?”

The letter. Right. Because that’s the crazy piece in this crackpot puzzle.

“ ‘But if they fail to cooperate with each other,’ ” Mr. Perkins continues, “ ‘their mission may take longer.’ ”

“Mission?” Daren says. “What are we, spies?”

“So let me get this straight.” Shifting in my seat, I press my lips together and try to control the anger bubbling up inside me. “The only thing my father left me, his only child, in his will was a stupid letter? And the only way I can get this stupid letter is by handcuffing—handcuffing—myself to a total stranger?”

“Wha—” Daren turns to me and makes a face. “I’m not a stranger. And I’ll have you know, lots of girls would be happy to be handcuffed to me.” He pulls a crooked smile. “Some actually have been.”

Something in his expression wavers, making me question the cockiness in his eyes—not the fact that girls have played sexy handcuff games with him, just the arrogance with which he announced it, and I stare at him incredulously.

“Yeah, well, lots of girls are morons.” I turn back to the lawyer and plead, “Please tell me I’m misunderstanding and that this is all just some horrid nightmare.”

“Nightmare.” Daren lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You are not misunderstanding, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins pulls his handkerchief back out and dabs his lip again. “Your father does, in fact, want you to handcuff yourself to Daren while you retrieve the letter he left you.”

I laugh darkly and lean back on the couch with my already broken heart breaking into more pieces than I even knew were left. “Fantastic,” I mutter.

It was sad when my father missed by sixteenth birthday. It was hurtful when he stopped returning my phone calls every year after that. But failing to leave me anything in his will other than a ridiculous hide-and-seek game for what is probably a disappointing handwritten message scrawled out on his monogrammed stationery is just. Plain. Insulting.

And I thought the face spider was bad.

4 Daren

Clearly, Old Man Turner went a little nutty at the end. I knew the guy had some quirks—I mean come on, he stole a kid’s baseball card collection—but I never thought he was crazy. Until now.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind being handcuffed to a hot blonde all day. That’s like handing me sex on a platter. But being handcuffed to Kayla Turner all day? That would just piss me off. I don’t care how sexy she is in her tight little skirt and skinny high heels. She was a rotten daughter to a man who was nothing but a wonderful father, and I don’t think I’d be able to put my judgment of her aside long enough to make it out of this office, let alone go track down some letter. I’d probably end up telling her off and she’d probably end up crying, and then I’d have a blubbering mess attached to my arm. No thanks.

“Eddie, my man.” I smile and clasp my hands. “I’m sure there’s another way around all this nonsense. Why don’t we skip the handcuffing and go straight to the letter part? I’m sure you know where it is. All you have to do is tell us and we’ll be on our way.”

Kayla nods. “Exactly. Because we’re obviously not going to chain ourselves together.”

“Yeah. That would be insane.” I lean back and stretch my body out again, trying to assume a casual air. “And unless there’s a bed and lingerie involved, I’d really rather not spend my day locked up to a feisty blonde.”

She scans my face with her big blue eyes. “Really?”

I wait for her cheeks to tint ever so slightly, like most girls’ do when I allude to sex in their presence, but she just stares at me like I’m a douche bag. No blushing. No nervous blinking. No shifting in her seat.

I was only trying to get a rise out of her, but shit. Now I kind of feel like a douche bag.

Eddie wrings his hands. “I’m sorry, but I made a promise to James and he was pretty clear about his wishes. It’s the handcuffs or no letter.”

“Well I’m not doing it,” Kayla says, pulling her eyes off mine and crossing her arms in true tantrum fashion.

God. She couldn’t look snobbier if she tried.

“If my father had something to say to me,” she says, “he could have said it when he was alive and not written it down in some faraway note.”

I look at my phone. “Yeah, and I have to be at work in an hour.”

“I understand.” Eddie nods. “Mr. Turner’s will is definitely… unorthodox.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Well then, I guess all you need to do is sign this document that says I presented the will to you both, and we can all be on our way.”

I sit up. “What about my baseball cards?”

Kayla rolls her eyes.

Eddie skims the pages again. “I’m afraid there’s nothing in here about baseball cards.”

“Nothing?” I squawk. “No cards? No green box?”

“Wow.” Kayla stares at me. “I’ve never heard a grown man whine so much about a collection of cards before.”

“It’s not about the cards,” I snap, shooting her a dark look. She couldn’t possibly understand how much getting that box back would mean to me. I turn to Eddie. “There must be some mistake. Turner promised I’d get them back.”

He tucks the handkerchief away. “I’m sorry, Daren. There’s no mention of any cards in the will. At least not that I remember…”

As Eddie fidgets through the papers again I curse under my breath.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Kayla says. “My father never cared about anyone but himself.”

I halt my inner turmoil and scowl at her. “Your father was a good guy. One of the best,” I bite out. “So ease up.”

She ignores me and stands up. “Where do I sign so I can be on my way?”

I make a sound of disgust. “You’re sure in a hurry to leave daddy dearest in the dust.”

