Sunday. Glorious Sunday.

The one morning of the week I was always safe from the alarm clock.

Unfortunately, my dumb, drunken ass forgot to turn it off.

It rattles on my bedside table. I raise my throbbing head and stare at it for ten whole seconds before I realize where I am.

Ugh…

I turn it off and sit up, cringing at the taste of my own morning breath. A light, morning breeze drifts in through my open window. I take a deep breath of it, filling my lungs and blowing it all the way out again.

Kimber’s smile flashes in my mind.

I’m definitely awake now.

I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and clean up my face. Might as well stay awake if this is going to be my schedule for another few weeks.

I throw on a shirt as I walk out into the kitchen, pausing as a soft sound twitches my ears. Something human, familiar, and a little heart-breaking.

I hear it again and ease toward the open front door to peek out onto the porch through the screen door.

My mother sits on the porch swing with a dark blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She brings the crushed tissue in her hand to her face and gently wipes her nose.

I half-turn to leave, thinking that I should give her space, but that far-off expression on her wet face tugs me right back.

“Hey, Mom,” I say.

She flinches and looks away from the door. “Hey, kid,” she says, forcing a pleasant tone. She sniffs and dabs her eyes, banishing evidence but it’s too late for that. “You’re up early.”

I push open the screen door and step out onto the porch. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, reaching out to grab her coffee mug from the small end table beside the swing. “Just enjoying the sunrise.”

“Mind if I join you?” I ask.

She shrugs and I take the empty seat next to her on the swing. My hands twitch on my knees as I hop back and forth between patting her shoulder or just being still. We sit silently and look out across the fields in front of us.

“Fifteen hundred and sixty.”

I glance at her. “What?”

“I did the math,” she says, clearing her throat. “I figure... fifty-two weeks in a year, so there are fifty-two Sundays per year, give or take. Fifty-two multiplied by thirty years. That’s fifteen-hundred and sixty Sundays we sat on this porch. Watching the fog roll in. Listening to the rain. Smiling at the snow.”

My chest aches. “Mom...”

“It comes in waves,” she says, wiping her eyes again. “The old habits you’re used to are suddenly... gone.”

I raise my arm and lay it over her shoulders.

“I managed to keep it together through the first days waking up alone and the funeral arrangements. Even the service itself but it…” She exhales hard. “It was the goddamn Sunday mornings that did it.”

I rub her arm, pulling her closer. “It’s okay, Mom. You’re doing great.”

She lets out a weak sob but quickly reels it in. “It means a lot,” she says, briefly glancing at me. “Having you here.”

“I’m happy to help out,” I say. “You know that.”

“Not just to me. To them, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you know Clover folk, honey,” she mutters with a smirk. “Change isn’t part of their vocabulary.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right about that.”

“The morning the news broke about your dad, I got nine calls in an hour. You still delivering tomorrow morning?” She scoffs. “Ended up setting it off the hook for a day or two.”

I shake my head. “Dicks.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Dicks.”

I pat her back. “I’ll stick around for as long as you need me, Mom.”

Her eyes nearly spill over again but she swallows it down. “Thank you, Nate. I’d appreciate that.”

“You hungry?” I ask. “I could whip up some scrambled eggs and… well, scrambled eggs.”

“Sure,” she says, standing up with her mug. “Or I can do it and you can go take a shower. You smell like a damn carny.”

I shrug. “I had a good night.”

She hums judgmentally and walks inside.

* * *

Third Street. Seven deliveries on Third Street... I think.

Two bottles for you. One bottle and a dozen eggs for them. Another two bottles here...

I glance at my order form and nod with satisfaction that I got it right. Ahh, he can be taught.

As I lean into the cooler to grab the fresh bottles to fill my crate, a police siren cries out once behind me. I look through the back window to find a police car pulling up behind my truck. It stops and Sheriff Thompson steps out in his glorious, tan-colored hat and bushy, black mustache.

I stack the bottles into my crate and push open the back door as he walks up.

“Nathaniel Scott,” he says.

