Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(50)
Author: Penny Reid

“Yes. And you know I don’t think of you as a brother.” I sniffled, proud of myself for not succumbing to tears.

“Good.” He kissed my nose, his thumb tracing my cheek, and then he held me away and looked into my eyes. “So let me be the friend you need to help you get through these next few days. Stay here, with me. I’ve told you before, I’ve got no expectations of you. I’m not asking anything from you. You have your life in Chicago; I know that. There’s no pressure here.”

I nodded, feeling a twinge of both disappointment and relief—but mostly disappointment, which made me feel wholly disoriented—when he reminded me that ours was a relationship with no expectations.

Despite my confusion on the subject, I wanted what he was offering. If we could focus on comforting each other, then I was going to make the most out of the next few days. I was going to take as much comfort from Drew as he was willing to offer. And I was going to try to be the friend he needed in return, even if he didn’t actually need anything from me.

“Okay,” I said, shuffling a half step forward. “If that’s the case, then I want you to sleep with me—just sleep—like we did last night. Because I could really use a Viking man-pillow right now.”

“Viking man-pillow?” His lips pressed together again and his beard twitched.

I nodded, gazing into his silvery eyes, my hands slipping from his wrist to wrap around his waist. I wanted to commit his closeness and comfort to memory. I wanted to live the next few days like we could spend forever on top of this mountain. I wanted him to teach me how to just be.

CHAPTER 22

“From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

We visited with the minister to talk about the service, and I cried.

We went to the funeral home to confirm the details, and I cried.

We stopped by the cemetery to check out the burial plot, and I cried and cried.

Several of Momma’s friends called Jethro while we were out and about, wanting to know about the wake, the funeral, the reception after the funeral. Jethro told me that casseroles had started to arrive en masse, and he asked if I thought a new deep freezer would be a good idea.

This made me cry.

Other things that made me cry: washing Drew’s T-shirts while doing my laundry; knitting; reading books; eating pie; playing chess with Cletus when he and Roscoe came over to Drew’s house to bring me Momma’s jewelry, her antique books, and all the letters she’d kept from me over the years; learning that the twins had finally butchered the roosters; hugging any of my brothers; making plans to visit over Christmas; and booking my return flight to Chicago.

I was set to leave Thursday afternoon, the day after the funeral, in two days’ time. I’d called my boss, let her know I’d be back to work Monday morning, and would have the death certificate faxed to the hospital’s human resources department. All my laundry was done. My bag was all packed.

Things that didn’t make me cry: laying and snuggling with Drew in bed; listening to the rain; drinking coffee with Drew before he left for work and arguing with him about the negative influence of the German composer Wagner on Nietzsche’s philosophies; Skyping with my friends; walking in the woods; making dinner with Drew for my brothers when they came up the mountain to visit; listening to Drew read novels out loud after dinner while I knit (of note, for some reason, knitting without his vocal accompaniment made me cry); then, discussing the merits of fiction versus non-fiction until 1:00 a.m.; Drew teasing me; falling asleep in Drew’s arms; kissing Drew; holding Drew’s hand; looking at Drew; being with Drew.

I tried not to dwell on how much I loved being with Drew, because if I did, I cried.

“I’m glad we cancelled the wake,” Jethro said; his eyes narrowed on the road. We were on our way back from the funeral home in town, and I could tell he was concentrating. The drive to Drew’s wasn’t simple; missing one turnoff could mean wasting an hour trying to find the way back. “It gives Darrell one less opportunity to spread his shit around.”

I nodded because I had to agree.

Since the confrontation on Saturday night, Darrell had been to the police station, the town hall, The Dragon biker bar, Momma’s church, Billy’s work, the ranger station where Jethro’s office was, and the Winston Bros. Auto Shop. He’d also been back to the house several times, so I’d been told, but left before the police arrived each time.

