Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (20 page)

“I’m in love with you,” she blurted out, gasping again as soon as the words left her mouth, then holding her breath as she stared at him in wide-eyed panic. Adrenaline pumped uncomfortably through her body, and out of nowhere she heard herself add, “I want to
be
with you, Cain.”

“Ginger,” he ground out, the sound shocked and stilted.

“You’re the one I want. I have
always
wanted you. You were my first kiss, and I want you to be my first . . .” Her words trailed off as her cheeks flamed with heat. “Cain,” she half gasped, half whispered, “I want you to make love to me.”

His eyes searched her face, shocked and wild, and she licked her lips, her breath coming in fast, short spurts as his hands tightened around her arms. As he stared at her lips, she arched her back, pressing her body against his and whispering, “Please.”

Like a match to a fuse, he yanked her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as his lips crashed down on hers. Groaning into her mouth, he kissed her madly, backing her against the old barn wall and slamming his groin into hers, his tongue parting her lips and sweeping into her mouth.

Ginger’s hands were trapped between them but she flattened her hands on his chest, her fingers curling into the wall of muscle, and her back arching so that her breasts rubbed against him through their clothes. His hands slipped back around her waist to her front, pulling at the buttons of her coat, and she worked to help him release them, their fingers meeting in the middle. He opened the coat and dropped his hands to the hem of her sweater, skating underneath until the flesh of his rough hands landed on her soft belly. His tongue tangled with hers as his hands stroked her skin, higher and higher. He pushed his pelvis forward, and she felt his erection, hard and straining against the zipper of his jeans.

His hands found her breasts, cupping them through her bra, and she whimpered, fighting to release her hands from between them and wind them around his neck, pulling his head down to hers and sliding her tongue along the smooth hot velvet of his.

He groaned, dropping his lips to her throat, kissing, licking, sucking, as his thumbs rubbed her nipples, the friction of the lace over her taut skin sweet and sharp at the same time. Sweet and sharp. Like Cain. Like her and Cain together.

Letting her head fall back against the wall, she moaned his name—like a prayer, a litany, a plea: “Cain, Cain, Cain . . . I love you. God, I love you so much.”

His lips paused against her neck, and his hands stilled over her breasts.

“Gin,” he groaned. “Oh, fuck, no. What’re we doin’?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Cain, wait . . .”

“No,” he panted, though his body still pressed into hers, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her throat. “No, this is wrong. This is . . . no.”

“Stop sayin’ no,” she said in a voice that broke into a sob.

He slipped his hands out from under her shirt and rested his forehead on hers, his breath coming in light pants against her cheek.

“Princess, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” she sobbed, tears of rejection and humiliation streaming from her eyes.

“’Cause I’m no good for you.”

“You
are
. You
are
good. And I’m in love with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Cain. I love you. I want you.” She leaned forward, trying to kiss him again, but he pinned her shoulders to the wall, holding her away from him. “I’m offerin’ myself to you. Please don’t turn me away.”

He winced like her words hurt him,
really
hurt him, then suddenly his eyes grew cold.

“You want the
truth
?”

“I want
you
,” she mewled, her voice small and broken.

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Do you know where I go every night, Ginger? I go fuck Mary-Louise Walker. Every night. Three, four, five times a night. At her apartment. On my bike. At the distillery. Against the bathroom wall at O’Halloran’s between shots of Jack Daniel’s.”

Ginger gasped, whimpering her disbelief and fury, and struggling to slap him, as if hitting him would somehow negate the words. But he reached out and held her upper arms in his iron grip, his erection still swollen against her belly, his eyes icy cold.

“More truth? You might be playin’ the role of junior tramp today, offerin’ your flower to a man who’s seen more pussy than a porn star, but this is not
you
, princess. You are the sort of girl a man settles down with and marries, and I
ain’t
the settlin’
or
the marryin’ kind.”

Her body slumped against the wall as his words lashed out at her, whipping and stinging, embarrassing her and making her feel foolish. She mustered whatever small reserves of courage she had left. “I’m not
askin’
for you to marry me. I just want us to give this . . . this
thing
between us a chance. You’re leavin’ on Friday, for God’s sake! I’m only askin’ for a handful of days. Why can’t you do that, Cain? Why can’t you
be
with me? Why can’t you give us a
chance
?”

“You
know
why,” he growled.

“I don’t!” she screamed.

“Because my cousin’s in love with you, Ginger,” he bellowed. “Woodman is
in love
with you!”

“But I’m in love with
you
,” she sobbed.