I pinch the brim on my hat and tilt forward. “Hey, Sheriff.”

He does the same, bowing to me as he slides his hat off, revealing an even balder scalp than I remember.

“I heard you were back in town,” he says.

“Yeah, well...” I nudge the door closed behind me. “Someone’s gotta deliver the milk, you know?”

He nods. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, son.”

I sigh at my shoes, flashing back to a few very awkward meetings in his office concerning some rumors. “Here we go...”

“I just want to make sure you remember what kind of place this town is,” he says. “You’ve been gone a while and you might have forgotten the rules.”

“Such as...?”

“Now, I’m only going to tell you this once.” He takes a few steps forward, his hard eyes sliding from my face to my milk crate. “For the sake of me, this town, and your own damn self-respect, never — and I mean never — sing karaoke at Lucky’s bar ever again.”

I snort. “Oh. That.”

“You and Myers butchered a classic song for no good reason.”

“Hey.” I hold up my hands. “Blame Jovie. She was our sober buddy.”

He chuckles. “When Jovie Ross is the voice of reason, I know I’m in for some overtime.”

I laugh. “Sheriff, I’m just here to fill in until my mother can find a permanent replacement. Then, I’ll be out of your hair.” I glance up at his shiny scalp. “Figuratively speaking, of course. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I know. I’m just giving you shit, son.” He flashes a wink and puts his hat back on. “I’ll let you get back to work. You take care. Give your mother my best.”

“Will do. Thanks, Sheriff.”

He opens his car door. “Oh, and Nate...”

“Yeah?” I ask as I pick up my crate.

“Keep your pecker in your pants,” he says.

I nod. “And there it is.”

He drives off, his face permanently displaying a wide, childish grin.

I sigh and finish up the deliveries along Third Street. My memory isn’t as great about Second Street’s orders but I sure have no trouble remembering First’s.

I blow through the rest of them quickly and snatch two more bottles before heading up the sidewalk toward the VanHouten house.

The back door is closed. I smile at the empty stoop. Kimber must have forgotten to put out her bottles again.

I knock once, craning my neck to try and see through the thick curtains in the way. There’s no answer, so I cautiously try the knob. It turns easily, unlocked.

I take a slow step into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind me. “Kimber?” I say. Still no answer.

There’s a canvas sitting on the easel in the corner. Another landscape in the works. I step farther in to get a closer look at it. A sunset with deep oranges and tepid blues. Rolling hills and bushy trees.

Kimber appears from the hallway and pauses, obviously startled by my sudden presence. “Nate...” she says, breathing out.

“Sorry,” I say. “Just came to drop these off...” I set the glass bottles on the kitchen table.

“Thanks,” she says, her head turned down. Hair falling along the important bits.

I gesture to the painting. “This one’s nice, too.”

She nods. “It’s okay.”

“Do you have more?”

“Uh, yeah. A few dozen, maybe.”

“Really?” I look down the hall, spotting nothing but blank, white walls. “Got any hanging up somewhere? I’d love to see them.”

“Oh...” She paces to the refrigerator. “No, Curtis doesn’t like them, so I just keep them out in the garage.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really...” She pulls out an empty glass bottle and sets it on the table beside the new ones. “Care,” she spits out.

I turn to face her as her eyes start to swell. “Kimber?”

She wipes her gloved fingers beneath her eyes. “Thank you for the milk, Nate, but do you think you can go? Please...”

I don’t move. “What’s wrong?”

Kimber exhales and presses her lips together to hide that they’re trembling. “It’s nothing,” she says, her voice barely audible.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” I slide my hat off and toss it onto the table. “What’s up? You can talk to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says, chuckling once.

“Try me.”

“No, I mean...” Her head shakes. “I wouldn’t want to foil my husband’s master plan to seize your farm.”

“His what?” I laugh.

“When we got back from the bar the other night he seemed so happy,” she says, her eye glistening. “I thought that maybe he was proud of me for taking a chance and getting out of the house. You know, getting better.”

“And he wasn’t?”

