3. Ginger

CHAPTER 3

ginger

ONE YEAR LATER

"Okay, okay. I'll try the damned pickles," I said, accepting the small plastic sample cup from the busy shopkeeper.

Hendrix Cavanaugh, international punk hero and local troublemaker, grinned as I tipped back the cup. My eyes widened as the combination of sweet and heat hit my tongue.

"Holy shit," I said, shaking my head. "I hate bread-and-butter pickles, but these aren't that."

"Told you so," he said, scooping up two of their largest jars and one of the shop's canvas bags. "By the way, these are for me. You gotta buy your own."

I chuckled and grabbed one of the big jars as well. "Thanks for my new addiction," I said to the shopkeeper as I handed her my payment.

"We do what we can," she responded, blushing slightly as she ran my card, then slipped my pickles into a canvas bag she hadn't charged me for.

Hen's expression said it all without me needing to look. I shot him the finger as I took my card and the receipt back and exited the tiny establishment.

Oof. Less than a second of the great Texas outdoors and I was already missing AC. I was grateful for the 300-plus sunny days every year—really, I was—but there was nothing sexy about underboob sweat.

Hendrix, trailing behind me, couldn't keep his mouth shut. "She was flirting with you, Ginger. That could've been our in ."

I turned around, staring him down—easy to do, given that he was nearly half a foot shorter than me. "What do you mean our in ?" I asked as I wiped sweat from my forehead.

"Our in for the pickles," he stated, as if it were obvious. "Can you imagine?"

"I'm not dating her so you can get free pickles, Hendrix. You're a millionaire. I'm sure you can afford to buy them."

He curled his lip, pouting like a little child. "Still. Doesn't hurt to have a pickle contact. "

"A pickle contact? What is this conversation?" I asked, digging around in my purse until I found my hand fan. Ah, so much better.

"There's nothing wrong with this conversation," he said, stepping into the draft caused by my fan action. "I'd think you'd be nicer to me, what with all the contributions coming in from today's concerts."

I wafted more air toward his face, taking a second to wipe away a bit of smudged liner at the corner of his eye. "I'm beginning to wonder if your charity is worth it."

He cracked up and elbowed me. "Just for that, I'm not sharing my pickles with you."

I rolled my eyes as we wandered down the sidewalk toward Gruene Hall—pronounced green, like the color. The white clapboard dance hall wasn't much to look at, but big-name singers had been rolling through its doors for decades. Hen and his bandmates, Sago and Robbie, had made Gruene Hall their second home, playing regular monthly concerts for the past couple of years. It had been their idea to run a pair of charity concerts on the same day—a family-friendly afternoon show and a later, unedited, adults-only show—with the proceeds going to Lupe.

The first concert had gone well, and Hen only cursed once, which I considered a win. Not only had the hall been filled with the teens from Lupe, but several local families with young children joined us, and it was funny to watch the toddlers spin in circles as Hendrix crooned about heartache and falling in love. At one point, he'd hopped off the stage and joined them.

The playful scene was poignant because Hen and Sawyer, his husband, had worked with a surrogate, and she was weeks away from giving birth. Given the way his grin had lit up the space every time he interacted with the kids, I couldn't wait to see Hendrix as a father. Sawyer would do all the heavy lifting, of course, but their children would only ever feel loved, accepted, and free to be themselves.

As we approached the hall, Hendrix paused, his hand on the front door. His grin shifted into something weirder, and any warm feelings for him vanished as quickly as they had come on.

"Hen?" I asked, wary of that particular expression. "Why do I get the feeling that our emergency pickle run was a distraction?"

He fluffed his spiky hair, not answering until I bored a look into his soul. "Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "It may have been five percent distraction, ninety-five percent actual pickle emergency."

I put my hand on my hip. "What did you do, Hendrix?"

"Nothing bad," he said innocently—not—as he turned the knob. "I just maybe invited a few extra friends for the second show."

I pressed my lips into a flat line, cautiously following him through the door into the cool, darkened hall. The entrance also served as a bar, and as my eyes adjusted, I recognized the people talking to the bartender. One in particular.

Jules Martinez, looking elegant as ever, stood in the middle of her family. Her shiny black hair was longer than I remembered, and she was wearing it in a high ponytail, a look that complemented her tea-length dress and delicate ballet flats.

