Beauty and the Mustache (26 page)

“
Why, Roscoe?” Her face
split with a grin.

“
Because he needed to
cock-a-doodle-do something.”

Light laughter lit up the
room and Duane snorted, “That’s the dumbest joke I’ve ever
heard.”

“
Then you tell one,”
Roscoe challenged, narrowing his eyes good-naturedly at his
brother.

“
Fine, I will. And it will
be awesome. It’ll blow all the rest of your sad chicken jokes out
of the water.”

“
We’re waiting.” Beau
pushed Duane’s shoulder.

“
Any day now.” Jethro
called from where he stood by Momma’s feet, his arms crossed over
his chest.

“
Okay, prepare
yourselves.” Duane looked at me, then Momma, and cleared his throat
theatrically. “Why did the rooster cross the road, roll in the mud,
and cross the road again?”

His red eyebrows were
arched over his blue eyes as he glanced around the room with
cocky—no pun intended—dramatic hyperbole and waited.

“
No one is going to take a
guess?”

“
Just tell us the
punchline and stop egg-zaggerating,” Beau said and winked at
Momma.

“
That would be most
egg-cellent,” Momma said, managing to return Beau’s
wink.

“
Fine,” Duane said,
finally giving us the punchline. “It was because he was a dirty
double crosser.”

Most of my brothers
groaned and I chuckled.

Cletus, however, frowned
and shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

This went on for a while,
the boys telling terrible chicken jokes while my momma laughed and
bantered. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to miss a single
second. I tried to remember every laugh, every word, every smile. I
was taking a video with my mind, filling myself with the memory,
greedily clinging to the feeling of being surrounded by my family
and sharing this happy moment.

With every joke, my heart
lifted then dropped when the laughter dissipated. I worried it
would be the last.

Sometime later, when the
last joke did come, and we all looked around—at my momma who was
asleep and at each other—a crushing sense of finality swept over
me. The seven of us sat quietly in a stillness that felt like a
punctuation mark.

It may not have been the
end of the story, but it was definitely the end of a
chapter.

***

That night I
couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on my cot,
unable to get comfortable. The rainstorm should have helped, a gift
of nondescript background noise, but it didn’t. The muffling of the
rain made me anxious. My brain wouldn’t allow me to consider that
the sound of it grated against my nerves because I hadn’t seen Drew
since the rain began on Saturday.

Around 2:00 a.m., I left
the den, taking my quilt with me, and tiptoed to the backdoor. My
plan was to stand on the back porch and listen to the rainstorm
without the obstruction of walls.

Rain sounded different in
the Smoky Mountains than it did in Chicago. The difference between
a rainstorm in the city and a rainstorm in the mountains was the
difference between hearing a song over the speaker of your cell
phone versus listening to a live concert.

In the city, the sound was
dull, rain hitting pavement, dumpsters, awnings, windows, and
buildings. The sound was all treble with no bass.

In the old mountains,
however, rain hit the surface of every leaf, every stone, every
stream. It echoed, it surrounded, it felt layered and rich and
comforting.

Paired with the smell of
fresh, clean water, intermittent distant flashes of lightning, and
the nearly constant gentle rolling of thunder—the soft kind that is
felt in the chest and subtly shakes the ground—the storm was more
than a sound. It was an experience that touched every one of my
senses.

Standing on the porch, I closed my eyes,
cleared my mind, and breathed in the storm.

And then I
cried.

I didn’t know why I was
crying. Well, other than the obvious reasons. Really, the issue was
that I didn’t know why I was crying
now
.

I hadn’t cried since the
day I found out about my mother’s prognosis. In the last month I’d
come close a few times, but the tears hadn’t come. I’d been able to
hold them at bay and soldier on.

Maybe it was the rain
making the world new and fresh; maybe it was the evening spent
laughing with my brothers, enjoying them in a way I’d never done
before; maybe it was the feeling of certainty that these next days
would be full of
lasts
: the last time I’d laugh with my mother, the last time I’d
see her smile, the last time I’d hear her voice.

Maybe it was everything.

“
Ash?”

My back stiffened and I
rolled my lips between my teeth at the sound of Drew saying my
name. His voice sounded rumbly, sleepy, like he’d just woken
up.

“
Drew?”

“
Yeah.”

I didn’t turn around.
“What are you doing here?”

“
I was asleep on the couch
in the family room. I woke up when I heard you come out here. Are
you crying?”

“
No. I’m not crying.” I
shook my head, still giving him my back. “I am most definitely not
crying. Nope. Not. Crying. I’m eye cleansing…with saltwater…made
from my tear ducts.” I sniffled, and I felt the corners of my mouth
turn down. Try as I might I couldn’t stiffen my chin or squeeze my
eyes shut enough to stem the tears.

I knew Drew was still
there, still behind me. But I didn’t realize that he’d crossed to
where I stood leaning against the wooden post of the porch until I
felt his hands on my shoulders.

He didn’t wait for me to
assent to his comfort. He just grabbed me, turned me, pulled me to
his wall of a chest, and encircled my body with his arms. One of
his great paws was on my lower spine, the other on the back of my
head, and his lips were at my temple.

Caring not one stitch about my pride, I held
on.

I conveniently forgot all my previous
objections against his offers of compassion. Instead, I immediately
melted against him. I clung to his shirt and I buried my head in
his chest. I pressed my body against his.

His embrace was a forceful
promise of security, full of commanding comfort. In fact, it felt
desperate. If a hug could be frantic, this hug was frantic. It felt
as though he needed to hold me without accepting anything in
return; he needed to demonstrate that he possessed enough strength
for both of us; he needed to gather me close and carry my
burdens.