He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, his face in pain, his lips tight and grim as he breathed forcefully through his nose. When he opened his eyes, they were mean. When he spoke, his voice was dirty.

“You know, Gin,” he said, grinding against her, “you do a pretty fair imitation of bein’ his goddamned girlfriend, you know that? Writin’ him letters. Kissin’ him when he’s home. Spendin’ every night over there with him when you get off work. You didn’t think I knew about all that? Well, I do. He talks about you every goddamn minute of the fuckin’ day. And here you are comin’ on to
me
—eyes all dark, lips bright red—like some sort of slut from the distillery. I don’t think you have any idea what the hell you want, princess.”

“I
do
. I want
you
. Woodman and I are . . . complicated. But we’re just friends—”

“No, you’re
not
,” said Cain, finally releasing her roughly and stepping back. He shook his head as he placed his hands on his hips and gave her a dirty look. “Even
I
can see that you two are more than friends. And if you can’t, you’re blind . . . or a cock-teasin’ bitch.”

“Cain!” She gasped at his vulgarity, grappling for control in a conversation that had long jumped the rails and turned out nothing like she’d hoped when she was lying in her bed this morning. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll make it clear we’re not—”

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” demanded Cain, taking a furious step toward her, his eyes glacial. “Don’t you
dare
do that! Do you know how depressed he was? Do you know how badly that injury fucked with his head? You didn’t see him. You weren’t there. He wanted to
die
, Ginger. He wanted to fuckin’
die
! The thought of you—
of comin’ home to you
—was the only thing that kept him hangin’ on most days. You think I’d take that away from him? You think there’s any way in hell I’d hurt him like that? You think I’d let
you
hurt him like that? Don’t you get it? It
doesn’t matter
if you love me. Fuck, it wouldn’t even matter if I loved you, Ginger, because I sure as fuck don’t hate
him
enough to destroy him!”

His words were furious and final, a sucker punch to her gut, that forced the breath from her body in one exhausted, painful whoosh. She sagged against the barn wall in defeat as tears streamed down her face. Cain made a small grunting sound as he stared at her, then swiped at his eyes before dropping his gaze to the floor.

He had rejected her advances completely, and something in her heart—something naive and childish that probably should have died a long time ago—splintered into a million jagged pieces.

“This conversation is over,” he said without looking up at her. “Go home.”

She blinked her eyes so that the last of her tears for him would roll down her cheeks and slip away. Then she lifted her chin and waited until he looked up and met her eyes.

“I know you love me, Cain. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it’s true,” she said, her voice broken and small as the words poured from the shattered place inside her. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. This is the last time you will
ever
reject and humiliate me. I promise you. The last time.”

Then, with all the dignity she could muster, she pushed away from the wall and walked past him, out of the barn, out of his life.

For good.

~ Woodman ~

Sunday supper at the McHuids’ was not a new occurrence in Woodman’s life—he and his parents had been invited about once a month since he was a child, and he’d always put up with his mother’s and Miz Magnolia’s good-natured teasing, and shared uncomfortable looks with Ginger as their parents pretended to plan their wedding and name their imaginary grandchildren. But this time, he had to admit, their mothers were taking it a little far.

“Woodman,” said Miz Magnolia, waving away the server who paused beside her with a platter filled with sliced ham, “what are your plans now that you’re home? Steady employment? Lovely home? Blushin’ bride?”

“Momma, please,” said Ginger softly, her voice small and tired.

“Well, I’m just thinkin’ how stunnin’ it is here at McHuid Farm in June. Perfect place for a weddin’.”

She giggled, and Woodman’s mother swatted at her playfully. “Magnolia Lee, you are so baaaaad!”

But Miz Magnolia preened, winking at Sophie before fixing her eyes on Ginger. “You’ve been waitin’ for Woodman to come on home now, haven’t you, Virginia? Well, here he is. What’re you goin’ to do about it?”

Ginger’s cheeks flushed as she stared down at her full plate. She’d barely eaten a bite, and she seemed especially fragile tonight. It made him feel worried, and he was anxious for dinner to be over so he could speak to her alone.

“You are lookin’ just fine, Woodman, bum foot notwithstandin’,” boomed Ranger McHuid from the opposite side of the table.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Damn proud of you for servin’ like you did,” Ranger continued, helping himself to a third and fourth scoop of mashed potatoes.

“It was my honor to serve, sir.”

“Chip off the old block, eh, Howard?”

Woodman’s father nodded, taking a serving of ham and reaching for the saucer of honey on the table. “That’s right. Woodmans are naval men. Josiah carried on a fine tradition.”

