“Ellie thinks she and Wyatt are cursed and should break up,” Monica tells Libby.
“Ah. Fear of commitment. Natural, after what happened with the last one she dated.”
“Monica’s marrying that last one I dated’s brother tomorrow,” I remind Libby.
“But she’s not marrying that barnacle you escaped from, thank goodness. They’re brothers, not clones. Now, you explain to me what’s bothering you about committing to this nice young man.”
“His name’s Wyatt,” Monica supplies. “The hot single dad. He’s in the military and flies experimental planes. Total badass with a big heart.”
“Not helping,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, lifting a scone. “Oh, white chocolate raspberry. Libby, you are a goddess.”
“Come, come, tell us the problem,” Libby says. “Physical, emotional, or vaporal?
“Vaporal?”
“Pits, feet, or ass stinks?”
Monica chokes on her scone.
“He smells very nice,” I concede, because despite actually having a good excuse to fake break up with him—since we’re only fake dating—I am willing to be his friend.
For Beck’s sake.
One day, my brother’s going to crack the wrong joke and need the rest of us to fall in line to get him out of trouble, and Wyatt and I sniping at each other won’t help.
“Does he have performance issues?” Libby asks.
“No matter how I answer that question, it won’t be three hours before everyone in town thinks they know everything there is to know about my sex life.”
“Two lattes and an ice pack,” the barista says, setting coffees and a bag of ice with a dish towel on the table. “And this is why I recommend padded headboards.”
“Your face does kinda speak for itself,” Libby tells me with a grave nod of her short graying curls.
“I walked into an open cabinet door.”
“I threw out my hip trying a new position once. Took me four days to walk again, but the memories last a lifetime. Ah, to be young and nimble again.”
“Wyatt’s stationed in Georgia, and my job is in Copper Valley, okay?” I need something, or I’ll be hearing everyone’s opinions on my love life before we make it the two blocks to the town square to try our hand at digging up old Thorny Rock’s treasure. “Yes, we have attraction, but we have other things working against us.”
“But only until his commitment with the military’s up,” Monica points out. “Less than two years, right?”
“And he’s divorced.” I feel like a heel tossing out that tidbit, but anything to get them to think he’s not perfect. “You know the odds of divorce go up once you’ve done it the first time.” Isn’t that what they say?
Libby and Monica share a look. “Cold feet,” Libby declares.
“And some history,” Monica agrees. “Ellie. I don’t hang out with your brother’s crowd ever, and even I know Wyatt only got married because she was pregnant and he thought it was the right thing to do.”
Libby frowns. “Boy didn’t know to use a condom?”
“He hooked up with an old girlfriend after his mom’s funeral,” I whisper, because I feel like I’m cheating on Wyatt by telling other people his business, but I don’t want them thinking he goes around having unprotected sex with any woman who’ll have him. He used a condom with me at Christmas, and we didn’t get far enough to need one last night. “I haven’t asked, but you know those things break sometimes. Cut him some slack. And Tucker’s an awesome kid.”
Monica smiles at me over her latte. She’s a smiling parrot bride, but she looks like a cat with a canary.
Libby smiles too. “Well then. Clearly you’re right, and you two aren’t meant for each other.”
I’m being reverse psychologied. It won’t work. “Exactly.” I’m oddly deflated, like I do actually care that we could have a real chance. Or maybe I’m getting that good at subconsciously acting.
Monica and Libby share another smile, and Libby pushes back from the table. “You two enjoy your coffee. Monica, hon, you let me know if there’s anything we can do to help with the wedding. Love your costume, by the way.”
“Thanks, Libby.”
“You bet.”
“Where’s Jason?” I ask her when we’re alone again at the table.
“Picking out our shovels,” she answers cheerfully. “Eat up, Ellie. We’re about to dig up gold.”
Fifteen
Wyatt
Davis declines joining Tucker and me down in Shipwreck for the kick-off to the treasure dig, so it’s just the two of us walking along Blackbeard Avenue, heading for the center square. We haven’t yet figured out any of the clues to find the hidden peg leg around town, but neither of us cares. We’re having fun with everything else.
“Dad, can I get a tattoo?” Tucker asks.
“What? No. You’re seven.”
“Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” a voice calls.
