Page 1 of These Jagged Edges

Chapter One

EVIE

"Charlie,get your ass in gear. We're going to be late!" I yell as I wrestle Bash off the kitchen counter and shooed Mellon Collie from the cereal bowl Bash gave him for breakfast.

It's barely seven o'clock, and I'm exhausted. While my boys may be adorable, they sleep like little tornados. I woke up with Charlie's foot stuck to my face and Bash's knees digging into my back. Looking at the clock, I realize we need to leave in four minutes, or else they'd be late for school, and I'd be late for work. Again.

"Char—"

"Right here, Mama."

"Finally, you grace us with your presence." I stop to kiss his curly head and straighten his little glasses that always seem crooked.

Giving me a toothy grin, he races out the door. Grabbing my purse, I quickly check the lock three times, give Vic, our neighbor, a quick wave, and head off to tackle the day. I drop the kids off atschool, reassuring the twin's teacher, Ms. West, that Bash has no hidden bugs or animal of any kind stowed away in his pockets.

Sebastian, Bash for short, has a knack for bringing random bugs and small animals to school. I was called the first week of school about a mole. Yes, as in that ugly thing that lives in the ground. Apparently, the neighborhood stray cat had dropped one off on the front steps, and Bash decided the class needed a new pet since their beloved hamster, Cornbread, had tragically died after taking a shoe to the face. To be only six years old, he sure keeps me on my toes.

He has one mode and it is full throttle. Bash skipped crawling and went straight to running and has never slowed down. At ten months old, he started crawling out of his crib, and you would find him up on the kitchen counters like it was no big deal. Recently, he has been trying to climb Vic’s rickety old shed behind his house.

Charlie is the opposite of his brother. He’s the poster child for Zen. As a baby, Bash screamed his head off, while Charlie quietly observed. He took in the world around him and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Charlie always stands close by my side, and despite him not being a social butterfly like his brother, he never shies away from expressing himself.

After Charlie overheard one of the regulars at the diner asking Joe if I was single, Charlie told the man he had a snowballs chance in hell of taking his mama out. I can thank Vic for that one. Vic, our neighbor, may have retired from the Navy, but his mouth hasn't. My boys often pick up on Vic’s colorful, vivacious vocabulary.

Dating couldn’t be further from my mind. When you go through something as traumatic as I did, you’ll understand why.

Just thinking that, I take a minute and silently pray thathenever finds me or even worse my boys. I left everything behind, not that I had much or any family. Only taking a small bag of clothes and fifty grand from the safe. I took the opportunity and ran as fast and as far as I could. Taking that money was a guaranteeddeath sentence, but the second my hand closed around it, all I felt was sweet, sweet freedom.

The scars littered across my body are nothing to the scars inflicted on the inside. Scars clawed so deep; it feels like I've been shredded apart. After the first blow, I should have packed up and left. Instead, I stuck around, letting the psychopath inflict much more damage.

I had no idea I was pregnant when I left. I found out in a shady motel off the interstate and cried all night. I lost the last baby after a push off the balcony and was terrified of what would happen if he found me, let alone the baby I was carrying. But little did I know I was carrying not one, but two babies.

Thunder Ridge was meant to be a mere stopover on my journey, but as soon as I crossed under the 'Welcome to Thunder Ridge' sign, I felt an undeniable pull. This place captivated me, wrapping me in a sense of belonging that I hadn’t anticipated. It was as if the very air thrummed with possibility, and in that moment, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Thunder Ridge is a quaint little farming town, tucked between lush pine forests and rolling hills dotted with fields. Crops grow tall in the open fields, and the hum of tractors is as common as the rustle of wind through the trees. Small farms line the outskirts, each with a cozy house framed by wide porches and rocking chairs. Livestock roams in the pastures, while the town square buzzes with locals eager to spread the latest town gossip. The scent of fresh soil and magnolia blossoms fill the air, and life here is grounded in the steady rhythm of the land.

As I pull into Joey’s, I make sure to leave behind who I really am, and slide on the mask I usually wear to fool people. You know the one. Easy smiles, sassy attitude. You wear it long enough and people start to believe that’s who you really are.

Hell, so do you.

Joey’s isa small cozy diner, that hums to life every morning. It is the heart of the town. As the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, the local ranchers, with weathered faces and calloused hands, would already be crowding the booths and counter stools. If you arrive looking for a seat before sunrise, you’ll be out of luck—the coffee counter is always full, and the low murmur of their conversations mixed with the clink of mugs on the counter. The diner itself looks like something pulled from the pages of a vintage magazine—checkered floors, chrome-rimmed stools, and faded photographs on the walls. The air is rich with the smell of strong, black coffee and the sweet, warm scent of apple pie, a comforting aroma that made you feel right at home.

It's my favorite place in the world. My dream is to one day open my own little café that embodied the same essence as Joey’s does.

Josephine, my saving grace, owns Joey's. Joe didn’t just take me in, she gave me a job and place to call home. She became like a mother to me and the boys' Birdy. Don’t call her grandma unless you want to put her in an early grave. You would never know the spitfire was in her late sixties. Joe worked circles around people half her age. Her husband, Frank, died ten years back and they were never gifted with children of her own.

Going through the back door, I find Waylon, the only cook at Joey's, holding out a cup of coffee for me. Taking the cup, I give him a quick "Thank you," pecking his wrinkled cheek. Waylon, not one for affection, tsks, getting back to work, but I notice how his face tinges pink. The man is tall and wiry with hair that reminds me of Doc from the movie Back to the Future, except Waylon keeps his in a ponytail most days, or his version of a man bun.

Plastering on a fake smile, I flip my long braid over my shoulder, pushing through the door. Ready to take the day head-on.

I havean hour left before I pick up the boys. My pockets are much heavier than they were this morning and that always makes me feel good. I busy myself putting the pies on the counter, smiling when I see a streak of pale blonde hair walk to up the counter and half sprawl on top of it as if she just woke up. Juggling two jobs between bartending and the bakery, you’d be laid out too.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" she grumbles.

"Good afternoon, Louisiana," I reply in my over-the-top Disney sing-song voice, which I know drives her crazy. Lou’s full name is Louisiana Rose Wright, and she despises it. Her name was the result of a winning scratch off ticket her parents bought traveling through Louisiana. Apparently, that five dollars left a damn good impression.

As she continues to groan, I see one amber eye peek through her cascading hair. “The least you could do is feed me before dropping my full government."

“All I ever do is feed you. At this point, you’re more like my third child than my best friend,” I grumble. Setting the last pie down, I turn back to wipe the counter when a figure I know all too well walks by the window and pauses. Time seems to freeze as I take him in—tall and broad, dressed casually, yet every detail sends a chill down my spine.

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