Page 21 of Inevitably Yours

By the timeJohn landed back in town, he had waffled back and forth so many times, he thought he should run for public office.

The drive home didn’t prove much different than the flight had, which bothered him to no end. He was normally a very decisive person, and after talking to Tori, Michael, and Erika over the last few days, he had felt he finally had a handle on things.

The decision to just tell Augusta the reason for his hesitation and to start slow was made, but now that he was in the same town as her, she already seemed to be short-circuiting the reason center of his brain.

This is why I have such a hard time when it comes to Augusta. She makes me feel out of control. What the hell will it be like if I fall for her?

There it was—the answer, the question, and the problem. Control was one thing he prided himself on, and he would be hard-pressed to purposefully enter any situation in which he knew control would be out of his, well, control.

Hello Augusta, goodbye control.

Shaking his head in disbelief had become a regular thing with him since he and Stacy moved to Florida and hooked up with the Reids. They were good people, but like any family, they left you scratching your head more often than not.

This time, however, it was his sister who had him puzzled and amazed.

Stacy had given him hell over his need to control a while back. She pointed out he had needed it to get through their parents’ death and Troy’s, and even to manage the heartbreak of what Deborah did, but he didn’t need it anymore. She begged him to see that before it was too late, spouting something about, “if passion and adventure were the spice of life, love was obviously the dessert.” Sweet and decadent, but it came with a price.

The lawyer in her had dissected his entire existence, laid it out before him piece by painful piece and explained in vivid and gut-wrenching detail how it all fit together to form his “Cloak of Control,” as she dubbed it.

It was a cloak he used to hide his heart from any more breakage and abuse and to separate him from people…from love, thus protecting him from pain. He called bullshit on her little foray into psychoanalysis, but in a way, he took notice. If anyone on the planet knew about hiding away their heart, it damn sure was Stacy.

“You can call bullshit all you want brother, but the difference between us? I knew I was wearing armor. Hell, I donned that shit with purposeful intent, shined the fuck out of it every night, too. But you? You are more like the opposite of the Emperor. You think you are naked, but you are really dressed in so many layers, you have no idea what the temperature is around you.”

After Stacy left that night, John had just stood there in his drive long after her tail lights faded, listening to the sounds of the night, replaying her words in his head, and wondering how true they were. Had he closed himself off to the point which he was that delusional about it? And that destructive? No answers came that night.

And here I sit tonight,alone in the dark on my patio, drinking a perfectly aged Scotch and holding a lit cigar that I’m not ever remotely interested in. “Damn it, I’m not even enjoying the little things,” John complained to the cicadas and the bobwhites.

Maybe they weren’t bobwhites at all but mockingbirds pretending to be bobwhites. The sun had been down for a bit, and he couldn’t remember if they were nocturnal or not.

John didn’t give two figs about birds, but something about it being a mockingbird instead made him feel a certain kinship to the damn thing. He understood pretending to be one thing to cover up what you really were.

“What kind of bird is it?” he asked himself again, because now the kinship had faded, and he was feeling deceived. Deceived? By a damn bird? He must be losing it, but even through all the ridiculous feelings he seemed to be investing in birds, he still really wanted to know if it was a bobwhite or not. Deflect much?

“Argh, it’s not like it fucking matters.”

“Wow, I don’t believe I have ever heard you use that word before, so whatever doesn’t matter must either matter a lot or something else does, so which is it?”

John startled at the voice, dropping his cigar and reaching for his waist.

Francis threw her hands up in mock surrender as she stepped up onto the deck from the side of the house. John was amused by her fake fear; it had to be strictly for his sake. If that woman really felt threatened, she’d shoot first and ask questions later. “Don’t shoot me, son, just offer me a bit of that Scotch, neat, and listen to me ramble on for a bit. How does that sound?”

Her southern drawl and sparkling eyes would put anyone at ease instantly, him included. Listen to her ramble, huh? More like get me to talk about my troubles like you do everyone else. Fat chance. John didn’t need any more advice. He was still trying to digest all that he had gotten in the last week alone.

He pulled out a chair and nodded for her to have a seat. “You are always welcomed in my home, Mrs. Reid. You know that. Let me grab you a glass.” Francis sat. “And you don’t have to call me, son, you barely have five years on me, if that.”

That wasn’t completely true, she had a few decades on him, but he was taught that complimenting a woman’s age was standard southern behavior.

“Oh, you’re good, son, really good. You flatter all the ladies like that or just me?” They shared a laugh. “I’m sorry to surprise you like I did, but you didn’t answer the bell, and I saw the light on back here, so I took a shot.” John stepped inside to grab a glass.

He returned, sat, and poured his company a drink, which she accepted with a perfectly manicured hand. “Thank you, John.” She made short work of the drink and presented the glass for a refill. “That’s the good stuff. And call me Francis, already. You are as much a member of this family, as all the others, even if you do distance yourself.”

John happily refilled her glass. Francis was a tiny, southern force of nature. She took in every stray, and not so stray, person she came across. If you knew one of her kids, blood or otherwise, you were family. She and Frank always had words of wisdom to offer on damn near any subject, all one had to do was listen. Even if everyone thought they didn’t have a clue what was going on, chances were good they did. They were just particular about how they inserted themselves.

Apparently, this was Francis’ way with him—sharing drinks. John refilled both their glasses this time. “Do you have a ride home? Because like you said, this is the good stuff. Cheers.” The clinking of their glasses was like a signal to his heart to open or maybe his mind, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps, he had a few too many already and was just more receptive. No matter the case, he was thankful for it, because he was getting nowhere on his own.

Returning his salute, Francis took a large pull from her glass with a sign of appreciation. John recognized the look that overtook her slightly aged face—the almost euphoric experience of having the Scotch awaken everything on the way down, and the damn near perfect moment when you exhale after, enjoying the warmth as it rose to kiss your tongue and lips. That was the moment to savor with a smooth, smoky Scotch. John tagged it “the breath of the dragon.” It wasn’t a sensation that could simply be explained, it needed to be experienced.

“Frank dropped me off on his way to the discount store. I’m so glad we had one open here in town finally. He likes being able to shop at night when fewer people are around.”

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