The Achilles Heel (17 page)

Wade was smoking a joint in the back of the Jeep, which pretty much guaranteed he
was going to puke on the way home, but I didn’t care, because as Annie got into her
Jeep, she turned and smiled at me-specifically at me‌—‌and we shared a moment. I was
sure of it.

ANNIE

W
alking into the Soggy Bottom was like crashing a stranger’s wedding. White lanterns
hung from beams running the length of the restaurant and row after row of Christmas
lights crisscrossed through the open air patio. The smell of booze and gardenias assaulted
me as I walked through the archway dripping with blooming flowers. Taking one step
at a time down a set of brick stairs that led onto the main dining area, I was almost
waiting for someone to announce me, like at a wedding reception‌—‌which by the way
is horribly embarrassing, and I desperately wished brides would stop requiring that
kind of entrance for their guests.

Hope sat at the end of the horseshoe shaped bar and had definitely chosen the seat
with the best view. The ocean was within reaching distance, and if not for a brick
wall, my chair would be sinking into sand as salty water pooled around my feet.

“Hey!” she drawled, standing up and giving me big southern hug. “I’m so glad you made
it! I started to worry you might of changed your mind.”

“Never! I need a night like this in the worst way and would have cussed myself for
missing it,” I admitted. “This place is so random, but truly fantastic. How did you
find it?”

“Kess has been playing here awhile, and he always talks about it when he’s home in
Nashville. I think it’s been here since the sixties, but had a bunch of different
owners.”

Kess and Wade were already situated in the corner of the dining area, playing “Louisiana
Saturday Night.” Song names I remember, because I love music so much, but putting
a person’s face and correct name together has never been my strong point. After introducing
myself for the third time to someone, I usually walk away completely embarrassed.

“Wow, these guys sound amazing! I expected to hear a couple of college boys playing
for beer money, but damn, they sound professional. Do they play at a lot of bars in
Nashville?” I asked.

Her face got all scrunched up like she was thinking real hard about my question, and
it took a while for her to come up with the answer.

“Um, no, they aren’t really into the bar scene. We take turns throwing parties at
our houses, and Mama D‌—‌that’s my mama who lives with us‌—‌will throw out a big spread
of the best southern food to ever hit your mouth; she cooks for the ones at Kess’s
house, too. Wade still thinks everyone comes ‘cause he throws the best parties, but
it’s Mama D’s cookin’ that keeps ‘em comin’ back.”

“So, you’ve known Kess a long time then?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was
fishing.

She smiled and said, “Kess is like family, and we go back twenty years. I’ll tell
you what though, he’s way better looking than he used to be! When I first met him,
he looked straight out of the trailer. That boy had the trashiest mullet I’d ever
seen and the saddest attempt at a mustache; looked like he glued on all twelve of
the hairs that were spread across his lip‌—‌truly disgusting. I guess we’ve all come
a long way, but mostly Kess.” She looked at me and said sternly, “He’s a
really
good man, who in the past has broken a lot of hearts and burned the same number of
bridges, but karma upped and kicked his ass one day, and he didn’t like it too much.
He’s been a changed man ever since.”

Huh, interesting, sounds like there’s a story behind all that.

I raised my beer bottle and said, “Here’s to a good ass kicking.”

“We all need one.” She laughed as we clinked our bottles together.

About that time two handsome cowboys rolled up on us and ordered another round of
beers. Hope and Wade were like magnets, their bodies smacked into each other without
warning for the rest of us to look away. I hadn’t seen two people so oblivious to
a crowd around them since college, when it was normal to be at a party and see a girl
getting fingered while sitting on a kitchen counter. Party goers walking by to get
a beer from the fridge, stopping to chat with friends or requesting a song from the
kid working the CD player; never paying much attention to the girl with her legs spread
open and her tongue down some guy’s throat.

