8. Lemon

eight

lemon

I jolt awake at the sound of screeching. My heart pounds as my eyes adjust to the darkness. It takes me a minute to realize my phone is ringing. I reach for the lamp on my bedside table and fumble with the switch to turn it on. Across my room, my phone rests on its charger. I don't remember whose bright idea it was to put it over there, but once I do, I'm going to kick their ass.

"Fuck." I hiss and groan after I stub my toe on the edge of my bed. "Son of a donkey shit." Now I'm hopping toward my dresser, barely there when the ringing stops. I shake my fist, as if the person on the other end can see how angry I am. I turn and hobble toward my bed even though my toe throbs, only for the ringing to start again.

"What?" My tone is sharp, angry. I can't help it.

"Lemon?"

Who else would answer my phone?

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Oh, dear. Did I wake you?" she asks.

I pull my phone away from my ear and look at the time, it's barely after five in the morning. What does she think I'm doing at five in the morning?

"Yes. Who is this?" I ask again.

"It's Ina. Ina Meyers."

Why on earth is she calling? She's about as bad as Linda Barlowe. Both like to gossip and are up in everyone's business but their own.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What can I do for you Ina?" At five in the morning.

"Well, you see . . ." She pauses, which only sends a flare of irritation up my spine. "I can't really sleep at night and well . . ."

I'm going to need to start drinking soon. "Go on."

"Well, there is a light coming from the school and my eyesight isn't all that great anymore."

What the fuck !

"What kind of light?"

"I'm not certain, but I'm certain those teens are doing the unmentionable."

I take a deep breath. "Did you call Sheriff Parker?"

"Oh gosh no. I wouldn't want to bother him at this hour."

No, you just want to wake me up to deal with a police matter because I'm the damn principal. "Okay, Ina. I'll check it out."

"And you'll call me back?"

Another inhale. "If it's a school matter, it'll remain a school matter. Thanks for calling." I hang up and limp my way to my closet. The last thing I want to do at this ungodly hour is put on a skirt and blouse. I opt for a T-shirt and sweats, twist my hair in a messy bun, and throw a ball cap on for good measure.

I pass my car in the parking lot of my complex and wonder if I should drive or walk. I live close to the school, which wasn't ever meant to be a long-term plan. Waiting for the right house to come on the market is painful. There are beautiful homes here in Magnolia Grove, but none of them are the location I want.

Instead of driving, I walk, wishing I had made myself a cup of coffee or had driven over to Jitterbug Coffee for my morning jolt. The walk is only a few minutes, which isn't bad, except as I stand on the street and look to my right, the police department is there—much closer than my apartment—and Ina's house is still blocks away, which doesn't make sense to me on how she could see lights at the school. Unless she moved, which she could've done while I was gone for the summer.

I have no idea what to expect and probably should've called the police to investigate, but here I am, rounding the corner of a building I've sworn to protect, ready to fight.

"What the hell are you doing?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and one would think I'd stop walking, but no. I keep on hoofing it toward the offender.

He stops and looks at me or at least I think he's looking at me. The spotlight facing the ground, which is probably what Ina saw, is sort of blinding and I can't really see him other than the outline of his body and shovel. If I had to guess, he's burying a body or something.

What? Who would bury a body on school grounds?

"What are you doing out there at . . .?" I pause and look at my phone. "Half past five?"

"Do I know you?" he asks, throwing my words back at him.

"I'm calling the cops."

"Okay. Call them. Be sure to let them know you hired me for a job and now you don't want me to do it."

"I didn't—" Then it dawns on me. "You were supposed to do this yesterday."

He chuckles. As if this is funny. Nothing is funny when you have the likes of Ina Meyers waking you up at the ass crack of dawn. I cross my arms and huff.

He laughs again.

"This isn't funny."

"You're right, Lemon. It isn't. Believe me, leaving my nice warm bed at four in the morning to come dig and till land for you is not my idea of a good time."

"Like I said, you were supposed to do it yesterday."

He slams the shovel into the ground and rests on the wooden part of it. "And you were supposed to set this up last week. Seems neither of us can keep time very well." He yanks the shovel from the earth and then pushes it in again with his foot, repeating the process until he's finished an outline.

I don't know why I stand there and watch him, but I do. The muscles in his back, even hidden by his shirt, are forever etched in my mind. This man—the one who busted my heart into a million tiny shards—is beautiful and naturally muscular from years of hard work. I swallow hard as I watch him move earth with ease.

"Wade . . ." I say his name for the first time, to him, in years. It hurts, hearing my voice call out to him.