Therefore, for a
confusing, foggy stretch of time, I handed over my
grief.

I was far away from my
friends, from the life I loved and the family I had chosen in
Chicago. I was surrounded by people I’d rejected, people who were
essentially strangers, and now I was regretting pushing them away
and missing out on years with my brothers. I wanted to apologize
and mend those fences, but I’d been a mess of distracted
anguish.

I was facing a life
without my mother in it.

I leaned on Drew and just
gave in, and it felt impossibly good. He was solid and warm. He was
strong. He even smelled good, like the woods and rain and man. His
T-shirt was worn cotton—soft and absorbent.

For a moment, I just let
myself need someone. My hands gripped the fabric at his sides and I
cried.

Drew’s fingers threaded
through my hair; his lips brushed a soft kiss against my temple and
forehead.

“
Ashley…Sugar….” He
whispered, and his voice was so different from the usual gruffness,
or the sardonic stoicism he employed when quoting Nietzsche. I was
busy crying into his absorbent T-shirt and clinging to the fleeting
relief of a temporarily shared burden. I had no attention to spare.
I could dedicate nothing to deciphering the meaning behind the
caressing quality of his tone and words.

“
Tell me what you need,”
he said between raining soft kisses against my hair, temple, and
cheek. “I’ll do anything for you.”

I heard him, but I didn’t
really process his words other than at the most basic level. He
wanted to help me. That was the takeaway message.

Therefore, I wiped my nose
on his shirt and said between tears, “I’m using your shirt as a
tissue.”

“
That’s fine.” I felt his
smile against my cheek. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“
I’ll wash it.” I still
needed to wash his other shirts. This would be shirt number
three.

“
Don’t worry about
it.”

“
I will worry. It’s
covered in snot, very unsanitary. You could get sick. I don’t want
you to get sick.”

Drew chuckled. His hand on
my back rubbed slow, soothing circles, and he gave me another
squeeze.

“
I’ll let you wash my
shirt if you tell me what I can do. Tell me what you
need.”

“
I need….” I hiccupped.
I’d cried so much that my breathing had dissolved into stop,
starts, and hiccups.

“
Anything,
Ashley.”

“
I need….”

“
Anything, it’s
yours.”

“
I need you to tell me a
joke.”

Drew stilled, his hand
ceased moving on my back.

“
A joke.” He said the
words deadpan.

“
Yes. A joke. Make sure
it’s really funny.” I could feel his heart beat against my cheek;
instinctively, I snuggled closer as I said, “No
pressure.”

The sound of his heartbeat was eclipsed by
his sudden laugh, deep and low and rumbly. I lifted my head from
its comfy spot and glanced at him, his features just visible in the
indigo night.

He was smiling and he was
looking down at me and his eyes were completely captivating. They
traced my face with reverence and, whether what I saw was real or
imagined, his eyes told me that I was precious to him.

And then I kissed him.

I didn’t know why I kissed
him. Well, other than the obvious reasons. Really, the issue was
that I didn’t know why I was kissing him
now
.

“
Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is
simply not giving the kiss the attention it
deserves
.”

―
Albert
Einstein

If Drew was
surprised by my lips suddenly against his, then he
hid his surprise really, really well.

One of his hands gripped
me around the waist, the other grabbed hold of my hair and he
tugged, positioning my head as he liked. As though arranging me and
opening me for his use…as though he’d been waiting for this…as
though he’d planned and choreographed this kiss to guarantee
perfection.

It was a thoroughly tuned,
tactile tango. Where he led, I followed.

With no hesitation, he
twirled us, backed me into and against the outside wall of the
house. He gave me three sensual, carnal closed mouthed passes that
made my stomach tighten and my chest expand with hot
desperation.

Then he nipped at my
bottom lip and tasted me.

Instinctively, I parted my
mouth, my tongue darting out, seeking his. He gave it to me. He
gave me his weight. He gave me the pressure of his fingers against
the bare skin of my sides and stomach. He gave me a deep rumble in
his chest that echoed in my head and sounded to my heart and body
like
more.

More of this…more of you.
Give me more.

I was no longer sharing a
burden. His entreaties had switched focus. His need to give had
reversed and—with the same fervor he’d commanded my comfort
earlier—he now demanded my unconditional surrender. My head was in
the stars. Our bodies were heavenly instruments of careless need.
Worries melted beneath us into nothing.

I think I whimpered, my
hands under his shirt, touching the hard, hot expanse of his
stomach. I think I whimpered because he felt as good as he looked,
better than he looked. The thought of not touching him everywhere
made me feel weak, and awakened an agonizing urgency within
me.

It was a soul scorching,
pride destroying, body claiming kiss. And he ended it.

Drew abruptly pulled away.
I was left in the cosmos with no map, not knowing if a return trip
to Earth were possible.

I lifted fingertips to my
lips. I found them used and swollen, evidence of our frenetic kiss,
and I released a short breath. My eyes searched the porch for him
and discovered he was at the far end. His back was to me, and he
was leaning on the railing, looking out into the night. It was so
dark I doubted he could see much.

I’d never experienced a
kiss before where recovery time was necessary for one or both
parties. Needing a minute to collect myself, I closed my eyes and
pressed my hand to my heart. My head fell back, connecting with the
wall, and I tried to regulate my breathing. My heart would not
cooperate. It beat like it knew better, like it understood what
this kiss meant better than the rest of me, and it was both
thrilled and frightened.