Iâd been drawn to him in a way I couldnât explain, and when he left, I didnât feel like an overweight girl who by some dumb luck was a bestselling author. Running water in the bath after Greg got home that night so I could be alone with the feeling a few minutes longer, I felt beautiful, if that were possible, my cheeks flushed like those pretty pregnant ladies at Stop & Shop I saw on school day mornings, my normally dull hair a bit brighter. Brady seemed to leave me in a humid perspiration.
I never talked to Greg about my books, because he was too clinical with his input, too removed, so there was no reason for me to mention Brady. But also, Brady was a secret I wanted to keep. I let my head sink under the honey bath. If I said his name aloud, especially to Greg, that feeling I got when we were together, that melted feeling from those stupid romance novels I used to read as a kid, would have disappeared.
I was fantasizing, of course. And I didnât blame myself. Brady was the kind of guy girls dreamed about, the tough guy in leather who knew how to fight but could also recite the words to Shakespeare sonnets. The kind of guy that all my life Iâd close my eyes and imagine saying my name, except I wasnât me. I was some other skinny, shiny girl with gorgeous eyes and to-die-for skin, the kind of girl Savannah would have been.
I relaxed in the bath for a long time, and when I finally got out, I thought about the flowers Brady had brought and how relieved I was they werenât daisies. The first summer Savannah and I had been allowed to walk to town by ourselves, my mother had given us five dollars each to go to the dollar store. Iâd picked out a set of bangles and cherry Lifesavers. Savannah had bought five packets of daisy seeds. When we got home, she threw them like confetti on the lawn. A month later, daisies haphazardly dotted our yard, waving their happy faces in the breeze. From then on, Savannah loved daisiesâdaisies stuck in the buttonholes of her shirts, in her barrettes, between her toes when she sunbathed, and, little did my parents know, a daisy tattoo on her left hip sheâd gotten after sheâd bribed one of those senior girls to drive her to Dark Side Tattoo and lend her an ID.
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CHAPTER
8
David was away at a model car workshop, and Gabby was in Florida with Duncan for Hoka Hey training, so I tried to work on my novel. I took my laptop into my office and closed the door even though Greg wasnât home. I was so used to him blaring classical music or practicing his bassoon that shutting myself in my brightly lit office was habit now. I sat at my desk and opened my computer. It came on, dim for a second, and then brightened like an old friend smiling at the sight of me. Writing was a solitary thing, not that I minded. For so many years after Savannah was murdered, I craved being alone. What could have been worse than running into an acquaintance on the street, both of us groping for benign and appropriate words? Even now, after Iâd had countless offers to join and then lead writing groups, teach workshops, and head the English department at a small community college, I preferred to work alone.
My problem was that with every scene I wrote, I was starting to like the best friend in Devils and Dust a little more. Isabelle killed Susannah. And Hopper, Susannahâs brother, a CO in a high-security prison, was bugging me because he kept getting the shit kicked out of him by corrupt guards. It was accurate in terms of the reality of prison, but it wasnât really good to have a main character who appeared like a victim.
By the time Thursday-night dinner rolled around again, I was exhausted and worn out from working and wondering about Brady. I knew I should have been more concerned with whether Greg was fucking his receptionist, but I hardly noticed him anymore. I kept thinking about Brady saying he shouldnât come to my house. His prison notes were
I never talked to Greg about my books, because he was too clinical with his input, too removed, so there was no reason for me to mention Brady. But also, Brady was a secret I wanted to keep. I let my head sink under the honey bath. If I said his name aloud, especially to Greg, that feeling I got when we were together, that melted feeling from those stupid romance novels I used to read as a kid, would have disappeared.
I was fantasizing, of course. And I didnât blame myself. Brady was the kind of guy girls dreamed about, the tough guy in leather who knew how to fight but could also recite the words to Shakespeare sonnets. The kind of guy that all my life Iâd close my eyes and imagine saying my name, except I wasnât me. I was some other skinny, shiny girl with gorgeous eyes and to-die-for skin, the kind of girl Savannah would have been.
I relaxed in the bath for a long time, and when I finally got out, I thought about the flowers Brady had brought and how relieved I was they werenât daisies. The first summer Savannah and I had been allowed to walk to town by ourselves, my mother had given us five dollars each to go to the dollar store. Iâd picked out a set of bangles and cherry Lifesavers. Savannah had bought five packets of daisy seeds. When we got home, she threw them like confetti on the lawn. A month later, daisies haphazardly dotted our yard, waving their happy faces in the breeze. From then on, Savannah loved daisiesâdaisies stuck in the buttonholes of her shirts, in her barrettes, between her toes when she sunbathed, and, little did my parents know, a daisy tattoo on her left hip sheâd gotten after sheâd bribed one of those senior girls to drive her to Dark Side Tattoo and lend her an ID.
Â
CHAPTER
8
David was away at a model car workshop, and Gabby was in Florida with Duncan for Hoka Hey training, so I tried to work on my novel. I took my laptop into my office and closed the door even though Greg wasnât home. I was so used to him blaring classical music or practicing his bassoon that shutting myself in my brightly lit office was habit now. I sat at my desk and opened my computer. It came on, dim for a second, and then brightened like an old friend smiling at the sight of me. Writing was a solitary thing, not that I minded. For so many years after Savannah was murdered, I craved being alone. What could have been worse than running into an acquaintance on the street, both of us groping for benign and appropriate words? Even now, after Iâd had countless offers to join and then lead writing groups, teach workshops, and head the English department at a small community college, I preferred to work alone.
My problem was that with every scene I wrote, I was starting to like the best friend in Devils and Dust a little more. Isabelle killed Susannah. And Hopper, Susannahâs brother, a CO in a high-security prison, was bugging me because he kept getting the shit kicked out of him by corrupt guards. It was accurate in terms of the reality of prison, but it wasnât really good to have a main character who appeared like a victim.
By the time Thursday-night dinner rolled around again, I was exhausted and worn out from working and wondering about Brady. I knew I should have been more concerned with whether Greg was fucking his receptionist, but I hardly noticed him anymore. I kept thinking about Brady saying he shouldnât come to my house. His prison notes were
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