Fucking Hen.

I turned to him, willing myself not to bludgeon him with my massive jar of pickles. They were very good pickles, after all. "James Hendrix Cavanaugh," I gritted out between clenched teeth, "what the fuck are you up to?"

"I'm not up to anything," he said, looking guilty as sin.

Sawyer cautiously joined us. "There a problem?"

I was momentarily distracted by Sawyer's wardrobe choice of chinos and a guayabera. Also… were those leather flip-flops? What was happening here? How had I not clocked this new look of his?

Focus, Ginger.

"Yes, there is a problem," I groused. "It's name is Hendrix Cavanaugh, and he is in deep, deep shit. Did you know about this?" I asked, gesturing to the group at the bar. Frustrations aside, since all the members of the Martinez family were major contributors to Lupe, I was kicking myself for not realizing they'd of course want to attend a charity event in our name.

Sawyer tracked my gesture to the people—person—in question and held his hand out to Hen. "Five dollars."

Hendrix cursed under his breath but dug out his wallet and slapped a fiver into Sawyer's hand. "Fine. But it was worth it."

I tucked away my fan and hefted my bagged jar of pickles onto my forearm, still not convinced that I wasn't going to bean Hendrix with it.

It was fine.

I was fine.

It had been two years since Jules and I had kissed, and she was married. I could be mature about seeing her. Even though I was definitely planning on getting Hendrix back.

Taking a deep breath, I reiterated to myself that I was an adult and headed toward the bar. Before I could take a step, however, Hendrix grabbed my arm, stopping me.

I turned and shaved a year off his life with my glare.

He held up his hands. "Thought you should know she's divorced."

Ah. There it was. The other shoe waiting to drop. Only…

"Divorced? Didn't she just get married?"

Sawyer shook his head. "I work with Jules on her charity projects, and that whole thing was a hot mess," he said under his breath. "The woman she married was a real number. Gaslighter, total narcissist, and super transphobic."

I wasn't surprised to find that Sawyer—who was wearing a fucking puka shell necklace ( what? )— had kept that information under his hat. I normally admired his discretion, but not today.

"Transphobic?" I whisper-hissed. "How? Why?"

"She only married Jules for her money. She had no idea that Jules does not and will never show off her wealth."

I pulled my chin back. "That means she didn't know Jules at all." I shook my head at the thought of it. "She may be super femme, but she's an ex-marine, for God's sake. She lives simply and gives what she can to others. Who doesn't get that about her?"

"Shh." Hen bounced on his heels. "We've been spotted. Quick, act natural."

I shot him another withering look, though not without catching Jules's eyes in the process. Fuck . Plastering on a fake smile, I sent her a small wave, which she returned.

Sweat trickled down my chest and between my boobs, and I was absolutely certain that my hair, which I'd foolishly worn loose, had devolved into a mess of frizz. I had upped my style game over the last couple of years, but a cotton skirt with a white tank top knotted at my waist had nothing on Jules's polished look. I tugged at the long, looping beaded necklace that went down past my chest, feeling grossly underdressed—like I'd just emerged from Woodstock onto a Hollywood set.

"See? Y'all can be friendly," Hendrix said after witnessing our wordless exchange, proud of himself.

I elbowed him, hard. "Don't think for a second I'm going to forget this."

Before Hen could reply, Robbie poked his head in from the main hall. "You comin'?"

Hendrix grimaced at me. "Wish I could witness the glorious reunion, but I've got a show to prepare for." He skirted me and fled to the other room.

"I hope you don't mind being a single father," I muttered to Sawyer.

He lifted a shoulder. "Look, I had nothing to do with this, but… maybe it's a good thing?"

"How?" I looked for an answer in his startling blue eyes and found none. "Tell me one thing that's changed."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. " You've changed, Ginger. Look how confident you are. How well things are going at Lupe, now that you're running the entire show. Look at the amount of money being brought in tonight. The community knows the work you're doing out there. Maybe things are different for her, too," he said sincerely. "Maybe it doesn't have to be impossible."

