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The crimson, crushed-velvet pillow hits my lap before tumbling to the floor with a muted thud.
Cora sits forward and reaches for me. “Shit, I'm sorry, Eve. I was just messing with you. Did it hit your cut?”
“No, no, it's fine. It's just . . .” I trail off, dropping my hand and reaching for the pillow. “There was something hard in here.”
Cora scoots over, twisting until she's facing me. “Maybe the zipper?”
Nana Jo has an impressive selection of throw pillows, and because she was always the thriftiest person I knew, she decided to have a dozen naked throw pillow inserts and about a hundred different throw pillow covers. The linen closet upstairs has two big linen boxes of washed and folded covers, all color-coordinated.
I twist the pillow around until I see the little metal zipper. Sure enough, it's not zipped closed all the way, so it's sticking out at a weird angle. I tug it closed, but it catches on something. It takes me a few times of working the zipper back and forth, until I finally get it open.
And a small, leather-bound notebook falls into my lap. There's a black ribbon tied around it, and it looks old, worn. Like it's been opened and closed so many times, that the leather broke in years ago.
“What is that?” Cora murmurs, taking the pillow from me and dropping it on the floor next to her feet.
“I don't know. Is it weird that I'm scared to look inside?” I look at my cousin, holding back a grimace. “What if it's like dirty letters from Grandpa Dalton or something?”
“I don't think she'd keep that in a throw pillow in the living room. Those are probably in some fancy box underneath her bed, next to her vibrator.”
My head whips to the side, and I stare at her. “What the fuck, Cora?”
Her cheeks pinken. “What? Sex is normal, Eve. I'm surprised I have to tell you of all people that.”
I bristle at her insinuation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She arches her brow, her expression expectant. “You're bagging an entire generation of St. James men.”
My mouth falls open in shock. “It's not like that and you know it.”
Her face pinches together. “Relax, I'm not judging you, babe. I'm just saying, we shouldn't judge Nana Jo for her box under her bed either, ya know? I hope we're stillfinger paintingwhen we're in our seventies too, ya know?”
I stare at her, and she only grins.
“Paddling the pink canoe?”
“Oh my god seriously?” I say with a laugh.
“Dialing the rotary phone? Diddling your skittle? Downstairs DJ? Or my personal favorite: buttering your muffin.”
I look at her. “Are you done yet?”
She shrugs, her face painted with pride. “The girls at the bakery like to gossip worse than the old ladies in this town. One day they dared each other to interject all the random masturbation euphemisms into casual conversation. Some of them stuck with me.”
“Do you want to see what's inside or do you want to continue?” I wiggle the leather notebook in my hand.
She rolls her wrist, her hand circling in front of me in the hurry up, continue gesture. “Of course I want to see what's inside.”
I blow out a breath and pull one end of the ribbon free. I open the notebook to a random page, and my jaw nearly hits my chest.
“Oh, I'm definitely calling into work,” Cora mumbles.
15
SILAS
I dragmy hand across the back of my neck, wiping the sweat that's gathered. Hunter and I have been outside for almost an hour, and it's hot as fuck. Every year I say that I'm going to go on vacation somewhere cold as hell this time of year to escape the heat.
And yet, year after year, I'm still here.
