Page 2 of This Can't Be Goodbye

Because Windfall thrives on gossip and is inhabited by townsfolk who’d rather sift through everyone else’s dirty laundry than wash their own. “Considering last week’s fender-bender, the answer to that question is obviously me.” I massage my neck, which is still stiff from Naomi attempting to turn my car into a Slinky.

My mind may have been occupied that day, spinning forward to the ACL surgery I had to perform on Jane Redford’s husky cross, but the driver who does the rear-ending is always at fault. Unless you’re Naomi James.

She hurried out of her car afterward, a slight quiver to her chin as she assessed the damage on my Subaru and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Not unusual. Naomi often mumbles unintelligible insults when I’m around, but she looked so distraught, so un-Naomi, I nearly did the unthinkable and told herIt’s okay. It’s just an accident, no big deal.

Then her watery gaze snapped to me. Her momentary vulnerability hardened into black ice. “Of course it was you. God forbid something works out in my life when you’re around.”

The disdain blasting from her hit me harder than her Mazda careening into my Subaru. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“The fact that you don’t know says it all.”

“I don’t speak code, Naomi. And I don’t appreciate being blamed for an accident that wasn’t my fault.” I gestured angrily at my crunched bumper.

Nearby pedestrians stopped to eavesdrop on our argument as cars slowed and veered around us, windows rolled down for maximum viewing.

“If you advanced when the light turned green,” Naomi said, talking loud enough to encourage our audience, “I wouldn’t have hit you.”

“If you waited like a patient driver who doesn’t have a lead foot, you wouldn’t have hit me. And giving me dirty looks won’t help your cause.”

She morphed then, the richness in her eyes calcifying into obsidian spearheads, the edges of her cheekbones sharpening. Naomi the Villainous Vixen. “Should I put a paper bag over my head? Will that make it easier for you to talk to me?”

The level of hate in her tone had me leaning back, lest her fangs finally drop and find my jugular, but I didn’t back down.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no winning with Naomi. She can rant at me about my driving or paper bags or whatever other nonsense she concocts. Since my stunt in high school—which I eventually apologized for—she’s never once smiled at me, been kind, apologizedherselffor a mistake, like the time she rammed her shopping cart into mine at Duke’s Market and sent my jar of strawberry jam crashing to the floor.

Naomi is a reckless driver. She’s not much better at pushing a grocery cart, and she holds grudges tighter than a toddler clings to her favorite blankie.

Hence her continued antagonism when I get stuck behind her in line.

When she finally pays for her coffee with her piggy-bank change, I move to the counter and place my order. The space she previously occupied still smells like her, hints of coconut and sun-drenched sand curling around me. I grit my teeth.

For some incomprehensible reason, my body didn’t get the we-hate-Naomi memo. Invariably, I take one whiff of her beach-conjuring perfume, or my eyes linger too long on her fitted skirts and dainty high heels, and my cock thickens. Slightly. Enough to infuriate me.

From the corner of my eye, I catch her twisting her thick mass of hair into a bun, exposing the long line of her neck. I shouldn’t imagine my mouth grazing her olive skin, my fingers dragging across her revealed nape. Not unless it’s to strangle her.

Jaw tense, I clench and release my hands.

Ricky stands with me as I stew, like he sometimes does in the morning. I schedule an extra ten minutes in my daily commute, hoping we have time to catch up before we both run to work. “You should give her a break,” he says after I order. “Naomi’s a blast to hang out with.”

“You must be thinking of a different Naomi.”

When I returned home for good last year, she was challenging but not quite this intense. Then the fall hit, and she became unbearable. Maybe she hates her job and loves taking it out on me.

Aaron Rothman walks in and nods to us both, but his eyes linger on Ricky. Ricky’s eyes do a similar sweep of Aaron—a game of charades I’ve observed most mornings the past month. Today’s mimed movie looks likeCatch Me if You Can.

If Naomi and I played charades, the movie title we’d act out would beToday You Die.

“Have you asked him out yet?” I ask Ricky.

An uncharacteristic blush stains his freckled cheeks. “Not sure he’s my type.”

I don’t know who Ricky’s type is. He’s generally easygoing, works hard as a carpenter for Dwayne Ackerman’s construction company. During high school he fronted Windfall High’s famed garage band, the Tweeds. While he dated a couple of girls back then, he came out after graduation and hasn’t introduced me to any men in his life since.

“You don’t know if he’s your type until you test the waters,” I say. “Aaron’s quiet, but he’s always seemed nice.”

“And you don’t know Naomi because you’ve never given her a chance.”

“A chance?” Has he not witnessed her daily dose of I-hate-Avett-Lewis jabs? “The fact that she’s still mad about our high school president campaigns from seven years ago speaks volumes about Naomi James. A woman who can’t get over my stupid stunt back then isn’t someone I want to know.”

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