Dane shows up right when he promised he would on Saturday morning. The supposed felon is punctual, I’ll give him that. I walk out to greet him so I won’t feel pressured to invite him inside when he knocks. I’m not ready for my space to be invaded by anyone else, and I need to set the parameters of this relationship early. No coming in the house, no making yourself at home.

“Morning,” I greet, stepping up to the edge of the porch while he rummages through his backseat. He pops his head around his truck door and gives me a bright smile. Friendly, open, hot. No, not hot. I’ve got to get my mind under control. I think it’s gone wonky from the emotional whirlwind it’s been through.

“Good morning. I’m just grabbing a few things I thought we’d need.”

“I assumed we’d have to go to the hardware store. I don’t have any man-supplies laying around.”

“I thought so.” Dane shuts the door and leans over the truck bed, lifting out two painter’s buckets that are heaped with tools I don’t know the names of. “Luckily, I’ve got plenty of man-supplies.”

“I see that.” I duck back inside and grab the three bottles of water I have waiting, setting them outside by the steps.

“Where should we start?”

Dane drops his buckets on the top step and stands back, hands poised on his hips. He’s wearing jeans with holes that I’m sure he wore in himself and a faded Titans t-shirt. The shirt might have taken one too many trips to the dryer—it’s a little tight around the biceps and chest. Not good for my wandering mind.

“Well, we could start by checking all these spindles on the railing and replacing the ones that are weak. We’ll knock ‘em out, replace ‘em, then paint ‘em all to match. That right there will brighten up your entire porch.”

Yes, I think “that right there” will.

Dane roots through one of the buckets and hands me a hammer. “You shouldn’t need much more than this to loosen them up.”

I accept the hammer, then go to one end of the porch while Dane starts on the other. I try not to glance over at him too often, but when I do, I see that he’s fully concentrated on the work in front of him. I’m pleased I don’t have to make awkward small talk or dodge his advances for however long this will take.

The work is strangely calming, uninterrupted except for the taps of the hammers and the bird calls overhead. I’m surprised by how at ease I feel being around someone I hardly know, but his presence serves to anchor my thoughts to this porch instead of all the other places they could go—like my shortcomings and mistakes and failures. It’s a blessed break from what’s become my new normal.

We’ve each made it through half of our sections when Victor comes sulking over, pushing a prehistoric lawn mower. It’s beaten up and probably on its last leg, but if it cuts grass, I’m not judging. Dane pauses, wiping the sweat from his brow and resting his arms on one knee where he’s kneeling.

“Hi, Victor,” I greet him warmly, and he gives me a fleeting smile. “You know Dane, right? He’s going to be helping us today.”

“Hey, buddy,” Dane says, reaching out and bumping knuckles with him.

Victor goes to fill up the mower using the little gas can he’s brought, looking a little dejected, but his gaze flits over to us curiously as we resume our task. Dane hammers at a post to loosen it and tosses it over onto the pile of scraps we’ve accumulated, but before he moves on to the next post, he pauses and gestures for Victor to come over.

“Hey, Vic, you’re over ten years old, aren’t you?” Dane asks.

“Eleven,” Victor answers, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Perfect. I bet you’re strong enough to help us out over here. Mind giving me a hand?”

Victor shrugs, but I can tell he’s interested. He walks up onto the porch and kneels next to Dane, and as Dane explains what he’s been doing with each spindle, speaking to him as an equal instead of a child, I turn back to the ones in front of me to hide my smile.

After a quick tutorial, Dane hands over his hammer and gets up to start the mower. He takes off, pushing it in neat lines across the stiff grass of my yard. Victor is so intent on his new job that he doesn’t pay a lick of attention to Dane, or the task he took over.

Once we finish knocking out the railings, Dane asks Victor to help him load the scrap wood into the back of the truck. They make a game of it, as boys do, while I dump the old, stale soil out of the pots on either side of my front door.

“You’ve got quite the arm, bud. You been practicing since the last time I was here?”

Victor shrugs glumly. “No. I tried, but—” He angles his chin toward my house.

“Ah. The window. Well, I may not be Jamie Santos—I do remember him throwing a mean change-up—but maybe, if Raven doesn’t mind, we can cut this workday short and play some catch.”

