The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 4

I bump the front door with my hip, trying to open it without dropping the precious bag of goodies I’m balancing in my hands, all the while knowing the highest-value item is the to-go cup of white wine I had the bartender pour. Thankfully I’m successful, but my inner celebration is cut short by a siren followed by a loud automated voice . . .

Woo-ee-woo-ee

Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Call 9-1-1!

Police have been notified.

Woo-ee-woo-ee

This would be concerning . . . if I actually had an alarm system. But I don’t. What I have is a loudmouthed gray parrot, who is currently perched on the back of one of my dinette chairs and giving me an evil glare.

“Lester! Shut up! You better not have called the cops again.” The or else is heavily implied.

“Bawk! Bitch! Bawk!”

There are times I really wish that bird couldn’t talk. Meanwhile, I beeline for the kitchen, setting the bag of food and Styrofoam cup on the counter to grab the phone from the wall. I listen to see if there’s an open line anywhere in the house but thankfully get only a dial tone.

The 9-1-1 operators know Lester well, considering the number of times he’s actually called them. But that was mostly when he was my Gran’s companion, and she did occasionally need help, so we were thankful for that particular party trick of his. Since she passed a few years ago and I inherited Lester, the operators have taken to double-checking before sending anyone out, mostly because of an incident involving me, Deputy Milson, and a baseball bat. In my defense, he peeked in my bedroom window while I was changing clothes and I thought he was a Peeping Tom. I was well within my rights to swing that Louisville Slugger. The first time.

“Bwahahawk!” It’s Lester’s version of gotcha as he laughs, his big feathery head bobbing like he’s really proud of himself.

“I oughta pluck your feathers and cook you up for Sunday dinner,” I threaten, not meaning a word of it. Truth be told, Lester and I are buds. But sometimes, the best friends are the ones who give each other shit.

“Lester too salty.” And now my bird is talking about himself in the third person. Great. “But he’s a pretty bird. Bawk! Pretty bird!”

I can’t argue with that. He is a beautiful specimen, gray with a white mask around his eyes and a shock of deep red feathers as a tail. “You are a pretty bird. And do you know what pretty—and well-behaved—birds get to do?” His beady black eyes flick around, then focus on me intently. “Go visit Aunt Etta. You wanna go for a visit?”

Aunt Etta’s little cottage is visible through the window over the kitchen sink. Back when she had the pink house with white trim and shutters built, it was a compromise with Gran, who needed some careful supervision but refused to have anyone, strangers or family, living with her. Independent until the end, she did things her way and left a legacy of strength, boldness, and take-no-prisoners sass. All of which means Aunt Etta, Mom, and I are peas in a very small pod.

After Gran’s death, Aunt Etta didn’t have any interest in moving into Gran’s house with her own so close by. Mom also refused, wanting to keep her space above her downtown bakery so that she could go between work and home at the drop of a hat. We also didn’t want it to be sold. I mean, the house meant a lot to us.

So it seemed only natural for the house—and Lester—to go to me. I happily moved into the small ranch house that held so many of my childhood memories.

“Bawk! Let’s go, bitch!” Lester flies over, perching on my shoulder. His claws dig into my skin a little bit, but I’m mostly used to it and he’s exceedingly careful to be gentle.

I should do something about his foul language, but it’s too late now. He learned from Gran, Aunt Etta, Mom, and me. And there’s no telling what my brother, Jesse, has taught him. Hell, he probably has old Lester spying on me and reporting back details of my actions. I wouldn’t put something like that past Jesse. He’s my brother and I love him, but he forgets that I can handle myself sometimes and acts like he’s the only thing keeping me from a shallow grave or prison, which is ironic considering he had the chance to move into Gran’s house, too, but he laughed his ass off at the idea of bringing a woman out here: “I’d be lucky to live long enough to date. More likely, Aunt Etta would call me a ‘typical dick-led asshole’ if I tried to get laid and bury me in the back forty after running off anyone I tried to spend time with.”

Trusting Lester to not fly off, I grab the food and wine and head out to walk the one hundred feet to Aunt Etta’s.

This is a walk I’ve done hundreds of times. Anytime Jesse and I would come to see Gran, we’d inevitably end up at Aunt Etta’s, a double whammy of fun and spoiling we fully enjoyed. Jesse and I would chase each other around the big yard, then chase fireflies after dark. Aunt Etta taught us how to shoot bows and arrows, ride horses, and of course, shoot pool. And then Gran would cook us a delicious dinner topped off with a melt-in-your-mouth sweet potato pie.

I miss you so much, Gran.

The lights are off in the front of Etta’s house, but I’m not surprised. I know where Aunt Etta is. The barn behind her home is her sanctuary, and where she spends all her time if she’s not at Puss N Boots. I slide open the door as quietly as I can and make my way down the center aisle to Nala’s stall. Lester hops off to explore on his own, and probably hunt down one of the horse’s oat cookies to snatch.

“How’s she doing?” I ask softly, scanning the sorrel quarter horse, who’s watching me with interest.

