Page 38 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Thistle

I SPEND A restless night angry. I’m mad at my father for being an asshole, I’m mad at Fletcher for acting like my father, and I’m mad at myself because I don’t even know how to fix what’s nagging at me.

It’s like I’ve accomplished all these goals, but somehow they feel like the wrong goals. I got my degree and passed the CPA exam—the hardest professional exam in the country and I passed it on the first try.

I got an amazing job with amazing travel perks and all I had to show for it was a fancy car and a habit of driving around on weekends to make up for the fact that I don’t have any friends to fill that time.

Somehow, in my huge hurry to get the hell out of Oak Creek, I shut out all the people here and never learned how to let anyone else in.

I fill an extra large travel mug with coffee and walk into the office, where Archer Crawford is about to absorb the brunt of my frustration.

I snap off the country music he’s blaring when I get in and he whips his head around. “Your brother is impossible,” I tell him.

Archer cracks a grin. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Thistle.”

“Oh come on. You know damn well I’m talking about Fletcher.”

I plunk into my desk chair and Archer slides a bag of candy along the table toward me. “Candy? At ten in the morning?”

He shrugs. Something tells me Opal must have been out all night catching babies. If she’d been up helping to pack lunches he’d be eating apple slices and cheese like most days. “What’d my brother do now?”

I bitch at him about the stolen car, and I’m about to shift gears and remind Archer that I’m on unpaid leave from work and don’t know what to do with myself now that my mom is getting better. Archer starts shaking his head. “You’ll have to forgive him this time,” he says, and pops another piece of candy in his mouth. “He’s been up all hours helping with the baby and he’s dealing with all that visa bullshit with his company.”

I have to remember to pretend I’m shocked by this information. “Visa bullshit? Like his credit card?”

Archer laughs. “No. Something about getting blackballed from travel to the Middle East. I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, now that I think about it. Shit.” He rocks back in his desk chair. “That was probably classified when he told me.” Archer shrugs. “Anyway he’s seeing some sort of culture consultant today I think.”

No sooner are the words out of Archer’s mouth than I hear the familiar purr of my classic Mercedes. I leap up and look out the window, seeing my beautiful baby ease into a parking spot on Main Street.

I rush outside as Fletcher is opening the car door. He holds his hands up defensively. “She’s in perfect condition. I swear.”

I lean into the car and sniff, hoping I don’t smell any remnants of car sex, but all I catch is the familiar scent of Fletcher Crawford. Still the same scent, even if he’s grown up. I try not to look at his two-day stubble and messy hair and I’m definitely not noticing the way his broad shoulders have filled out as he’s grown into his lanky frame.

I put my hands on my hips and frown at him. “I need to drive it to make sure you didn’t mess up the transmission,” I say, and then hold out my hand for the keys. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I also know I feel a building restlessness and a drive in my car seems like it would be a good cure for that right now.

“Thistle,” he shouts and then clutches at his chest. “You wound me! As if I’d ever do anything to hurt this piece of machinery.” He tosses me the keys, but instead of walking away or going inside to see his brother or something, he climbs into the passenger seat.

When I glare at him, he just shrugs. “What? I’m not done with her yet. I don’t even have a car. Did you know that?”

I roll my eyes. “From what I hear, you don’t even have a passport.”

He pulls his door shut and frowns. “Speaking of that, I still haven’t heard back from Khalil if it worked.”

I shake my head and turn on the car. “Did you remember to mail in the marriage license? You probably forgot.”

I’m not sure why I’m being mean to him. Yes, he kept my car longer than he intended, but this blast of strong feelings I’m having right now isn’t about him.

I pull out and circle the block. Then I circle the outskirts of town, weaving through the streets that are simultaneously familiar and foreign. “When did the Wilsons move away,” I mutter, noting the lack of Packers gear in the yard of one of our childhood friends.

“Beats me,” Fletcher says, craning his neck to see. “Looks like the new family have a trampoline instead of an inflatable football helmet, though.”

We both laugh at that and I keep driving. I keep driving until we are outside of Oak Creek and since he doesn’t tell me to stop, I just aim toward the highway and keep going.

“I mean,” he starts to say, “if you’re heading east, you might as well take me to see Khalil.”

“Do I look like your chauffeur?” I downshift as we approach the on ramp and I get on the highway anyway. I sigh. “Where are we going? I’ll drop you off.”

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