Victor’s eyes brighten, and when they both direct hopeful smiles at me, I throw my hands up in surrender.

“Fine, but you both owe me another day of hard labor.”

 

 

It’s early evening when the paint on my revamped porch is finally drying, and the sound of a baseball slapping against leather fills the air. The sun will be setting soon, but Dane’s already run through some basic drills with Victor, and now they’re practicing their pitches—parallel to the house so none of my windows are at risk. Thankfully, the town’s glass man doesn’t have a whole lot of business to keep him occupied, so he was able to get to mine earlier this week. I go into the house for another water for Victor and, on second thought, two beers for Dane and myself. It’s the least I can do after the work he’s done today.

Marissa calls for Victor just as the sun is about to dip below the tree line behind our houses, and he starts to run to her. Right as he draws even with the line of trees separating our yards, his steps falter, and he looks back at Dane, torn. “Are we gonna practice next time you come by, Dane?” he calls, his childlike voice ringing over the yard.

“We better. You’re already starting to dial in your fastball. Couple more weeks and we can get you on that team.”

Victor’s smile is wide in answer, and he turns and darts toward his house, where his mother is waiting. He forgot their mower, but it’s not like the thing is going to walk off by itself.

Dane’s looking down at the grass as he strides toward me, a tired yet satisfied smile on his face. It’s kind of sweet.

“Here you go, Babe,” I say with a grin, holding the bottle of beer out to him. My smile falls, and I clear my throat. “Like Babe Ruth. And I didn’t know what kind of beer you liked.” What the fuck—why is the only great baseball player I can think of nicknamed Babe?

He chuckles lightly, accepting the bottle and dropping down onto the porch steps beside me. “Anything cold. Thank you. And I knew what you meant. Either way, it’s an honor,” he says, popping the top and taking a long swig. The knot in his throat bobs when he swallows. I can imagine the way he probably smells—like grass and a hard day’s work. Sweat. Temptation. Shit.

“I guess we’ll have a few more of these before we’re finished,” I muse. It’s an intimidating thought, withstanding the undercurrent of tension between us two or three times over. Although it’s starting to look better, I know my house could use a lot more work, and Dane seems well equipped for the job.

“Beers or work days?” he teases, giving me a sidelong glance. “Are you trying to get me drunk, or just taking advantage of the free labor?”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him. “Very funny. The beer is dependent upon the quality of your work. And you insisted that I take advantage of your free labor. Just reminding you of that.” He is also decent company—not at all intrusive or overbearing—but I don’t need to make that known. I’m not inviting him over just for the hell of it.

“I’m messing with you. You’re just a hard person to read. Hell, I didn’t even know your name was Raven until you gave me a check with it printed on there.”

I say nothing. I don’t need to defend myself or explain why I’ve been so cautious.

“Here, I’ll put my number in your phone. If you want to continue this—fixing up the place, I mean—just give me a shout. Ball’s in your court.”

I chew on the edge of my lip for a few seconds while I mull it over, before shifting and pulling my phone from my back pocket. He inputs his number and hands it right back to me. My “friends” in Nashville would have a field day with this. Less than a week in a new town and I already have a guy’s number. A criminal’s, at that.

We drink our beers while the crickets sing, enjoying the quiet. Until Dane asks, “What brought you out here, Raven?”

I scowl. Not at him, but at the piece of ground I’m staring at in place of him. Eye contact with him makes me feel wobbly inside, and the sun falling behind the trees is just casting us further into darkness. I should’ve turned on the lights so this moment wouldn’t seem so daunting.

“All right. Where did you come from? That’s easy enough. Everyone came from somewhere.”

“Nashville,” I say with a sigh, taking another swallow of beer. It hits the back of my throat and makes me cough because I took a way larger gulp than I intended. Nashville means more to me than just a place I lived for a while. It’s the city where I built my adult life, and where that life subsequently fell apart. The place where my friends became traitors and forsook me for my ex.