Aunt Etta doesn’t move from her place, sitting in the soft hay and leaning back against the wooden wall. She’s wearing well-worn jeans, a snap-front plaid shirt, and boots covered in various shades of brown staining. Her dark hair hangs in one long braid over her right shoulder, and her eyes never stray from Nala, who might as well be her child.

“Better. Another day or two and she’ll be good as new.” She says it as though declaring it will make it so. Actually, she might be able to—I bet even God wouldn’t risk pissing off Aunt Etta. “Chiropractor came by earlier and did an alignment. Made a big difference.”

Nala snorts as though she’s agreeing with Aunt Etta.

“Good. I brought you some grub, and some wine.” I slow step toward her and Aunt Etta reaches up to take the offered bag and cup. Hands now free, I sit down next to her in the hay.

“Bless you, girl. I need this.” Aunt Etta pops the lid off the cup first and takes a sip. She smacks her lips. “Yep, needed that. What’s in the bag?” she asks, already opening it and thrusting a hand inside. “Ooh, is this one of Tay’s famous fried-catfish po’boys? You are too good to me, Hazel.”

She takes a second bite before swallowing the first, obviously hungry but unwilling to leave Nala alone for even a moment.

“I’ll stay with her if you want to walk around a bit to stretch your legs or go to the bathroom.” I make the offer even though I already know the answer. Nala’s her baby; she isn’t going anywhere.

Aunt Etta snorts her reply, sounding vaguely like her beloved horse did a moment ago, and then adds a fry to the mouthful of sandwich she’s working on. We fall quiet, both of us watching Nala while Etta eats. After a few minutes, she says, “You gonna tell me about tonight or not?”

I huff out a wry laugh, not surprised that she’s already heard about the fiasco with Roddy. This town gets bigger every day, but not so fast that the small-town grapevine can’t keep pace. For folks like us, Cold Springs natives, that grapevine works faster than Twitter. “Roddy finally decided to man up and play me. I won, of course, which made him totally forget himself. Tried to stiff me on the bet, but he paid up in the end and stomped his way out like a pissed-off possum, hissing and snapping his teeth.”

Aunt Etta takes another drink. “Not what I meant. Everyone knew you were gonna wipe the floor with that boy. Only question was how big the margin was going to be. You’ve been a better player than him since you were twelve years old.” I preen at the praise from the woman who taught me how to play pool, although I will admit that I did have a bit of “home table advantage,” considering how well I know every square inch of that surface. “I mean, you gonna tell me about after that?”

She leans my way a bit, pinning me with her dark eyes, which are hard as marbles right now.

Play dumb, my brain shouts, though I’m not sure why exactly. I didn’t do anything wrong.

“After?” Aunt Etta’s glare somehow gets harder and icier. “Oh, you mean aaafter. Well, there was a guy that butted in to the deal with Roddy, and I played him. Said his name was Wyatt, and then I found out what he should’ve said was his name’s William Wyatt Ford III.”

I leave out my body’s reaction to him and all the filthy thoughts I was fighting. Etta doesn’t need to know any of that for damn sure.

“Bill’s oldest. That’s what I heard.” Etta nods emphatically as her lips turn down. “You’d best watch out for that boy. He’s got that Ford blood, and he’s a runner. Double whammy.”

I don’t understand why, but my gut reaction is to defend Wyatt. I know next to nothing about him. Name? Definitely in the negative column. Stepping in between Roddy and me? Annoying and unneeded, but maybe a bit sweet. All the banter? As much as I hate to admit it, I enjoyed it. I don’t often meet people who can go toe to toe with me. My rough edges are a little too abrasive for most folks.

“Oh no. He’s already seduced you, hasn’t he?” Aunt Etta scoffs, her eyes not missing a moment of whatever expressions crossed my face. “Figures.”

“No. He has not,” I argue petulantly. But a second later, I quietly ask, “Do you know anything about him specifically, though? Or just the Fords in general.”

“Knew it.” She shakes her head but sighs as her attention returns to Nala. “Not a lot. He left town a while back and doesn’t visit, but nobody knows what that’s all about. Could be that Daddy told him no about a flashy car or could be because he thinks his dad’s a horse’s behind. No telling. But he’s fruit of the poisonous tree, so he can’t be all that great.”

She’s got a point, but . . . “Winston’s great. He interrupted my game with Wyatt because he wanted to drop off dinner for Avery and Grandpa Joe.”

Etta snorts again. “Winston wasn’t always great. The love of a good woman can help a man see a different path. If his eyes are open and his heart’s willing.” She sounds like a wise old hippie more than the country woman she is. “I think we’d both agree that Avery’s about the best woman any of us know.”

The implication that I’m not isn’t some big shocker of a revelation. Avery is truly one of a kind, and we definitely follow the friendship rule—one is nice and boring; one is crude and crazy. She says I keep her life interesting, and she makes me think before reacting.

Sometimes.

“Avery had her work cut out with Winston. I think it was worth it, though. The wedding is going to be beautiful.”

“As long as the marriage is too,” Aunt Etta adds thoughtfully. “Too many people thinking all about one day, when you’ve got to think about thousands of others.”

