Page 26 of Grouch-ish

“Paradise and Precious. Our mother wanted to be original. Wanted us to stand out.”

My gaze is focused on the panels. I can’t remember exactly when we painted them. Dad cut the squared doors. Peach and I fought over which color should represent us. She wanted green. I wanted hot pink. Dad settled the argument by having her use muted blue and me a dusty rose.

“Mom always said we were two halves of one soul. Her little birds.” Giving us such different names and then slicing those names even further into fruit endearments made no sense. But Dad called Mom a mother hen and we were her chicks. The loves of her life.

Marriage. Motherhood. Sisters. So many ways to love. So many versions of soulmates.

“Cap doesn’t really talk about you or your sister.” Brock speaks softly, quietly sharing the information I’m well aware of. When Peach and I were younger, he’d tell us he wanted to protect us. Fireman and cop kids could be targets. When we grew older, Peach thought the distance he put between his teenage daughters and the firehouse was to keep probies away from us. Or us away from the new recruits. Fiery hot fireman and hormonal girls can be a flammable combination.

“It’s hard for him. My mom. And my sister.”

Brock’s eyes remain on me, but I lower my gaze from the painted panels to stare at my lap.

“Christmas can be the loneliest time of the year.” I swallow, willing away the prickle in my nose and burn in my dry eyes. A sharp crack goes off in the fireplace, and I close my eyes willing away the constant ache. This isn’t where I wanted our conversation to veer.

“Peach was only twenty-eight. I should have felt her sadness. If we shared a soul like we shared the womb, I should have known something was wrong. But I didn’t.”

I look back at the painted panels, blinking harder to clear the mist in my eyes. Every day I ache for her as my other half. I tried to fit Reggie into the void, but he’d only taken advantage of my vulnerability. Plus, sisterly love was different than marriage. No one can ever patch the gap her senseless, unexpected death left in my heart.

“Snowflake,” Brock mumbles, setting his empty beer bottle at his feet and sliding closer to me on the couch.

Precious’s death happened thirteen years ago. His sympathy isn’t necessary, but when his strong arms wrap around me and his lips linger on my hair after he tucks my head against his chest, I don’t push him away.

I melt into the comfort he offers. The beat of his heart. The heat of his embrace.

And inside me, something ruffles.

Like the wings of a long-injured bird, desperate to take flight again.

Day 3

Three fence posts

December 28

Chapter 7

[Pear]

Things got a little intense last night and my nerves prickle with dread at the thought of facing Brock this morning. After my deep confession about my sister, I suggested we watch a movie and pushed open the dove-decorated panels to reveal a flat-screen television behind the doors. Dad built a slim box to contain the modern device above the antiquated fireplace.

Brock agreed to watch holiday rom-coms, despite Christmas having passed, and we picked apart every cheesy statement and lacking plotline. After such a heavy discussion, the laughter felt good even at the expense of weak acting and even weaker on-screen chemistry. We criticized how unrealistic each representation was about budding relationships. Brock was exceptionally good at predicting what the men would say, and even better at determining the overall storyline within the first few minutes.

But even spoiling the plot and mocking the characters, I admitted to loving every awkward moment and scandalous last-second kiss (said with full mockery) like a pearl-clutching ninny tee-heeing from a rush of arousal.

The movies were further proof of my hope and belief that true love exists.

When I went to bed, I’d realized I’d come to a small town, although not my hometown, lost and seeking clarity, where I’ve met a rugged man who wears flannels, or at least he had earlier in the day. However, we aren’t trying to save a farm, family business or bakery, and he doesn’t own a dog. That I know of.

Two out of four isn’t bad but we aren’t the type of couple viewers would root for.

The thought gives me another giggle in the morning as I walk toward the kitchen, enticed by a heavenly smell. Emerging from the hallway, I stop short when I see syrup and butter on the dining table set with two plates.

“You made breakfast?” I glance up to see Brock wearing jeans and the requisite flannel shirt. He looks as delicious as the kitchen smells.

“Hope you like French toast.”

How did he know my favorite? And when a plate with three perfect triangular slices sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon are set on the table for me, I could kiss him. No mistletoe required.