“I’m sure this place is worse for you than it is for me, then,” he says with a scoff, and I shoot him a glance. “I’ve been here my entire life. Nearly everyone here is someone I’ve known since I was a kid. They’ve all made their opinions of each other long ago, and nobody can escape that box they’ve been put in.”

I immediately want to tell him he made the decisions that led him to this point in his life, and if he hates his hometown so much, he can leave. It’s scary to make a departure from what’s familiar, but it’s better than being constantly reminded of your mistakes. His expression, on the other hand, makes it seem like there’s more to the story. For the first time since I met him, worry seems to settle into the creases of his forehead and the downturn of his lips. Without that charming grin in place, I can see his stormy thoughts flicker across his expression, like his openness is just his version of a mask.

Maybe we’re both more alike than I thought. Maybe we both have things we’re not quite ready to say aloud. But I can’t tell him that. I’m not some wounded bird that needs to be taken under his wing.

“I like Heronwood,” I say with forced indifference, polishing off my beer.

His gaze searches mine and, finding nothing, he pairs a quick exhalation with a shrug. “Give it some time.”

“You know you could leave,” I finally say, stating the obvious. “Take a risk. Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

Something barely discernible flickers across his features. “I wish it was that simple. I have a . . . life here.” He says “life” like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “You should know. It couldn’t have been easy to leave Nashville.”

Careful, my internal alarms flash. He’s fishing for information. Too bad the fish aren’t biting tonight. “You’d be surprised. It can be simple if you make it that way.” Or if your home suddenly feels like a garment of clothing you’ve outgrown.

I feel his eyes on the side of my face for a few seconds longer, but I don’t meet them. It’s time for this conversation to end, and it’s time for me to get back inside, alone, where I’m meant to be.

“Finished?” I hold out my hand for his bottle, and he hands it to me. “Thanks for your help today, by the way.” It’s a declaration that he should leave, without really telling him to. A sleaze ball would lean up against the door frame and ask if we should continue this inside. Someone subtler might ask for another drink.

Dane surprises me and does neither. He stands up and brushes off his jeans, avoiding my eyes. Maybe I’ve wounded him. It’s better that way.

“Sure. Just let me know when you want me to take care of this porch.” He gestures toward the uneven slats below us, and I nod. Like he said, he’s placed the ball in my court. It’s a place I want the ball to be but also don’t. I think we both know that me calling him would mean more than just me needing his help to fix this dump.

“Good night, Dane,” I say, pulling open my porch door and switching on the light so he can find his way to his truck. The yellow glow casts half-moon shadows beneath his eyes, and he turns away and hops off the steps.

“Good night, Raven.”

 

 

“Oh my God, look at your porch! It looks better. Not awesome, but better,” Lynn says, nodding in approval.

“I appreciate your honesty,” I tell her with a laugh. We’re going to one of the little bars in town for dinner tonight. Lynn said it’s the best place to go for an artery-clogger, and right now, I couldn’t ask for anything more. I’m on my period this week, and my mood has been swinging like a pendulum between wanting to kill someone and wanting to make a cave in my comforter to hole up in and mope over my failed marriage.

I drive us over to The Pit—yes, that’s what it’s actually called—and we get long looks from each person planted so firmly in their stools along the bar they might as well be barnacles on a ship.

“Can we get a booth? Far from the bar?” I ask the hostess. I want to put a healthy distance between us and the “usuals.”

“Alrighty, right this way,” she says, clicking her overgrown acrylic nails across the menus as she leads us to a booth. There’s stuffing spilling out of a hole in the bench, but I slide across it and say it’s fine when she asks if it works for us.

“You’ve got to get this. I mean, unless you’re into avocados and lettuce and shit,” Lynn says, reaching across and tapping the Swiss-bacon-mushroom burger featured as a Town Favorite Item.

“I like my avocados, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never said no to bacon.” We order a couple of beers and bacon-topped grease pits, and our waitress squeaks away on her non-slip shoes to grab our beverages.

Without missing a beat, Lynn launches into a dramatic retelling of the challenges she’s faced while refinishing a bedroom set for an extremely picky couple in town, and she’s almost all the way through it when she stops suddenly, mid-sentence, and scowls at me. My head withdraws back an inch, and I look from side to side to make sure nobody’s behind me that I haven’t noticed.

