True Divide (3 page)

That question is for today, and yesterday, and every day between when he left town and now. How he might answer, who knows. How I might react? No telling.

Jake's smile fades. “Sweetheart, I had things to do. Places I had to go.” He cants his head to one side a fraction. “I didn't know anyone was waiting for me.”

So what if—somewhere in the reminiscent parts of my heart—I was? It's not his concern. So what if I've always wondered what became of Jake Holt? So what if I've trolled social media for him when I've indulged in too much nostalgia, worrying that he died because he's basically a ghost when it comes to the wilds of the 'net? Who cares if I've sometimes imagined in full color what my life would have been like with him, from the places we would live, to the things he would say when we woke up together in our bed?

So. What.

A confused, heated, overwhelmed sting is brewing behind my eyelids. This is too much emotion for one day. New babies, old flames, unrequited hookups, all in the same building. Next thing you know, the eleven-year-old boy whose braces got caught in my hair during our first kiss will come walking through the door or something. And right now, there is no way I can handle another scene from
This Is Your Life,
the Lacey Mosely edition.

Kate will understand if I disappear. She won't judge me for it, once she knows why. Once I come clean and tell her how I once gave everything to Jake Holt. When I tell her we were the kind of secret that was wonderful and wild, Kate will grant me a pass on leaving.

Since Kate's opinion is the only one that matters today, I turn on my heel and throw the heavy door open so hard it nearly bounces back and whacks my shoulder before I can clear the opening. Then I get in my car, curse the radio for the throwback heartbreak song that's blaring when the engine roars to life, and drive away.

2

T
here is a fine art to opening the back door of The Beauty Barn, one I'm normally able to finesse while lugging a purse and a large canvas bag slung over my shoulder, a half-eaten snack bar in my mouth, and clutching a Styrofoam cup full of hot coffee in one hand.

Given that I've opened this door nearly three thousand times over the last thirteen years, when I saunter back from Deaton's Café grasping my daily brew, I expect that on a cold November morning such as today, I need to pull on the door, stick my key in, then kick the bottom twice before it will unlock. But just as I turn the key and give the final yank on the handle I know it requires, the door breaks free. The unexpected ease with which it flies open means the door edge whacks right into my shin, a yelp follows my coffee tumbling from my hand, and my wide-open mouth means the snack bar drops into the six inches of fresh snow on the ground.

Muttering a few not-quite-obscenities, I thank God for wellies. This morning I put on a heather-gray skater skirt and a black fitted short-sleeved sweater, every intention of refusing winter with my clothing choices. However, when I stepped outside to start my car and felt the Chinook wind blustering about, I had an attack of common sense and pulled on a pair of black ribbed wool tights and a pair of shiny, glossy red wellies when I went back in the house. Despite trading bare legs and cute suede ankle boots for this look, it's the kind of style compromise I can live with. And now, the toppled coffee manages to miss my skirt and tights, spilling only over my trusty (and cute, thank you) wellies.

After I tap the toe of my boots to brush off the last drips of coffee and collect the Styrofoam cup and snack bar from the snow, I manage to make it in the store without further incident. Inside, I switch the lights on and unlock the front door, flipping over the ancient cardboard sign that proclaims “OPEN” in delicate calligraphy. Mrs. Ruth Ann Taylor, the owner of The Beauty Barn, made that sign decades ago and even if it's yellowing and faded, I can't imagine using something else in its place.

When Ruth Ann opened The Beauty Barn in 1952, it was a gift from her husband, Vernon, who owned the hardware store next door. They couldn't have kids, so Vernon gave her a business to tend to instead. They worked side by side for forty years until he died of lung cancer and Ruth Ann had to sell off the hardware store. Vernon's old building houses a thrift store now. Instead of perfectly organized bins of wing bolts and washers, it's full of people's crappy castoffs strewn about in heaps and piles. Kind of depressing, if you ask me.

Lingering for a moment at the storefront, I take in the quiet of the shop and drag my finger across a strip of frost that's coating the edge of the plate glass on the door. Weather like this signals the real arrival of winter in Montana. Nothing but mukluks and multiple layers for the next five months. While snow has its own charms, I'd still take sunny and seventy-five over anything else.