Darrell wasn’t the only reason we’d decided to cancel the wake. We didn’t want an open casket. As well, we were planning a reception after the funeral. There was no reason to have both a wake and a reception other than to give people additional time to make awkward conversation.

I could feel Jethro’s eyes on me, so I looked at him. His attention was split between me and the road.

“Ash, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What’s going on with you and Drew?”

I held my brother’s gaze for a beat, then inhaled slowly, closed my eyes, and let the back of my head hit the headrest.

“Jethro…I honestly don’t know.”

“But something is going on…more than just friends?”

I shrugged, still not looking at him. “What did he say? I mean on Saturday after I stood on the porch and told Darrell that Drew was my man. What did Drew say to you all downstairs while I was in my room?”

Jethro cleared his throat before he spoke. “He just said that he didn’t have sisterly feelings for you, but that he’d been trying to help you deal over the last month or so, trying to give you a sympathetic ear, comfort. He wanted to be what you needed.”

I nodded and swallowed; my mouth tasted like salt and disappointment.

Jethro continued. “He also said that he didn’t have any expectations because he knows you belong in Chicago. He was real insistent that he wasn’t trying to keep you in Tennessee. He said he wanted you to be happy. He said he wanted all of us to be happy.”

“And you all didn’t press him for more information?” I peered at Jethro, but his eyes were glued to the winding mountain road.

“We did, but Beau backed him up. He told us to stop badgering Drew and just ask you directly.”

“Hmm….” I watched the road ahead as a quick series of switchbacks had me holding on to the door. The trees were changing color, and some would argue that the old mountains were at their most resplendent in the fall. They were every shade of vibrant orange, yellow, and red. A few stubborn greens remained.

I briefly wondered if Drew had written any poetry about it, the beauty of the leaves changing. I felt confident that he’d do justice to the phenomenon.

“So…Ash? Are you okay with Drew? I trust him not to take advantage, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

I sighed. “Yes, I’m okay with Drew. He’s not…he’s not taking advantage.” If anyone was taking advantage, it was me.

“Are you two going to keep talking after you leave?”

I didn’t answer immediately because I hadn’t talked to Drew about it. As much as I wanted to keep in touch with him, I also didn’t want anything about our interactions to change. The thought of keeping in touch filled me with dread, because that meant talking on the phone or via email, not in person. It would be utter torment; we wouldn’t be able to kiss and touch and tease and argue.

It would be like watching the leaves change or listening to the rain in the Smoky Mountains via web cam. Sure, it’s pretty, but it’s a hollow experience. It only makes you sad because you’re not there to live it. I wanted to live Drew.

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I haven’t decided.”

It was Jethro’s turn to say, “Hmm….”

We drove several more miles in silence, he with his thoughts, me with mine.

Then he blurted, “Today is Tuesday!” He might as well have screamed “Fire!”

I gasped and grabbed my chest, startled by the volume of his declaration. “Bejeezus, Jethro! You scared the tar out of me. What’s the matter with you?”

He shifted in his seat and said quietly, “I just forgot that today is Tuesday.”

“Well you don’t have to shout about it. You’re not going to make Tuesday any more of a Tuesday by hollering about it.”

He nodded, staring out the windshield, but I noticed he wore a suggestion of a smile. It was his I’ve got a secret smile.

I stared at him, trying to reach into his mind and read the reason behind his badly hidden grin. Obviously, it didn’t work.

“What are you hiding, Jethro Whitman Winston?”

We pulled into Drew’s short, gravel drive, Jethro still smiling. “No reason. I just like Tuesdays.”

He put his truck in park then jumped out, light on his feet, and opened my door for me. Now I knew something was amiss.

“What is wrong with you?” I said this as he reached for my hand and pulled me out of my seat.

“Nothing is wrong.” He kicked the door shut with his foot and gripped me by the shoulders, pushing me toward the porch.

“I am capable of walking in a straight line, you know. I’m not drunk.”

“Not yet,” he mumbled.