“What?” I ask, seeing no one else around.

“Your porch—I just thought about it! I’m a wood person, that’s what I do, and yet I didn’t think to offer to help you with your porch. I guess I assumed that was something Bill would’ve done.” Bill is the former owner of the house, who was renting it to the previous tenants—the storied Millers.

“Bill thought that porch was charming. Also, I was a little over-eager to get out of Nashville, so he probably sensed he had me bagged without the repairs.”

Lynn rolls her eyes. “You would think, as someone who sells and rents properties to support himself, he would care more. I guess he’s used to the bumpkins around here who don’t care what kind of place it is as long as there’s a roof over top and the floor won’t cave in.”

“I’m not entirely confident the floor won’t cave in,” I interject. “But I could afford it without Jenson’s money, there’s not any mold or termites—that I know of—and that’s all that matters.”

“Who helped you with the porch, then?”

The waitress drops off our drinks, a convenient distraction for all of seven seconds, and Lynn’s scrutinizing eyes return to me. She’s like a bloodhound for lies. I already know she’d call bullshit if I fibbed.

I take a long swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before answering, “Dane.”

“Hmm,” she says suggestively, nodding and taking a swig from her own bottle. “Nice of him.”

“Well, the Crosses fixed my car, and when he came by, he basically wouldn’t leave my porch unless I told him he could help fix that too.”

“He threatened you?” she asks, leaning forward a fraction.

“No. But he ripped up the check I gave him for the car and told me he wouldn’t take the money unless I let him help with the porch.”

“Classic Cross manipulation. So when are you seeing him again?”

“Who says I’m seeing him again?” I shrug nonchalantly.

She gives me a you can’t be serious face. “Your porch does. It’s still screaming for help, although not as loudly as before.”

“Saturday.”

After analyzing my text message for entirely too long, I sent Dane something that was straight to the point, with no room for misinterpretation. Then I realized how cold it sounded and debated sending an emoji to lighten the mood, but I resisted. I don’t need to spare his feelings.

“You’re a sucker.”

“I’m new here. You can’t blame me for failing to recognize the warning signs of this ‘Cross manipulation’ you speak of.”

“Oh, I think you recognized them,” she says. “Maybe you just want to play with fire.”

I’m about to respond to that accusation when her eyes flick up somewhere over my right shoulder, and she groans just loud enough for me to hear.

“Shanalynn, is that you?” I turn my head in time to see a woman approaching, maneuvering a stroller through the tables, with a curly-headed kid seated in the front. When I glance back toward Lynn, she says, “Rachelle,” in a low voice out of the corner of her mouth.

Rachelle has the type of hair that’s been bleached to within an inch of its life, all fine and drifting around her head like cotton candy. She’s got one manicured hand gripping the stroller, and the handle of her diaper bag is resting in the crook of her other arm, sported as proudly as a Birkin. I know of women like her. They name their palm-sized dogs things like Princess, or Peaches, or Punkin—yes, Punkin, not even a real word.

“Long time, no see!” she greets enthusiastically, parking the stroller.

“Yeah, how’s the uh . . .” Lynn looks around the edge of the stroller, perhaps for a hint as to what the kid’s name is.

“Bryson. He’s good! Growing like a weed. Anywho, look who it is!” I shoot Lynn a panicked look a fraction of a second before Rachelle directs her gaze at me. “You’re our newcomer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Newcomer. That’s me,” I say, offering my hand. It’s only polite.

“Raven, right? Word travels fast around here.” She wiggles her eyebrows like she’s just been told something especially juicy, and it makes me uncomfortable. “I’m Rachelle Pickens. Town Mom and part-time Beauty Distributor.”

Town Mom? I make a mental note to ask Lynn what the hell that is, but I have a feeling I won’t fit into their ranks enough to care. I smile and nod along. “Nice to meet you.”

“Of course. You’re all anyone’s talking about these days. Have you settled in okay?” Her voice is so sickeningly sweet it leaves a saccharine aftertaste in my mouth. I wait for Lynn to interrupt and say something funny to detract from the subject of me, but she just observes with amusement.