Sawyer wasn't wrong, necessarily. I'd had such a visceral reaction to her getting hard that even remembering the hot make-out session that'd preceded it had become a trigger. Over the last year, though, through therapy and hanging out with the Lost Boys—not to mention living with Leo—I'd become nonreactive to many of the things that used to trigger me.

"Maybe," I admitted. I gestured to his outfit. "You haven't even become a dad yet, and here you are, going soft on me."

His self-deprecating smile made my heart happy, even if I was quietly planning his husband's demise. "Happens to the best of us," he said, distracted as the band tuned their instruments. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yes. Go fawn after your irksome husband."

He squeezed my hand again and turned toward the main hall. I glanced over at the bar to find Jules still looking my way. The Martinez family shifted protectively around her. I turned to tell Sawyer that I'd rather disappear under these old wooden floorboards than try to approach her now, but he'd already disappeared into the dance area.

I trained my eyes on my sandals and took a deep breath. Then another.

I could do this.

I could do this.

I started to walk in Jules's direction, only to run into Leo. There was no way of knowing what would come out of his mouth, so I hooked elbows with him.

"Hey, roomie. Wanna go watch the band warm up?" I asked, attempting to strong-arm him past the bar.

He dug in and shook his head. "Why? We already saw the early warm-up and set."

"Leo," I said through gritted teeth, "can you please cooperate just this once? Walk with me into the fucking room."

Leo pulled a face, and then I watched, helpless, as his eyes landed on Jules and company.

He'd matured over the last couple of years, but that wasn't the same as actual maturity. His eyes lit up, and he nodded, giving me a significant look, as though he understood the assignment.

Narrator: Leo did NOT understand the assignment.

"Oh! Of course. I would love to take my fiancée to the dance floor," he announced to the room.

Goddammit.

"Leo!" I snapped. "What are you talking about?"

He leaned in, finally lowering his fucking voice. "Aren't you turning thirty next month?"

"Yeah. So?" I asked, not following.

"Remember our pact? You said if you were still single then, we could get married and have kids together." Looking over my shoulder, he stood tall and raised his voice. "Can't wait to have a bunch of children with my fiancée ."

" Leo . Shut. It." I dragged him to a far corner. "That wasn't real. I was talking out of my ass."

His jaw dropped. "It was so real. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were both heartbroken, and we decided we didn't need other people."

A gust of wind caught my attention as the front door slammed shut. I turned toward the bar, and Jules was missing from her group. One quick look out the window told me exactly where she had gone.

"Leo, I am not marrying you." I patted his muscular arm. "You big, sweet lug."

His too-sharp eyes tracked Jules as she hit the sidewalk. He turned to me, crossing his arms ever so smugly. "And why not? Why would you care what Jules thinks?"

I smacked his hip with my bag of pickles. "Who said anything about Jules?"

"Ouch," he yelped, dramatically rubbing his uninjured hip. "Why'd you do that?"

"I don't know." I sent prayer hands heavenward, begging for patience. "Why do you?—"

I stopped, not sure what to say. Leo's smirk was going to get him killed.

"Oh, shut up," I snapped.

"I didn't say anything."

"You are such a menace."

"Yes, but I'd like to point out that she's leaving. If you go now, you can catch her before she gets to the parking lot. Or you can keep arguing with your fiancé."

" You are not my fiancé ." I darted a glance at the Martinez family, who were definitely staring at us.

"Really? Well, if you don't go after her, I'm telling everyone that we're getting married."

I shook my fist at him, the heavy canvas bag sliding to my elbow. "I'm going to kill you in your sleep, Leo. Don't think I won't."

He winked at me. "It's okay if you've changed your mind about Jules. It's like I told my therapist: Penises really aren't that scary when they're attached to nice people."

"Leo, lower your fucking voice and stop talking about her body."

"I'm just saying that it might be time to try again. Don't think I haven't seen those unmarked packages you get."

Someone from the Martinez delegation snorted—probably Roly—and my eye gave a hard twitch. "I am going to smother you with a pillow when we get back home."

"Whatever," he responded tartly, playing fast and loose with his life. "I love you, too. Now, go get your girl."

"Fine," I said, shoving the bag into his hands. "Watch my pickles. And don't open them until I get back."

"I make no promises."

Swear to Christ, I was surrounded by nothing but queers and menaces.