Business will likely be a little slow, given the weather, which doesn't sound all bad. I've had my eye on a few new products to add to our inventory, and a quiet day means I can finally narrow the choices to place my order. The Beauty Barn is closed on Sunday and Monday, so kudos to Nic for dive-bombing his way into our lives yesterday, when I already had the day off. Although it wouldn't matter too much if he showed up on any other day of the week. Even if our part-time employee, Sandi, couldn't cover for me, I could have just tacked a sticky note to the front door.

Kate having her baby. Be back tomorrow.

I could do that because this is Crowell. It's The Beauty Barn. Around here, we keep our work priorities straight and our homegrown resident loyalties straighter, so everyone would gladly wait one extra day for a box of hair dye or blue rinse if they had to.

I started working here the year I turned sixteen, kept on after school and in the summers until I headed off to Langston for my short-lived venture into higher education. I lasted one year there—and it happened to be the longest year of my ever-loving life.

I'm the manager now, although being the manager of The Beauty Barn comes with very few perks and even less cachet. No bonus plan, no sweet benefits package, not even a business card. Mostly it means that Ruth Ann lives in an old folks' home in Missoula now and I'm like the de facto owner. Absent of the little prestige that would accompany being able to say I'm the
actual
owner. But I haven't paid for a single tube of lip gloss, bottle of nail polish, or tube of mascara in years.

Beyond the beauty products we sell, I started doing manicures and pedicures a few years ago, something I swear has kept us from closing the doors. My French manicures are renowned in Stratton County because I have a steady hand and the right touch for perfect tips. But if you want a full set of those gel things, I'm not your gal. Anything that's set with UV light and doesn't chip when it should? Not my thing.

When I came home from Langston, Ruth Ann had just celebrated her seventieth birthday. She asked if I was staying home for good and because I was nineteen and still believed there was more left for me to do far beyond the confines of Crowell, I told her I wasn't sure. She looked at me and smiled. I understand now that Ruth Ann knew I boomeranged my way back because Crowell is part of my essential makeup, so ingrained in who I am it's likely part of my genetic code. This place is my home, my heart, and my only truth.

By early afternoon, I've just hit send on the order of new products: amazing-looking gel eyeliners, wands of a blendable cheek-lip color combo, and a moisturizer with brighteners that, if it does one-tenth of what it claims to do, could easily be deemed a miracle in a jar.

While I'm waiting for the printer to spit out my order confirmation, the front door of the shop opens, and I peek out to find a high school girl dragging a very reluctant boy in behind her.

“Cole, come on. Five minutes.” She's clad in patterned leggings and a V-neck tee, with a sloppy-looking zip-up hoodie thrown on, the entire outfit not near warm enough for the weather. Lucky for her she still has a foolhardy and youthful nervous system; she probably won't even notice the snow inside her ballet flats until her toes start to go numb. Her dark auburn hair is up in a messy bun that's both sweet and sexy on girls her age, a few loose pieces tumbling about her shoulders and skimming the nape of her neck.

Cole manages a groan but stumbles in, falling gently against the back of her until his arms are wrapped about her waist loosely, releasing her only long enough to adjust his camo ball cap down a bit. Credit to him, he's wearing a stiff Carhartt duck jacket and has his jeans tucked into his cowboy boots, a dead giveaway to his rural sensibilities. If he didn't already spend two hours before school feeding cattle, you can be sure he has that to look forward to this evening when it's cold and dark.

“I don't need anything in here, Cara. I'll be outside in the truck. 'Cause you're lying about five minutes, anyway.”

“Hush.” A gentle swat of one hand lands against where his arms are clasped around her. Untangling herself from him, she strides off, leaving Cole stuck in place, trying to orient himself to the store. Or looking for an escape route, possibly.