“Basically. Now I just have to get used to everything in town closing down at seven o’clock.”

“I imagine that would take some getting used to, coming fresh from the city. I’d be happy to help you get acquainted. In fact, a few of us reserved the party room in the back for this week’s girls’ night! Y’all should join!”

I make a little noise of distress in the back of my throat before I can stop myself. A girls’ night with the mommy version of the Plastics sounds worse than walking on broken glass for fun. Lynn makes a toasting motion, like I should be happy to oblige.

“We usually have a ‘no children allowed’ policy,” Rachelle says, glancing at her stroller and giving us an apologetic look, like her kid will be the thing that scares us off.

“Good thing I’m childless.”

“You’re just hysterical. The girls are going to love you. Come on back when you’re ready! I insist!”

“We will, thanks,” Lynn answers for us. When Rachelle cackles all the way back to the party room, I shoot Lynn a scathing look. “What? Your introduction to the gossip train would’ve happened sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.”

“If I wasn’t eating bacon right now, I’d be angrier.”

Once we’ve finished our meals, we head toward the back of the restaurant, pushing through a pair of swinging doors into one of the private dining rooms.

Upon seeing us, Rachelle stands from her place at the head of the table. “Raven! Y’all, this is who I was telling you about! She just moved here!” she exclaims, rounding the kitchen island and embracing me with one arm, like she didn’t just see me half an hour ago. Her eyes are a little glazed, and I wonder how many cocktails she’s guzzled since she arrived.

“Hi,” I say, acknowledging the rest of the women with another obligatory smile. There are three with identical bob haircuts, only one’s is died black underneath and platinum on top. I learn that the women of the “Bob Squad”—as I’ve dubbed them in my head—are named Josie, Felicia, and Meg. There’s a petite girl with waist-length hair that’s dyed black named Brittany, and another named Emma who seems to be the more reserved of the bunch, judging by the casual way she lifts a couple of fingers in a wave instead of immediately fussing over us.

“I know you two already ate, but help yourself to the dips. We got Buffalo-chicken and spinach-artichoke!” Rachelle says, waving a hand over the table. There’s not a spare inch of surface area, with all the empty glasses occupying the space.

While Lynn is intercepted by one of the Bob Squad members, I make my way over to Emma. She’s already claimed what I’ve deemed the safe-zone, at a corner of the table where all the dips seem to be allocated, and I’m hoping she’s open to making an ally.

“Goodness. They don’t mess around,” I say, surveying the spread of appetizers—what looks to be the entire menu.

“It’s just for show. Everyone orders this shit, then nobody eats it. It’s the most wasteful day of the week, I swear,” Emma says snidely. The amber-tinged ice in her glass rattles as she tips it skyward, emptying it.

“Where I come from, that’s called sabotage,” I respond, selecting a few pita chips and dipping them into the closest dish. Buffalo chicken dip. Delicious.

“You could be onto something.” She inclines her head subtly and I glance to the left, where the other girls are watching me through their peripheral vision as if waiting to see if I instantaneously gain twelve pounds.

“Mmm,” I moan appreciatively, mostly for their benefit.

“Nashville, right?” Emma asks, and I cringe inwardly as I nod.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, you were the hot topic of conversation before you and Lynn came in, but I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“I wish I could say that’s news to me, but I have a feeling it’s standard for newcomers in Heronwood.”

“Mostly. But they’re all very interested in you. I’m pretty sure they’re working up the courage to come over here right now.” Emma sends a quick glance to her left again, and I feel my cheeks boil. I knew this would happen, but I didn’t think it would be so awkward.

“Remind me why I agreed to this?”

As if in answer, she gestures to a nearby waiter and orders another whiskey. “They’re mostly harmless. All bark, no bite. Unfortunately, the Bobs can bark pretty loud.”

I whisper-shout, “You nicknamed them, too?”

“Hard not to. They’ve been sporting that ’do for the past decade, it feels like.”

Just then, Lynn rounds the table to join us. “Emma, it’s been a while,” she greets.

“Only because you never come to these things.”

“Do you blame me?”

“No.” Emma raises her fresh glass of whiskey, and Lynn clinks her beer against it. These two clearly share the same humor.