“No, he was. He was so fucking ecstatic that I knew you. He started asking me if I could talk you into selling your farm since we’re such old friends and all.”

I scoff. “Jeez...”

“He didn’t even care that I...” She sniffs, fighting the tears a little harder. “I haven’t left the house like that in nearly a year. And he cared more about what that could mean for him... than what it meant for me. Or for the two of us. It was all about him and that damn farm.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. She quickly brushes it off and turns away from me.

I take a soft step closer. “Kimber.”

She bends forward, obviously sobbing. “You should go,” she says.

“I’m not leaving.” I lay a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her back to face me. “Come here.”

I slide my arms around her, holding her close. I expect her to push me away but she doesn’t. She leans in and buries her face in my chest. Her scent wafts up from her hair and I try not to focus on it. This isn’t about me, no matter how much I’d like to focus on how Kimber Kyle is in my arms right now.

“He doesn’t love me anymore,” she says.

I rub her back. “I’m sure he does.”

“No...” She turns her shaking head up. “He won’t even look at me,” she says, her blonde hair sticking to her cheeks. “All I want is for him to look at me. Not through me. Not around me. At me. I want him to see that I’m still me. I’m a little bit broken but I’m still me…”

Kimber takes a quick step backward out of my arms. I drop them to my side, giving her the space she needs as she recoils in shame.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” I say.

She half-turns away to look at her canvas. “I didn’t mean to unload on you like that.”

“It’s okay.” I smile. “Oddly enough, you’re not the first sobbing woman I’ve comforted recently. I’m getting pretty good at it.”

“God...” She sighs. “That’s right. You just lost your dad and here I am, whining about my stupid shit.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say. “Honestly, it sounds rough.”

She nods. “He wasn’t always like this. After the accident, he just...”

“Changed?” I ask.

“Not exactly. He was always kind of a... well, you know.”

“A total douche?” I say.

She laughs. “Yeah. But not to me. I thought I was immune. I thought I was worthy.” Her eyes roll back. “Sounds so stupid to think about now.”

“So...” I pause. “Sorry if this is a shitty question, but... why haven’t you left him?”

“You mean why haven’t I divorced him and taken half of what’s legally mine?” She cocks her head. “You think a VanHouten would dare part with that kind of money?”

I frown. “He won’t let you go?”

“No,” she says, taking a breath. “I keep thinking that things will get better, you know? You’d think that he’d be the one person who understands what I’m going through. The one I can count on to tell me I’m beautiful, even if it’s all a lie.” Her shoulders bounce. “I guess if there’s one positive thing you can say about Curtis VanHouten, it’s that he’s no liar.”

I lean back, stunned at the thought. “Kimber, you are beautiful.”

Her breath catches in her throat. She turns slightly and looks at me out of the corner of her exposed eye.

“Nate, you don’t have to...”

I step closer, gently bending at the hip to try and get a better look at her. “Kimber, look at me,” I say.

She hesitates as a new trail of tears falls down her cheek.

I raise my left hand and she flinches with wide eyes. I stop, letting it linger in the space between us as she stares at me.

“Kimber,” I whisper her name again and her gaze softens. “It’s okay...”

She turns her head and curiosity spreads along her face. My fingertips graze her right cheek, firing a sudden shockwave up my arm and down my spine. She doesn’t move. She lets me draw a line up her cheekbone. I push her hair back as I go, revealing the tangled web of scars clawing down the right side of her face.

But I don’t care about them. I care about the girl behind those fearful eyes.

I tuck her hair behind her ear and leave it there. “See?” I ask, smiling. “You’re beautiful.”

Kimber exhales a quivering breath. A few spare tears build-up behind her eyelashes. I wipe away the line on her cheek, slowly moving my hand down until my thumb rests beneath her bottom lip.

My heart jolts in my chest as we lock eyes. I flex my jaw, feeling a twisted mix of sadness and anger. Sadness for her because there’s a not a damn reason in the world for Kimber fucking Kyle to think she’s not beautiful.

Anger for him for making her feel that way.

I tilt her head up as I lean over and I don’t stop until my lips touch hers.