“And you’re sure in a hurry to snatch up his baseball memorabilia,” she barks back.

“They were my cards,” I say. “Cards that your father stole from me when I was a kid, by the way, but you don’t see me spitting on his grave.”

Her expression grows cold. “The man barely acknowledged me when he was alive and now he’s handing out his house and furniture to random people, while his daughter gets sent on a letter hunt. So yeah.” She straightens her shoulders. “I want to get out of here and never think about James Turner again.”

Pain flashes in her eyes, brief but palpable, and I pull back. This seems heavier than your average run-of-the-mill daddy issues. She’s obviously filled with anger. But more than that, Kayla looks almost… heartbroken.

After searching his mess for a few minutes, Eddie hands us two pens then points to a few lines on his paperwork where we need to sign. I stand up and scratch out my signature, disappointment rolling over me.

It’s funny. I hadn’t thought about that box of cards for years, but yesterday when the idea that I might get it back entered my mind, something inside me burst with hope. And not because selling those baseball cards could buy me a better life, but because inside that box are memories. Good ones. And I could use a few good memories.

Once we’re done signing, Eddie stacks his paperwork and sighs. “Well, I thank you both for your time. Sorry things didn’t work out the way you were hoping.”

Kayla lifts her chin, clearly pissed her father didn’t leave her a giant pile of cash. Serves her right, though. The girl didn’t even visit when he was dying. She was too busy living it up with her gold-digging mom in Chicago.

I’ve heard the stories. I know all about how her mom, Gia, was a bombshell who wanted to be single so she divorced James Turner and took all his money. If the rumors are true, Turner shelled out a good chunk of his net worth to Gia in the form of alimony payments and even more to Kayla in a giant trust fund he set up for her. He showered his ex-wife and daughter with money, yet neither of them spent a penny to come visit him on his deathbed.

I don’t blame him one bit for cutting Kayla out of his will.

As we leave, Eddie smiles at Kayla. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Turner.” He nods at me. “And good to see you again, Daren.”

I smile tightly. “Always a blast, Eddie.”

Not.

His expression sobers. “You and I really need to get together soon to discuss your father—”

“I know.” I shift uncomfortably. Kayla glances at me and I look away and say to Eddie, “We will.”

He nods, but doesn’t look convinced. I’ve been brushing him off for the past eight months so his skepticism is understandable.

I open the door for Kayla and wait. She eyes me cautiously like I’m a vampire inviting her into my den of bloodlust and savagery instead of a nice guy holding a door open for her. She may not be my favorite person in the room, but I still have manners. I lift a brow and gesture for her to go first.

She hesitantly moves past me, careful not to touch me or my fangs, and murmurs, “Thank you.”

I follow her outside where we make eye contact for a quick moment. A part of me wishes I knew her better or liked her more than I do. Turner being gone makes me feel like I’ve lost a father, and it wouldn’t suck to have someone to share that loss with. But it doesn’t seem like Kayla wants to share anything with anyone. She scans my face again, all torn blue eyes and quivering lips, and my defenses drop to the ground for a split second. But just as quickly she turns and heads down the sidewalk, tapping away in her high heels. No good-bye. No nice seeing you. No pleasantries whatsoever.

I guess I didn’t say farewell either, but still. She doesn’t have to be such a brat.

As she passes the storefront for the Laundromat, a woman with her arms full of clothes and a baby approaches. Kayla smiles and opens the Laundromat door for them, bending to retrieve a fallen shirt that slips from the woman’s large pile then cooing at the chubby baby in the woman’s arms when he starts to cry until his tears dry right up.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t bratty. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her.

Her blonde hair hangs to the center of her back and swishes against her blue top, the golden strands glinting in the sun as she moves along. She has a graceful walk, each step light and flowing in perfect harmony with the swing of her hips. She’s curvy in all the right places and perfectly proportioned, and as she turns her face to the side, looking up and down the street, I trail my eyes down her profile. Long eyelashes, flushed cheeks, and full pink lips stand out against her pale skin like the cherry on top of a delicious dessert.

I let out a low whistle. Like it or not, Kayla Turner is the hottest almost-brat I’ve ever seen.

* * *

I’ve only been car-less for a matter of hours and I’m already going crazy. Copper Springs isn’t like the big cities with their subways and taxis. The bus stop at the edge of town is the only public transit service here—unless you count Golf Cart Gus, who’s really just a retired mechanic that sometimes gives people rides in a golf cart he won two decades ago on The Price Is Right—so after walking from Eddie’s office to my job at the cell phone store and then to the hospital to make another payment, I’m exhausted.

I miss Monique.

Pulling out what’s left of my cash, I count the bills and grimace. Minus the thirty dollars I just put toward Connor Allen’s medical bills, I’m now down to twelve dollars. Every credit card I ever had access to is now either maxed out or closed and I don’t get paid again until next week.

I know my boss at Willow Inn, Ellen, would front me the money if I asked. But I also know that if I ask her for a favor, she’ll try to jump into my life and save me, which is more than I can handle right now. Twelve dollars will just have to last until next Friday. And then the money shit cycle will start all over again.