Sophie smiled at her son indulgently, then flicked her eyes to a despondent Ginger. “Magnolia, your Ginger here arrived at my house last Monday in the sweetest little violet outfit.”

Ginger’s mother cut her eyes to her daughter with disapproval. “You did not wear your scruffs to Miz Sophie’s house!”

“
Scrubs
, Momma,” said Ginger quietly, by rote.

“Tsk! My God, I don’t understand this fascination with bedpans and old people. It’s just so unpleasant, daughter.”

“
It’s your life, not theirs
,” Ginger said in a broken, faraway voice.

Woodman kicked her lightly under the table with his good foot, warning her not to engage. It would only make it worse.

“You say somethin’, miss?” asked Miz Magnolia, finishing her third glass of Chablis and nailing her daughter with narrowed eyes. “You say somethin’ to the momma who pays for your SUV, let you lives in her cottage rent free, pays for your schoolin’, and doles out your generous allowance?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turned to her friend. “Sophie, you think our grandbabies will look more Woodman or McHuid?”

Woodman gave his mother a pleading look, which she ignored.

“A fair mix of both, I hope.”

“Don’t you hog my grandbabies, Sophie, you hear?”

“Why, Magnolia, I believe you’re worried I’ll be more popular.”

When neither Woodman nor Ginger engaged in their deeply embarrassing silliness, it lost its fun, and Miz Magnolia asked his mother if she’d heard about the latest scandal involving the Methodist pastor and Mrs. McGaskell from the choir.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Woodman softly, and Ginger, whose face had been set in misery since the meal started, looked up at him with tears in her eyes and nodded gratefully.

“Gin and I are goin’ for a walk,” he said, clutching the table to stand up on his good leg as Ginger retrieved his crutches from the corner of the room and brought them to him.

“What a fine idea,” said Miz Magnolia. “But just neckin’, you hear?”

“Jesus, Momma!” yelled Ginger in the first show of spirit Woodman had seen all night.

“Don’t you
dare
cuss at me, daughter!”

Ginger huffed loudly, biting back whatever smart-ass comment was on the tip of her tongue, then turned and beelined out of the room, leaving Woodman to hobble behind. He found her sitting outside on the porch swing, arms crossed over her chest, eyes brimming with tears, looking a combination of dismal and furious.

“You’d think it wouldn’t be so much fun for them after ten years,” she said.

Woodman chuckled at her pique. “They were worse’n usual today.”

“They treat us like Daddy’s horses.
Go breed us some grandbabies, daughter!
It’s disgustin’.”

“Aw, come on, now. They’ve always been a little silly about us.”

“It’s just a big game for them—who we love, who we want.”

Who
do
you love, Gin? Who
do
you want?

Maneuvering himself as best he could, he plopped down beside her on the swing, and she moved a little to the left to give him some room.

Before their mothers had made tonight’s supper the most embarrassing on record, he’d noticed how quiet and distracted Ginger seemed. She barely said a word during dinner, and Woodman’s mind had segued easily to the awkward ending of his conversation with Cain on Thursday afternoon, when he’d left on his motorcycle in such a hurry after Woodman brought up Ginger.

He remembered the way Ginger used to look at Cain when they were kids, like he turned on the stars every night, and suddenly Woodman had a strong suspicion that something had happened between them this week. Something complicated. Something that was pulling them both away from him and hurtling them toward each other.

“Ginger,” he started.

“I’m nobody’s puppet, Woodman,” she said, turning to look at him.

“I know that,” he said gently. “You’ve always had a mind of your own, darlin’.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. “Even if you want to control people, you can’t. Our hearts make decisions that our heads don’t even approve. We can barely control ourselves. And nothin’—
nothin’ on earth
—ever works out the exact way you want it to.”

Her words, said passionately with the hint of a sob, reverberated in his head.
Even if you want to control people, you can’t. We can barely control ourselves.
And suddenly Woodman had an epiphany that took his breath away.

I can’t control Ginger.

I can’t control Cain.

He’d always been pretty good about loving Ginger quietly and giving her the time and space to decide what she wanted, but something about his accident, about the loss of control he felt in the wake of his injury, had made him push her for answers from the moment he’d arrived home. And even though she’d stopped by faithfully and they’d had some good talks, he’d strained their relationship because he was putting expectations on her that she’d never promised to meet. And suddenly he realized with startling and blinding clarity:

It does no good to stake a claim on someone’s heart. Unless they give it to you, it isn’t yours to take. All you can do is share your heart and hope she wants it. All you can do is offer it and hope she takes it. All you can do is love her and hope to God she finds a way to love you back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” she asked.