There’s a crash at the opposite end of the table, and Rachelle disappears below the tabletop, retrieving a few glasses from the floor. Meanwhile, the toddler in the stroller looks incredibly guilty.

 “Sorry, ladies. Greg and the boys decided to go to the pool hall last minute, leaving Bryson with me.” Rachelle explains regretfully, grabbing a handful of napkins and diving back beneath the table. The rest of the group just nods and offers understanding looks. Thankfully, a couple of servers enter the room bearing sizzling skillets of fajitas, and all attention is focused on serving up the tortillas, meat, and vegetables.

Conversation is light throughout dinner, but once everything has been picked over and fresh drinks have been delivered, it’s a free-for-all. The seat beside me has been vacated by Lynn, who is either using the restroom or hiding out in it, Brittany and Emma have gone off to look at Brittany’s new car, and I’m suddenly surrounded by two members of the Bob Squad before I even know what’s happening.

“So, how are you liking Heronwood so far?” one of them asks, perching on the edge of the table, a little close for comfort.

“It’s a nice change of pace,” I answer honestly.

“That’s great to hear. It’s a unique experience, living in this little town, there’s nothing quite like it.”

“Everyone’s real close,” the one with the contrasting hair elaborates, dropping onto the chair beside me.

“What is it that you do for a living?” the first asks.

“I’m a dental hygienist in Clarksville.” I look down at the glass of wine Rachelle insisted on buying me, considering chugging it so I’ll have an excuse to leave the table for another. But alcohol is like truth serum to me; the second I’m tipsy, I start spewing all the things I would otherwise die if anyone knew. Doing that here would be like baiting shark-infested waters.

“What brought you out here, then?” the one in the chair inquires, swaying precariously. By her squinted eyes, I deduce she’s had the most to drink.

“The quiet. I like the remoteness of it.”

“I guess that’s something we all take for granted after living here most of our lives. I’m glad you appreciate it, though,” the other one says.

The one in the chair leans in close and blurts, “You used to be Raven King, right?” It’s as effective as telling a dirty joke at a funeral; all the heads in the room swivel in my direction.

Tension tightens in my chest. This is the reason I chose this town, where I knew no one, and it’s the reason I wanted to keep the Heronwoodians at arm’s length. Jenson filled every nook and cranny of my past life, and I wanted to keep him out of this one. This life is mine; it feels like the first time I can truly say that. But there’s something about being vague that seems to lure these people like flies to honey. Maybe if I tell them everything, they’ll find me less interesting than they thought.

“I was. But that’s in the past,” I finally answer, and Lynn gives me an empowering nod from where she’s just reentered the room.

“And we will have no more talk of ex-husbands. Especially famous ones,” Emma says helpfully, but the Bob leaning on the table narrows her eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you that in the first place, Meg?” she chastises the drunk one. “I said, ‘don’t that girl look just like Raven King, only with darker, shorter hair?’ ”

“Okay, you were right about that one, fine,” Meg slurs, raising her glass and sloshing a bit of wine in the process.

The third Bob, who’s gravitated closer and closer over the course of the conversation, leans over to me and says, in a low voice like she doesn’t want to stir up trouble, “I loved the dress you wore to the CMAs last year.”

Glad she at least had the grace not to mention Jenson’s drunken stumble on the red carpet, I mutter my thanks.

“He musta been quite the romantic, huh? Is it true that ‘Puzzle Heart’ was written about you?” Drunky Mcgee asks, nudging me rather hard with her shoulder.

“All right, give it up. If she wanted to discuss her marriage and divorce, I’m sure she’d hire a therapist to do it with instead of you three,” Lynn says, shooing Meg out of her chair.

“Okay, Shanalynn, damn.” Meg goes to stand, bobbling and dumping the entire glass of wine down the other Bob’s shirt. A dark bloom of cabernet immediately spreads across the fabric. “Oh, hell,” she says, just as Rachelle slaps a hand over her mouth in horror.

“I’ll go ask for some soda,” Emma grumbles, making for the bar.

There’s some fluttering around the wine stain for about fifteen minutes, then, when it’s finally determined that nothing can be done, Rachelle notifies Meg she’s been cut off. I’m not sure how girls’ night survives such ordeals, but somehow it marches on.