Luckily, Hope and Wade were somewhat tasteful in their display, and Hope’s dress wasn’t
up around her waist. Public protocol was to pretend I didn’t notice them, but I couldn’t
look away, and was in a full blown stare. At the moment, I wanted to be Hope or rather,
just in her position. Twenty years with the same man who still reaches for my hand,
smiles when I walk in a room, and quite frankly, who still makes my panties wet; that’s
one hell of a trifecta to be centered on. Instead, I’m riding the scales that dip
back and forth from husband dies in a car wreck to husband kills himself, each day
reading a different and equally shitty outcome.

“You don’t have any other choice but to get used to it. They make out everywhere they
go,” Kess said, startling me.

Shit, you’re so pathetic! I’ve been standing here getting off on his married friends
who are just acting married, and now he probably thinks I’m some freakish peeping
Tom. God, I suck at being normal.

I made some obscure and lame comments and basically wanted to die, but eventually
changed the subject back to music; a subject where I wasn’t an asshole. We chatted
for a few minutes, and his smile was warm and unpretentious; he was easy to talk with,
and I felt relaxed with my new acquaintances, hanging out at my new neighborhood bar.

The guys were back up front doing their thing, and I couldn’t get over how enamored
the crowd was with them. Yes, they sounded fantastic, but the applause they received
after each song was borderline standing ovation. Hope was right about the women‌—‌shameless,
although I could certainly see why. Kess looked so natural with a guitar; his fingers
slid up and down the wooden neck like liquid, but he still managed to make each note
ring out clear. Curls of sandy brown hair fell out from under his cowboy hat, licking
the tops of his ears and sides of his cheeks. The veins in his hands popped out and
spread up his forearm while he strummed, and the muscles in his arms lay over the
body of his guitar, almost like they were holding it in place; apparently, I was on
Team Shameless as well.

Oh, my God, what am I doing?
I turned my eyes away from him in shock.

I can’t be attracted to him; we just met. I’m not ready for that yet. Am I?

By the time Wade needed an escort to the Jeep, we all agreed to call it a night and
walked to the parking lot together. When it comes to friendship among women, you usually
know right away if you’ve found a good one. Although once in a while, a decoy can
slip pass the goalie and blind side you by stealing your clothes or your boyfriend,
but hopefully that’s rare. I wanted to keep up with Hope; she was one of the good
ones. Besides, my clothes would swallow her tiny frame and I had no man for the taking.

“Have a wonderful time here, Annie, and I hope you find what you’re looking for,”
she said as we hugged, then whispered in my ear, “Don’t be afraid to take a chance,
honey. Your next big adventure could be right next door.” Then she smacked my ass
and said, “Drive safe, baby!” Maybe it’s a southern thing, but the three of them were
always smacking each other on the ass, and it seemed more common than a hand shake.

Is he watching me?
I wondered as I got into my Jeep. It’s a wide-known fact, if two people have an attraction
to one another but are parting ways, one will be watching‌—‌savoring the last images
of that person, and one will turn and look back‌—‌for the exact same reason. I was
the one who looked back and he was smiling, watching me go.

ANNIE

T
he back of my head heated up and sweat tickled the space in between my breasts, pooling
in the elastic of my sports bra. Mumford and Sons delightfully ruptured my ear drums
as I came upon the straight away that lead me to the most Eastern point of the United
States. St. Croix is a US Virgin Island and entitled to chisel that fact into an enormous
rock that sits atop jagged cliffs and beside an information booth in a circle driveway.
I had run five and a half miles, past the golf course and along the narrow strip of
pavement; watching the ocean waves pull in and out, sometimes getting the notion to
spray itself against the rocks.

“This is a once in a lifetime moment.” I felt the need to acknowledge it aloud.

I walked around the gravel circle until my body didn’t struggle anymore, and then
reluctantly drank from the water fountain at the information hut. After five miles,
I wasn’t too picky and knew I’d never make it back to the house without hydrating.

A specific playlist is integral in the success of finishing a run. I meticulously
coordinate the order of the songs with the mileage planned on running. My mind always
gives up faster than my body, so inspirational songs are placed around the point when
I know the bargaining will begin.