“For tryin’ to force you to love me.”

“Oh, Woodman,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I
do
love you.”

“I know you do. Like a best friend. Like a brother.”

She shrugged helplessly. “And at times . . .”

He waited for her to continue.

“There have been times,” she said softly, “when I thought I felt somethin’ more.”

With his good foot, he pushed off and the swing rocked gently as he processed her words; those times—those precious moments—when she’d felt possible for him, he’d felt possible for her too. It gave him hope. It restored his patience.

“I love you,” he said gently, staring straight ahead at an old oak tree that was blocking the setting sun. It created a sunburst of orange-gold that made the tree look like it was on fire.  “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

“Woodman,” she sobbed.

He didn’t look at her. He stared at the tree as the orange-gold sun set the grass on fire and watched as the old oak was slowly bathed in a calming lavender.

“If you told me ‘no,’ Gin, if you told me ‘never,’ I’d leave you be. You know that, don’t you? It would damn near kill me, but I’d . . . I promise you, I’d walk away. But until you say those words, Ginger, I will keep hopin’ and keep waitin’ for you.”

She took a deep, sobbing breath beside him, and he knew if he looked at her, he’d see tears spilling over the rims of her eyes, but he didn’t look.  He watched the grass turn lavender, then purple. He focused on the dying light.

“Gin,” he whispered, hating the question but needing the answer, “are you in love with Cain?”

Peripherally, he saw her shake her head back and forth, letting her neck fall forward until her chin rested on her chest and her shoulders shook the swing with silent sobs. And then he knew for sure. It had happened. Somehow in the space of just a few days she’d fallen for Cain again.

“Gin,” he said gently, putting his finger under her chin and tilting her face up to look at him. Her blonde hair shone in the porch light over their heads as the rest of the world darkened into purple dusk little by little. “Cain is my cousin and I love him, but I just . . . I just don’t think he’s right for you.”

“
Why
?” she demanded, her voice breaking on the simple, pleading word, as though she truly wanted an answer, as though she’d already posed the question to herself and come up with nothing.

Because he’s cock deep in Mary-Louise Walker right now while you’re weeping over him.
The words sat perched on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them—he couldn’t bear to hurt her like that, and frankly he didn’t want to villainize Cain like that, not even if meant winning Ginger.

“I see you with
me
, not
him
,” he said simply. “Darlin’, I’d be so good to you. Don’t you know that?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her lovely face, limp with sadness.

Reaching down, he took her hand gently, lifting it, bringing it to his chest and placing it directly over his heart.

“You can have this heart to break,” he said softly, devoutly, surrendering everything to her—his dignity, his control, his very soul—“if there’s even the smallest chance you might want it someday. Because here is what I know: even if you can’t ever give me yours, mine already belongs to you.”

Tears coursed down her cheeks and fell to her chin, dripping onto her lap as she stared at her hand, flattened against his shirt. When she raised her eyes, she tried to smile at him, but more tears spilled from her eyes instead. “God
damn
it, Josiah. Why’re you s-so good to me?”

“Why’s the sky blue, Ginger?” he asked, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the translucent skin on the underside of her wrist before entwining his fingers through hers. “Because it don’t know no other way to be.”

“I’m so tired,” she said, letting her head fall to his shoulder. She took a deep, ragged breath that shook her whole body, and he put his arm around her, pulling her into his side and using his good foot to push off the ground again and set them in a gentle motion. Back and forth.  Back and forth. Woodman sighed and let his head lean over to rest on top of hers.

“Then you go ahead and rest,” he said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Gin. My heart belongs to you. If you’re ever ready to give me yours, well, you come find me, darlin’. I’ll be waitin’.”

She tried to catch her breath but ended up sobbing and sniffling before continuing. “You d-deserve the best, W-Woodman.”

“Which is why I’m waitin’ for her to come to her senses,” he said, chuckling lightly.

“You love me that much?”

“That much and more,” he said, the words coming easily and feeling right. “Close your eyes and rock awhile beside ole Woodman. I love you, Gin. I’ve got you covered. You just take your time, darlin’.”

The next breath she drew was finally clean and deep, and he felt her relax against him, her fingers still braided through his, her head heavy against his shoulder. And Woodman closed his eyes too, his heart strangely content in its surrender, in giving up any remaining control to the woman he loved, and placing his destiny completely in her hands.