Relationships are a touchy subject for her. She was once a soon-to-be bride, innocently thinking her fiancé was as impatient and excited for their wedding and marriage as she was. She was floating on cloud nine.

But walking in on him balls deep in her best friend was the shock of her lifetime and altered the trajectory of everything she thought her future would be. It doesn’t help Aunt Etta’s opinion of Winston and Wyatt that her fiancé was the one and only Jed Ford.

“You think it won’t be?” I question, concerned that she sees an issue with Avery and Winston that I don’t.

She jolts as if coming out of a trance and pats my hand reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, just fine. You’re right, Avery has changed that man.”

I wish she sounded as sure as those words would make it seem. Then again, Aunt Etta lets Winston into her bar, so she’s got to have some confidence in him. Though that was a process in itself, requiring Winston to prove himself through a labyrinth of hazing and insults before being officially welcomed at Puss N Boots.

Lester flies into Nala’s stall, landing high on one of the wooden walls dividing it from the next. “Bawk! Lester good bird. Want cookie.”

Aunt Etta points a finger at the bird. “You’ve been in the tack room eating cookies this whole time and we both know it. Greedy bird, you’re going to be so fat, you won’t be able to fly.”

I hiss, “Don’t tell him that! You’ll give him a complex.” I hold out my hand and Lester hops down to me, settling in my lap. I pet his feathers gently. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Lester know. Perfect bird.” Apparently, he doesn’t have a complex, unless it’s a superiority one.

I let out a dramatic sigh and look over to Aunt Etta, who looks back at me with approximately zero sympathy. She’s not always Lester’s biggest fan, often calling him “the devil bird from the deepest pits of hell.” But that’s a leftover from the time Lester pooped in her freshly done hair. It was an accident—he’s fully paper trained—but Etta doesn’t forgive or forget easily. She does sneak him cookies, though, so I know she’s not too hate-filled.

“I think I know a bird who needs to go to bed,” I tell him. I get up from the hay, dusting off my butt. “You need anything else?” I ask Aunt Etta, knowing she’ll be out here all night, probably sleeping here so she can keep an eye on Nala.

“No, I’m okay, honey. Thank you again,” she says, holding up the Styrofoam cup.

As I walk out of the stall, she calls, “Hazel . . .” I look back and she glances down before meeting my eyes deliberately. “Be careful. I don’t know Wyatt, but I know what he comes from. It’s not about whether you’re enough to change him like Avery did Winston. It’s about . . .” She licks her lips, thinking. “Just be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I hate that one man hurt her bad enough to sour her on them all, but touched at her care, I dip my chin, placing a hand on my heart. “I will be, Aunt Etta. I promise.”

She nods once, accepting my words. “Good, because if he hurts you, I’ll kill him. And then I’ll go to jail. It’ll be a whole messy thing.” She waves a hand around like there’s mess all over the freshly cleaned stall. “And who’d take care of Nala then?”

“They’d never catch you anyway,” I tease, but I understand what she’s telling me.

Lester and I head back home. I know his sleep habits like the back of my hand, and he needs at least ten hours a night of sleep and darkness. So after changing out his paper and his water, I pet the feathers on top of his head, making little calming sounds until Lester steps onto his perch in his cage. “Bedtime, Lester.”

“Bawk!” Lester agrees. I give him a smile and slowly close the blinds on his cage, drawing them around and doing the Velcro so he can relax in the darkness.

I retreat to the doorway and click the light. “Good night, Lester.”

“Lester sleepy bird!” He begins making fake snoring sounds that do sound vaguely like Gran sleeping in the living room recliner she used to love. It’s long gone now, but I can still see her laid out on it like it was her favorite place to be.

I retreat to my room and start my own night routine, showering and scrubbing my face with Noxzema before using cocoa butter to prevent wrinkles. After that I lie in bed, but instead of a Netflix show or two, my thoughts return to tonight . . . and Wyatt.

What was it about him that set me on edge so readily? I mean, yeah, he’s hotter than a jalapeño-flavored lollipop, but that’s usually not enough to catch my attention the way he did. But there’s no denying it—I wanted him. I’m just smart enough to not let that happen. At least not in real life.

There’s no harm in fantasies, I tell myself with a sly smile in the dark. They’re what makes life interesting . . . or tolerable.

I take a deep breath, feeling my chest scrape along the weight of the blankets on top of me. My nipples perk up, remembering how close Wyatt was and how good he smelled. I clench my hands, trying to fight it, but heat is already pooling down low in my belly.

Aunt Etta’s voice echoes in my head: Be careful with a Ford. I heard it tonight, I’ve heard it before, and the whole town knows it. The Fords are power here in Cold Springs. But power can run your toaster . . . or stop your heart.

“No,” I chide myself, “Hazel Ann Sullivan, you are not jilling off to some guy who was possibly sharking you at pool, and definitely lied by omission by not telling you his last name. Which is fucking Ford.”

Saying his name aloud is enough to mostly dash my fantasies. With a growl, I flip over to my side, curling in on myself and willing my body to fall asleep. Now.