I clap my hands over Tucker’s ears and look around at the various tourists joining us on the sidewalk, but they’re all just as confused as I am.
Grady Rock pops his shaggy head out of the bakery. “Hush your craw, Long Beak Silver. There are kids around.”
We all follow his gaze to the cannons sticking over the edge of the roof at Cannon Bowl next door, where old Pop’s parrot is perched. “Eat shit,” the parrot replies.
“Ah, go walk the plank,” Grady says.
The parrot waddles to the end of the cannon, lifts a foot, sways, and plummets toward the ground.
Everyone gasps, but the bird flaps its wings at the last second and takes off across the street to perch on the movie theater’s marquee.
“Asshole parrot,” Grady mutters as he ducks back into his shop.
I let go of Tucker’s ears, but he’s stopped and is staring in the bakery window. “Those tattoos, Dad,” he says.
Oh. Right.
The temporary tattoos that are in baskets all over town. “Oh. Yes.”
We grab a handful inside, and Tucker tells Grady he makes the best donuts in the universe, and I end up getting both of us a plain glazed donut for fuel for the dig, though I’m eyeballing the banana pudding donuts. “Banana flavoring?” I ask Grady.
He shudders. “Vanilla pudding with real bananas. They’re new. Want one?”
“Ellie will.”
That earns me a knowing grin. He glances down at Tucker then back to me, and mouths, padded headboards.
I give him a glare that usually makes lieutenants quake, but he just grins bigger.
“Tucker, say thank you for the tattoos,” I instruct.
“Aahnk oo,” he says around a mouthful of donut.
We make it to the crowded town square just in time to see Pop in full pirate regalia making a speech about the pirate Thorny Rock on the makeshift stage in the center of the square. Tucker tugs my hand, and I follow, thinking we’re heading for a better view, or to get closer to what looks to be the line.
But nope.
He’s pulling us over to gawk at a group in full costume.
The men are dressed as pirates, but the women are a dog, a monkey, and a parrot.
“Do you think that one uses bad words?” Tucker asks me while he points.
The parrot turns our way, and—oh, fuck.
It’s Monica.
She waves and gestures us over while the crowd applauds Pop.
“I love your feathers,” Tucker tells her, reaching out to pet her stomach.
“Whoa, bud, we ask before we touch,” I tell him.
Monica offers an arm instead while I nod to Ellie, who’s decked out in the monkey costume. The inside corners of both her eyes are swollen and purply-red, stretching halfway across her lids, and there’s no mistaking that she took a hit to the face.
Just like there’s no mistaking I took a hit to my right eye, though my bruise is smaller.
She’s ridiculously adorable in the costume though.
“That thing hot?” I ask her.
“Not yet, but it will be soon.” She casts a glance at the rising sun in the clear blue sky, and I swallow a smile.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says when I reach for my pocket, like I’m going for my phone to take her picture, but there’s an easy smile that she usually doesn’t have for me, and seeing the friendliness lifts a weight off my chest I didn’t realize I was carrying.
So we can be friends.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, have you met Ellie’s boyfriend?” Monica asks, turning to an older couple I hadn’t realized was with the group, since they’re not also in costume. “This is Wyatt and his son, Tucker.”
I stifle a wince, because Tucker heard that. Does a seven-year-old understand the difference between girlfriend and girl friend?
Doesn’t matter, I decide. Ellie’s my best friend’s sister, so odds are, Tucker will see her again. It’s okay for him to know grown-ups he can trust, even if he doesn’t see them often.
Mr. Dixon—tall, white-haired, and stuffy—barely spares me a glance, but his wife—slender, in pearls and a pantsuit—looks me up and down. A haughty smirk makes her thin face even less attractive. “Dear god, what happened to your face?”
“He accidentally got hit with a log when he was saving a baby from a wolf,” Ellie says.
The woman looks at her, and her lip curls as she leaps to the conclusion everyone else apparently has this morning. She turns back to me. “And what do you do?”
“My dad’s a superhero,” Tucker announces.
“An actor, hm? I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, given the circles Ellie’s close to.”
“I’m in the Air Force,” I correct.
“Oh. A working man.”
“He has a really cool job testing airplanes,” the Blond Caveman’s girlfriend says, surprising me.