Cole doesn't stand a chance. Or, if he thought he did, he doesn't now. Because Cara just spritzed a bit of a sampler perfume on her wrist, then drew it across her neck, and she's holding her arm up for him to come give his opinion. Bless her scheming little feminine heart, the girl knows what she's doing. Like a well-trained lapdog, Cole is over there in seconds, all his attention on her and the little swath of skin she's offered up. Nodding is all the poor boy can do to render his approval. She picks up a bottle then heads to the counter, pausing at a nail lacquer display to peer closer, finally selecting a bright pink polish with big flecks of silver glitter in it.

I meet her at the counter, where she's slid her purchases toward me while fingering the selection of lip glosses I've set up there. A tube of the dark violet color ends up in her hand, and it's all wrong for her incredibly fair skin tone. I'll be damned if this beautiful girl is leaving here with that in her bag, because even Cole, who is pretending to look at his phone but was quite obviously watching her walk up to the counter, will be afraid to kiss her with that shade on. She'll end up looking like Morticia Addams gone country. Picture that for a second. Not cute.

“Here. Try this one.” I pull out a pale peachy-pink shade that's extra glossy and hand it to her.

Cara takes a good look and then unscrews the lid, dotting some onto the pad of her middle finger, then proceeds to pucker up a bit and daintily dab it on her lips. And, good grief—poor, poor Cole. He's zeroed in on the whole thing, his own mouth fallen open slightly, and I'm sure concocting a series of very inappropriate scenarios in his addled mind that center primarily on Cara's lips. Because he's at the age where his mind has three settings: hungry, horny, or asleep. He's obviously not asleep, he might be hungry, but for now it's likely he's feeling pretty dominated by the last option.

An awkward cough leaves his gaping mouth. “I'll be outside.”

With that announcement, Cole disappears to the safety of his truck, the front door swooping shut behind him.

If Cara knew what she was doing with the perfume, she's oblivious to what just happened here. I vaguely want to give her a speech, tell her to enjoy this space in time, when she barely has to try and a sweet boy who adores her suddenly can't figure out which end is up because she put some lip gloss on. Lord, it's a beautiful thing, and there will come a time when she feels like
trying
is all she's doing.

Cara smacks her lips together, takes a look in the mirror on the display, and grins.

“Oooohhh, I love it. It's perfect. Thank you.”

That right there is why I like my job. The Beauty Barn is a place where all the things I like, live. Pretty things, products with sparkle, the hope and answer to every beauty flaw in tiny frosted glass jars of creams and serums. On especially slow days, I imagine more here, maybe a full salon with a luxurious wash bar and dedicated space for colorists—even though Crowell probably can't support a shop that fancy. Hidden in my office, tucked in a desk drawer, is a folder full of magazine clippings that inspire what this humble place might be, if the stars aligned with my astrological sign and gave me the bank account to make it real. It may be a near pipe dream, but it's mine. But when I save someone from the atrocity of a violet lip gloss that might ruin their young love life, just that is enough.

Cara pays and skips out the door to a waiting Cole, who opens her truck door and feigns disinterest in her purchases. The goofy smile on his face betrays him, though. If Cara asks him to paint her nails, apply her lip gloss, and spritz his truck with that perfume, he'll do it.

Reminiscing over my high school yearbook last night, lingering on the page with Jake Holt's picture reminded me of what all that feels like. The sensation of wanting someone as much as they want you. The overwhelming feeling that accompanies the first
everything
.

But the boy on that yearbook page looked light-years different from the man I saw yesterday, while I remain a carbon copy of my teenage self in so many ways. Then, he was a gangly kid wearing Doc Martens, sporting eyebrow and lip rings, and simmering up with quiet disdain and angst. He was listening to Bright Eyes and Elliott Smith, tossing in a NOFX record when feeling more subversive than usual. I was wearing cheerleading skirts, Ugg boots, and pink velour ensembles that didn't have “Juicy” emblazoned on the ass, but I wished they did. I was playing a Shania Twain album on repeat.

Together, we were the personification of every poorly acted teen romantic comedy ever made. Prom queen meets misfit. Good girl meets cynical outcast. For all the things our clothes and music said about who we supposedly were, alone we were so much more. Plus, after a certain point, we were naked with each other a lot, so our disparate taste in clothes didn't matter much.