Talk of Jenson and my divorce is mostly forgotten, but it’s sparked a therapy session involving ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, and infidelity. I manage to ignore most of it, using that time to browse my neglected social media pages on my phone—I’ve been avoiding my overflowing inboxes and notifications since I moved—but it’s not long before the tone of the conversation drags my attention back to the room of women.

“I don’t care what all of you say, Emma’s situation trumps all. I mean, can you imagine finding out that your fiancé has not only been screwing your future maid of honor, but also paying her for it?” Brittany says, shaking her head in disgust. Emma only pours more whiskey down her throat in answer.

“What else do you expect from a Cross? They’re all dogs,” the Bob whom I’ve determined to be Josie says bitterly. At the mention of the Crosses, my ears perk up. I wasn’t aware either of them had been engaged, especially to someone from this room, and despite my previous lack of interest, I can’t deny they’ve become a bit of a fascination to me. Especially because the rumors don’t seem to match up with the Dane I’ve come to know.

“Girl, I have faith that some men can change. But, Trey? Did you really think a ring and a piece of paper would be enough to change his ways?” Rachelle asks gently.

“In my defense, he was very convincing. He said all the right things and made me think I was just some jealous bitch with a shitload of insecurities,” Emma responds. I feel for her. I can see how Trey could be charming to someone more sheltered, less guarded. Luckily for me, I’ve come to associate charm with deception.

Josie’s voice is thick with suspicion when she says, “Well, of course he’s a manipulator. I personally would keep my distance from all of ’em. Once a dirty criminal, always a dirty criminal.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” I ask. For reasons I’ve not completely figured out, I find myself sympathizing with Dane. I know how difficult it is to outrun your past. I’ve hardly spent any time here, and it feels like mine is already knocking at my door. Dane’s dealt with these people all his life, with nowhere to hide his mistakes.

In response to Josie’s blank stare, I say, “From what I’ve gathered, Dane’s made a few mistakes in the past. But haven’t we all?”

The expressions in the room range from dismissive to frigid.

“If you had seen Grant Michaels’ face after Dane was through with him, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have called it a mistake. He was the handsomest thing around, and his face got turned into ground beef,” Josie says, her tone quiet and patronizing.  

“All right, so he got into a fight and won. What started it?” I push, schooling my expression into one of indifference. If they sense I’m interested in the town criminal—which I’m not, really—there will be no dragging me out of this intact.

“Rumor has it that it was unprovoked. You don’t just beat the shit out of a teammate’s dad unless you have some issues,” Felicia says, pointing at her head to hint that the issues she’s referring to are mental.

“Oh, please. You can’t really believe Dane is that cruel, can you? The guy said something about his dead mother,” Lynn retorts.

“Nobody backed that up, and in any case, words are words. They’re basically harmless. Grant’s face, on the other hand, has never been the same. You know what it’s like out here; no good plastic surgeons.” Josie shakes her head regretfully.

Lynn rolls her eyes. “Grant Michaels is an asshole who probably deserved it.” While the rest of the women shriek, Emma nods in agreement.

“Lynn!”

“How can you say that?”

“He’s the mayor of our town!”

I’m piecing bits of information together in my mind, but the picture they’re forming has plenty of holes. With these ladies around, it’s nearly impossible to get an objective look.

“Well, I’ve found Dane to be refreshingly honest,” I finally say, and when the attention has been redirected to me, I almost regret it. I can already hear the low, disapproving tsks. Whatever. It’s not my fault this flock has nothing better to cluck over.

Rachelle turns toward me. Her expression is kind, but she’s giving me that pitying bless your heart look you save for occasions when someone has been given the run-around. “Honest? The Crosses are a few things, honey, but honest isn’t one of them. How did you happen to run into Dane in the first place?”

I sit up a little straighter, preparing my defense. “One of the first few days I was here, he had my car fixed at his shop and saved me a ton of money.”