Last year, two horrible car accidents occurred in my life, and only a few months apart. The first accident severely injured a decent man named Connor Allen, leaving behind a hefty hospital bill. The second took the life of my high school girlfriend, Charity, and I was so beside myself with guilt that I didn’t care to be alive anymore.

My stomach churns, slowly twisting into turmoil, and I have to take a few deep breaths to keep my hands steady and my feet moving until I come up to Latecomers Bar & Grill and let myself inside.

The smell of sautéed vegetables meets my nose and the churning in my stomach turns to a fierce growl.

I miss food too.

It’s still pretty early so most of the seats are empty. There’s a table of guys by the window, a couple in a corner booth, and a burly guy posted at the bar, but otherwise the place is dead. Which is how I prefer it.

“Hey,” Jake Sanders says from behind the bar, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes as he sets a tray of clean glasses down.

At forty years old, Jake is doing pretty well for himself. Not only is he the head chef of Latecomers but he’s also the owner. His uncle left him the flailing establishment after he passed away and Jake didn’t hesitate to hone his cooking skills and turn the place into a rather fine restaurant, bringing the family business back from the brink, while reviving the nightlife in Copper Springs at the same time.

Most people don’t expect a bar to have amazing food, but Jake is a culinary genius and every plate that comes out of Latecomers’ kitchen is mouthwatering. He also brews his own beer, which makes me hate the guy a little, just for being so damn talented. I don’t envy the hours he works, though. Jake practically lives here.

I tip my chin and half-smile back. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, you know.” He starts unloading the glasses. “Just beer and business and the business of beer.”

I grin. “So you still don’t have a life, huh?”

He barks out a sardonic laugh. “This place is my life.” He gestures to the end of the bar. “Your seat’s open.”

I nod my thanks to him and head that way. My “seat” is the barstool on the far right where it’s almost too dark to see anything. Jake deemed it “mine” last year after the back-to-back car accidents hit me like a ton of bricks and I fell into a serious bout of depression. At the time, I thought it was a little ridiculous to have a designated spot at the bar because, you know, I’m not a fifty-two-year-old alcoholic, but now… well, now I’m grateful.

I slide into my barstool, prop my elbows on the bar top, and drop my face into my hands. This day, this week—hell, this whole last year—has been shitty. And it doesn’t look like it’ll be getting easier anytime soon.

“Hey, good lookin’.”

I glance up to see a pair of dark blue eyes shining at me and I smile warmly. “Hey, Amber.”

Her wavy red hair is pulled back into a ponytail, showing off the many earrings she wears in both ears and the small tattoo just behind her jaw.

Amber Keeton is the closest thing I have to real family anymore. And for three months, back in middle school, when my mom left my dad to marry Amber’s dad—who happened to be the town’s beloved preacher—we actually were family. It was a broken, disgraceful family, but still. She was there and that made things bearable.

God, that whole mess was a nightmare. One day, I was just a rich kid from a decent home with two seemingly happily married parents, and the next day my mom was moving me into Brad Keeton’s house and introducing me to my new “sister.” Just like that, my world upended.

Anytime a preacher leaves his wife for another woman, it’s big news. But in a small town like this, it’s a downright scandal.

My dad lost his shit and started guzzling back Jack Daniel’s like it was water in the Sahara, drinking himself into raging blackouts at Latecomers every other night. While Amber’s mom, in the true fashion of a scorned preacher’s wife, wailed all over town about the devil in her husband. She then started a prayer chain for his wretched soul, in a desperate attempt to save him from his sins—and no doubt heal her wounded pride at the same time.

Prayer chains are gossip trains at their finest. Lord have mercy on the reverend and his harlot—or at least let their sins entertain us for a while.

And that they did.

Mom and Brad were quickly shunned from all the social circles for “living in sin” and Amber and I couldn’t go anywhere without people staring or whispering. We were the offspring of a cheating reverend, a rich home-wrecker, a God-fearing housewife, and a raging lush—and no one let us forget it.

My mom and Brad eloped shortly after, but being married didn’t make things better. It did the opposite, in fact. Amber was just as horrified and shell-shocked as I was by their union so we instantly teamed up to get our parents to split. Just like in the movie The Parent Trap, we schemed and plotted and tried our best to make their lives miserable. But it turned out my mom and Brad didn’t even need their fourteen-year-old children to break them up.

Two months into their marriage, Mom was sleeping with the pool guy and Reverend Keeton was canoodling with a horse veterinarian he met online. Shortly after that, they split. Mom moved to Boston to go “find herself”—without me, of course; I begged her to stay, or at least take me with her, but she said being a mother wasn’t her “destiny”—and Brad moved to Kansas to be with his horse doctor. But the whispers and the stares stayed behind, and linger still today.

But one good thing came out of it: Amber. Bonded by the town’s disapproval and our parents’ outlandish behavior, we became permanent allies. To this day, Amber is one of the only faces that I’m ever happy to see.