Chapter 36

Thursday, July 16, 2020
Citronelle, California

“I thought we were gonna keep this relationship a secret between us. No one else was supposed to know.” Donald Stanlick inclined his head and rubbed at the uneven scruff on his neck as he slogged outside, behind The Fireside Country Store, and gazed at Lucy. “I see you’ve told your friends. That’s okay, little girl. I don’t mind.”

Donald set the stainless-steel bowl down and filled it to the rim. When he stood and winced, favoring his surgically reconstructed left knee, the bowl was immediately surrounded by not one, not two, not three, but six cats. Word must’ve spread in the local alleyways that Donald was a sucker when it came to feeding strays.

“Aww, that’s beautiful. All you kitties eat up, now, and I’ll see you again at the start of my shift Saturday afternoon. Lucy, you tell any other friends you have that they’re welcome to come too.” Sweat beaded around his hairline. “Jesus, it still feels like it’s a hundred-and-seven out here. I don’t see how you all survive in this heat. Try to find a cool spot to sleep tonight, too, will you?”

If it were up to him, Donald would usher all those felines inside so they could relax in the air conditioning twenty-four/seven, but it wasn’t up to him. He was just an employee here, as the business belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Winston, and they didn’t want their merchandise to be clawed at and chewed on overnight (among other things). I can understand that.

Lifting his gaze, Donald returned inside, and locked the back door behind him.

“Donald, honey, why don’t you do a trash sweep, and check the restrooms are clean as well? We’ll be closing up shop here in forty minutes.” Along with her husband, A.J., sixty-six-year-old Eleanor Winston had devoted almost five decades to the family business, this southern-style general store on the corner of Juniper Street and Clover Avenue in lovely downtown Citronelle, California. A local institution, The Fireside Country Store sold toys representative of the 1950s and 1960s, country music CDs, DVDs of early classic television, puzzles, woodcrafts, cookbooks, baking mixes, and kitchen novelty items. The establishment included a shrine to Citronelle’s history and was decorated with antique household tools, old wall calendars and advertising posters, and black and white photographs.

A small assortment of food and other grocery items had allowed it to remain open through the pandemic.

“Yeah, Mrs. Winston. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Donald plucked at his facemask – I wish I didn’t have to wear this thing – as he trudged off to the cleaning closet in search of garbage bags. Another day wasted, another dollar earned. Once arriving, he leaned forward, rested his forearm on the doorframe, and sighed.

Though he’d undergone ACL surgery seven months ago, there were still many instances when Donald’s left knee felt unstable and proved too painful to bear any weight. That’s because you’re fat, you’re out of shape, and won’t listen to what the doctors tell you. Despair and self-loathing burned in his gut. You refuse to take care of yourself. Sure, the original recovery time was slated for nine months, but Donald found himself behind schedule as there were certain days when he chose to stay home and play video games instead of attending physical therapy. What does it matter? It’s not gonna make any difference in the long run. All the pain and suffering, and the depression and anxiety that stemmed from that one freakish moment had drained Donald’s motivation to keep trying and make things better.

One of the two ligaments that cross the knee and help connect the thighbone (femur) to the shinbone (tibia), Donald suffered a grade three tear of the anterior cruciate ligament on Thanksgiving Day, 2019, in a single-car accident while driving home from Nevada. The roads were still slick and icy following a blizzard which occurred the previous day. That snowbank all but totaled my little car. Things had been in a downward spiral ever since.

“You okay, Donald? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you needed something for a hangover.”

I need something for a lifeover. Tears streamed down his cheeks, though he attempted to conceal any visual evidence of that from Mrs. Winston. “Nah, I’m good.” He sniffed his nose and raised his left foot, finding a temporary reprieve from the pain. “Just tired, I guess, and sore. Glad I got tomorrow off.” At least I have the raid with my guild at ten o’clock tonight to look forward to. Donald had been an avid player of the online RPG World of Warcraft for nearly three-quarters of his life. With any luck, we can finally defeat that dumb boss tonight, and move on to the next one.

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Mrs. Winston materialized like a fairy godmother and tucked a wayward clump of red hair behind Donald’s ear. “I know life has been a struggle and you’re not feeling well.” She latched onto his wrist. “Why don’t you go out and have some fun for a change? You’re always such a homebody. Go to Palm Springs or Los Angeles, maybe San Diego, and just... let loose. Go enjoy yourself.” Her compassionate gaze tugged at his heartstrings. “You deserve it.”

Donald drew back and wiped his eyes.

“My God, you’re twenty years old, and in the prime of your life. I may be out of line for saying this and I’m sorry if I am, but you’ve worked with us for three years now, and I hate how you constantly beat yourself up. I care about you and want you to be happy. So does Mr. Winston. You’re a good young man, Donald, but won’t let others see it.” She reached for his opposite hand and squeezed. “I think what you really need is to meet a nice girl your age, and for you and her to fall in love. It would solve all your problems.”

A laugh sputtered free. “That’s a lot easier said than done, Mrs. Winston.” Especially when he preferred to spend the bulk of his time stowed away in his bedroom gaming. KiraMoonKnight may have a soft, friendly voice over Discord, but what if she was old enough to be Donald’s mom in real life? You can’t fall for any gamer you’ve never met. Period, end of story.

Mrs. Winston lifted Donald’s chin, smiling warmly. “There’s a girl out there for you, honey. The perfect girl for you. You just need to go out and find her.”

He pulled his smartphone from his jeans pocket and glanced at its lock screen image for perhaps the thousandth time today. Or maybe the thousandth time in the past hour alone. It was a photograph of him and Lindsay Anastacio – a selfie – taken the evening prior to that fateful Thanksgiving Day nine months ago. The only visual reminder I have of us together. In it, they were cheek-to-cheek, smiling, and seemingly a young couple in love. “I already have found her, Mrs. Winston. I already have...”

This chick had to start wearing a bra. It was the only solution.

As Kenzie stretched to reach for a plate in the cupboard, her short t-shirt slipped away from the black cotton shorts that hung loosely around her hips and ass, and Jim found himself leaning slightly to the side atop the kitchen stool. No way that shirt was going above her breasts – the shape of which he had permanently imprinted on his palms – no matter how high she reached, but hot damn, just the mere thought almost knocked him to his ass on the floor beside the breakfast bar.

That would have been difficult to explain off.

“Smells delicious in here,” Jim said, trying to distract himself from the pronounced, rigid nipples that were poking against the pink words That’s a horrible idea. What time? on the front of her shirt.

But if a girl wore something that outlandish, she had to expect people to look, right?

Kenzie glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You cooked?”

“Chicken teriyaki, made strictly for you. Not me,” Kenzie said as she turned to lay a piece of chocolate pie onto the plate. “And s’mores pie.”

She set it in front of him, but before he could reach for it, she picked up a blowtorch. Granted, it was a kitchen-sized blowtorch, but a blowtorch all the same. Kenzie lit the end and touched it to the marshmallows on top, toasting them within seconds. Then she set a fork on its edge and pushed the plate toward Jim.

Unable to resist, he laughed and held both hands out. “Wow. Even dessert has a little something extra with you.”

Kenzie shrugged. “I’m big on toppings.”

Jim picked up the fork and tried to ignore the way his body stirred. After what he’d experienced in Kenzie’s bedroom this afternoon, he wasn’t sure there was anything she could do that wouldn’t stir his body. Or his emotions.