Josie throws her hands in the air. “Well of course they did, Raven. Look at you. Not only do you have a vagina, but you’re also decent-looking, and their car parts aren’t even legit. Seriously. Whatever you did end up paying, you were robbed.” I skip over the term she used for me—“decent looking”—and hone in instead on the comment about the stolen car parts. It might not be the term she used, but it’s clearly inferred, and I can’t help but be curious.

“How could you possibly know their parts aren’t legit?”

“People may turn the other cheek when times get tough, but there are no real secrets around here,” Felicia says, calm and matter-of-fact. “If you’d been here a few years ago, you would’ve heard about it. It was all over town. Why else do you think they send the cute one over to Henderson’s to get customers? They lost most of their business when their chop-shop was exposed.”

“Alleged chop-shop,” Lynn cuts in, rolling her eyes. “None of that was confirmed.”

“My husband is close to Officer Knapp, and I’ve heard what they found was suspicious,” Felicia says imperiously. “And even if you choose to see past all that, go ahead and look into the accusations made against Trey for the murder of Dalton Briggs a few years ago. And don’t forget the drug charges. He served time for the drugs, but he couldn’t have been running that much meth alone. It’s a family operation, and no matter what you think about Dane and his ‘honesty,’ he’s involved in something fishy, and anybody close to him will get taken down too when all this comes to light.”

I swallow my response, trying to recall some of the redeeming moments from Saturday, when Dane was helping me with my porch and coaching Victor. But all that’s imprinted in my mind now are those dilapidated meth labs you sometimes see on the news and the makeshift junkyard at the front of the Cross’s property. Without even knowing me, Dane knew just what to say to convince me to walk out of Henderson’s and have my car worked on by a supposed criminal. The criminal who owns a brand-new Mercedes that must have cost upwards of eighty grand. That he bought on a “mechanic’s” salary. It’s all becoming more and more twisted in my mind, and try as I might, I just can’t get the facts to line up. I came to Heronwood to find reprieve from the chaos in my life, not to be thrown into the middle of something worse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling light-headed. Dane is supposed to be coming over in two days to finish our project. Is he going to assume we’ve become friends? What if he hits on me and I have to turn him down? The temper the girls just warned me about comes to mind—Grant Michaels’ face: ground beef. And what if my association with him just makes life more complicated? What started out as an innocent home-improvement project just became a lot more than I bargained for.

Though they’ve moved on to another topic, I wave down the waiter to close my tab. My mind is preoccupied not only with coming up with an excuse to leave the restaurant, but also to break things off with Dane. Nothing is really going on between us, but it would be better to end whatever this is before any assumptions are made.

God, how could I have been so stupid?

Lynn nudges me, lifting her eyebrows as if to ask if I’m okay. I nod, tipping my head toward the door in answer.

“Well, ladies, it’s been fun. Raven’s gotta go into work early tomorrow, and I have a lot to do myself. Thank you for having us!” Lynn announces, shouldering her purse.

The rest of the women rise from their seats, and the same ones who admonished me no more than five minutes ago begin to fuss over me in some half-assed attempt at being sincere. I’m hugged and patted goodbye, and one of them even tells me to take care of myself. Like they’re sending me out the door to get slaughtered or something. I halfheartedly return their goodbyes and breathe a long sigh of relief when we step outside.

“Jesus. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to one of those,” I say on the way back to Lynn’s car. I feel like the survivor of some nuclear attack, and I wasn’t even the one they were bashing.

“I know, and I’m sorry I volunteered us, but it was better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. You cleared up the rumors, and they can now say they themselves have met you and can confirm you don’t have three eyes or two heads,” Lynn jokes. I just shake my head in disbelief. “Take what they say with a grain of salt, all right? What happened with the Crosses was our only piece of news for, like, half a decade. It’s the only thing people think they have to talk about, so the facts have gotten a little fucked up over the years.”

I nod, even as red flags pop up left and right. Try as I might, I can’t justify getting caught up in controversy, whether it’s true or not. I can’t allow myself to be swallowed up again. There’s a chance I’d never find my way back out.

After Lynn drops me off, I dart across my yard like a child who’s afraid the monsters under the bed are going to grab her feet if she doesn’t. Dodging shadows, my heartbeat only slows after I’ve locked myself safely behind my front door.