He stops and sets his shovel down. I didn't expect him to walk toward me, but he does. Each step of his is deliberate and forceful, almost like he's trying to leave his impression in the grass. He's wearing his khaki cargo pants and from experience I know each pocket has something he'll need today. A tool, twine, or trimmer line for the weed wacker. I've spent countless hours sitting on my parent's front porch, watching him cut lawn with precision.

I'm out of breath when he comes face to face with me. He stands close. Close enough that we share the same air. Everything in my mind tells me to step back, to put a wall between us, but my heart sings at the closeness. I know I'll never win the battle of hating him as long as we're in the same town.

We stare at one another, taking each other in. His dark hair, brown eyes, and scruff all call to me, beg me to get lost in everything that is Wade Jenkins. I have loved this man for most of my life, and yet he'll never be mine.

"Nice hat," he says, adding to the cacophony of noises surrounding us, making it sound like the cicadas are serenading us.

My hand goes to the hat I put on before leaving. I'm a rough sleeper and often wake up with bedhead. I didn't have time to run a brush through my hair—having to catch teenagers in the act of doing the unmentionable—and in my haste grabbed a hat that used to belong to him.

"It was in my closet." It's not a lie, but until recently, it had been tucked away in the back corner, never meant to see daylight. After one too many margaritas, I dug it out.

Wade touches the brim and smiles. It's radiant and warm, exuding happiness. How can he be like this when I'm so damn angry with him? When my lips don't reciprocate, I expect him to frown. To change his demeanor.

He doesn't.

As the corners of his mouth turn up, I swear his eyes sparkle, which is just asinine to think since it's dark—only it's not—and the sun is rising behind him, casting him in a purple, pink and orange glow.

This Wade, the one in front of me, is the one I remember. He could always brighten my day without even trying. In him, I found a sense of warmth and comfort. He made me feel special, loved, and understood.

We linger in this weird void of staring and not talking. I itch to touch him. To let my memories remind me of the pure, unfiltered affection we used to have for each other. I wonder how easy it would be to have that again. With him.

Only him.

I haven't loved another since Wade Jenkins and I'm not sure I can. They say, when you find the one, you'll know. I knew eons ago, but life threw us such a curveball, neither of us could dodge it.

I finally find the courage to step back and put a professional distance between us. That's all we'll ever be, and for me that's a stretch. I don't want to deal with him. Not during the workday and especially not at sunrise.

"Don't," he says. Without elaborating, I know what he means, but I have no choice. Feelings be damned, I won't go down this road with him. He'll never understand the jealousy I feel when I look at his daughter. We were meant to experience parenthood together. Not him and someone else.

I force myself to look away. To look at the ground, his tools, the spotlight he uses to guide his work. Anywhere but at him. "It's too early," I tell him. "To make this much noise."

"It's now or I don't do this, Lemon. I'm very busy."

I inhale and shake my head. "You were supposed to come yesterday," I repeat my earlier statements because there isn't anything else I can say.

"Like I said, I couldn't. Hell, I didn't want to."

"Excuse me? We're paying you to do this."

Wade scoffs. "That doesn't mean you control what I do. I book out weeks, if not months, in advance, and I'm sorry but at five or six, I want to be home, sipping sweet tea on my front porch and hearing about my daughter's day."

The mention of Marigold causes me to step back again, but that doesn't faze Wade. He moves toward me.

"Speaking of, I don't know what you did to her yesterday, but she didn't like it."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me," he says. "You know she's already struggling with boys picking on her, so what do you do? You embarrass her by forcing her classmates to eat with her? How do you think that went over?"

My tongue's thick in my mouth. How dare he imply that I've done something wrong. "She . . . she was happy."

"Yeah, well she's not," he tells me. "Kids are making fun of her, and you've made it worse."

"I can't help?—"

"You're the damn principal," he roars. "She's seven and new to your school. It's your job to help her."

Wade stalks off, which only irritates me. "Don't you walk away from me . . . again." The last part slips out. He turns and stomps in my direction with his finger raised. When he stops in front of me, he drops it.

"I didn't walk away from you, Lemon. You quit me. Us. You pushed me away like I was nothing more than gum on the bottom of your shoe. You wanted space. I gave it to you."

"You cheated on me."

Wade groans and throws his head back, shaking it. "You asked for a break in our relationship. What I did after is and will always be none of your business."

"It's my business when I have to look at her every day. Don't you care how that makes me feel?"

He stands there and stares at me, glaring at me for my outburst. I'm embarrassed those words came from my mouth, but there's no taking them back. He slowly shakes his head. Before I can say anything, before I can apologize and pull my foot from my mouth, he goes back to work and starts the rototiller, drowning out my voice even though words have failed me once again.