“Let’s just walk a few minutes, or how about we turn around now and sprint the rest
of the way home,”
are just a few of the openers my mind will use when my body is in pain and willing
to negotiate. So, the music feeds my will-power and drowns out the whiner inside my
head. There is no better circle of self-satisfaction than seriously wanting to give
up, choosing to run through the pain and finishing what I started. Digging deep within
yourself and achieving your set goal can truly change your perception of life; running
was only a small part of the goal to get my life back on track, and I was going to
take “digging deep” to a whole new level when Hutch took me scuba diving under the
pier.

On the way back, I had to turn the music off because I woke this morning with a case
of the guilties and wasn’t letting myself move past my flirtation with Kess last night.

Only being widowed six months, I have no business ogling with a stranger. Numerous
questions need to be answered about Jack’s death, the contents of the lockbox, Jamie’s
behavior and what I hope to accomplish in St. Croix. This is not a vacation.

On the other hand, I am widowed and haven’t even thought about another man besides
Jack in six months. I’m just enjoying the view. I’m not going to marry the guy, I’ve
only known him one day. I’ve been through a hell of a lot already, and from where
I’m standing, can’t even see the other side.

Yet, maybe I am allowed to enjoy a tiny morsel of paradise.

Thump-swish, thump-swish. The rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement and the sound
of my dry-fit shorts rubbing together between my thighs untangled my guilt.

He’s a good looking guy; any woman would find him attractive. So what if I pictured
him naked, it’s not like anything is going to happen.

Okay, now I was getting closer to the truth, because
I think I did want something to happen
. I hated to admit it, but I did. I pictured Kess’s hands running the length of my
spine and covering my torso with goose bumps. Putting my hands up his shirt and tracing
his muscular frame with my fingertips, leaving his nipples hard to the touch excited
me. I needed the strength of a man to collect all my little pieces and tell me, “Don’t
worry, this is normal‌—‌you’re normal.” I was tired of depending on just my body to
warm the bed, and wanted another heat source under my sheets. Most of all, I wanted
to feel good because of what someone else was doing to me, instead of what I had to
do to myself. I also knew I had the power to make it happen.

If I knocked on his door and dropped my towel when he answered, exposing my naked
body, I’d have a pretty good chance at getting fucked today. That’s all it would be
though; a fuck and inevitably, when it was over, I would feel like a fuck.

This was a truly sick conversation to have with myself and one I was completely unprepared
for, because finding another man attractive had never crossed my mind. Only being
thirty-five years old and not living even half of my life expectancy yet, textbook
logic is that I would find another love in my life. Although, all the thoughts and
plans I had about future events were just that, future. Apparently, there is an exact
moment where the planes of time are allowed to connect; past and future come crashing
into the present, and it looked as though that moment was rapidly approaching.

“I just want to feel okay!” I growled, cutting off the smooth gliding of my running
rhythm and stomping my feet on the pavement instead, like a band major leading a parade.
The back and forth conversation with myself was getting old. There is only one of
me, but I was constantly fighting with myself like I had a twin, and apparently, at
this point, was mad enough to have a full blown temper-tantrum in the middle of the
street.

When am I allowed to feel like myself again without guilt or sadness or any number
of emotions that tap you on the shoulder and say, “Not today, Annie, it’s still too
soon, maybe another day of sadness. Maybe tomorrow is your day.”

Only a half mile to go, and its up-hill the rest of the way home.

My legs would punish me severely tomorrow; this was no amateur’s run. Upper cut, right
hook, one-two punch; my heart and head kept the fight going. When was the bell going
to ring? I was emotionally beat up by the time my feet reached the driveway and finally
made it to my stopping point. At the top of the hill I walked off some of the pain
in my knees and decided, for my mental stability, to keep it amicable with my neighbor,
but picturing him naked was a completely fair compromise. I was just too tired to
argue with that.

I walked down the rock path from the driveway to the front door, picking fresh flowers
along the way because mentally stable people do this, and
holy shit!
Propped up against the front door was a familiar looking box wrapped in brown packaging,
addressed to Andrea Whitman.