The Co-op

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

DEACON

It shouldn’t offend me, seeing LaRynn in her nice clothes, sleeping on my favorite bench by the beach. Confuse me, sure. Annoy me, maybe. But offend? Is she really so miserable under our roof that she’s taken to sleeping outdoors? I’ve been giving her her space.

I haven’t seen her since our water fiasco two days ago. Figured it was in our best interest to go back to giving each other a wide berth.

There was something so uncertain that passed over her expression when she saw Sal that day. Almost like she was afraid. Didn’t know what to do with someone’s genuine care.… And before that, when one of her fingertips touched my bare skin and she looked at me like she wanted to touch more, the way her nipples tightened beneath her shirt.

I have got to shake that kind of thinking, though, that wondering and looking for all the pieces of her she doesn’t willingly give. Which is precisely why I gave myself some space.

Still… I shouldn’t be having such a visceral reaction to this. To her. There are plenty of open benches nearby. But some part of my brain sees this as a sort of smug foreshadowing for my life. Everything of mine gets overtaken by her. I swear her scent has stayed in my car for seven years, despite it being reupholstered. Every summer she still takes over my mind.

The sleeping princess turns newborn vampire, eyes blasting open as she rears up with a violent gasp. “What the—” she says when she registers me hovering. “ Jesus, Deacon, you scared me.” Dark brows dart down over those green, wide-set eyes. I feel my face frown in response at the same time something squeezes in my rib cage.

“Why are you sleeping on a bench?” I ask, curiosity being the winner out of warring sensations.

“Why is it any of your business?” she snipes.

“Because it’s not exactly safe. Or remotely smart.”

“Oh, thank you. I love having the dangers of being a woman mansplained to me first thing in the morning.” She rolls her eyes. “If you must know, I did not fall asleep here on purpose. I must’ve just—dozed off. And I happen to sleep like the dead.”

“I remember,” I say, and her nostrils flare. “And I don’t think that makes it any better.”

“Oh no.” She clutches her chest in mock horror. “But I simply live for your approval.”

“Look, LaRynn, I’m just saying, maybe have some more regard for your own safety.”

She jerks up, the long legs that were neatly tucked beneath her unfurling with precision. The look on her face says she’s done humoring me.

“I went for a run,” she says, “and was watching the sunrise. I guess I didn’t realize I was still tired.” She sighs and crosses her arms, her gaze drifting up the incline toward the house.

“Didn’t sleep well without me in the house, huh? Miss me?” I also slept like shit. She snores, and I’ve unfortunately become accustomed to hearing it from my room. “Did you not get my note?”

“I got your note,” she says with another eye roll.

I scratch a spot on my jaw and shift on my feet. “How was your visit with Sal?” I try, thinking this is a safe subject. She frowns quizzically in response, but before she can reply, a guy on an electric bike speeds past, close enough to blow her hair from her shoulders. Instead of moving, she scowls at his retreating back before eyeing the rest of the bicyclists like she wants to incite violence. I physically have to move her to the interior side of the sidewalk, and I immediately brace myself for the barrage that’s headed my way when Jensen ambles up, his own coffee in hand and a sly grin on his face. LaRynn follows my line of sight and turns to face him.

“Rynn?!” he shouts, his steps stuttering.

One side of her mouth lifts easily. “Jensen. Hey.”

He wraps her in a hug and she pats him on the back a few times. “Great to have you back. You playing today?” he asks.

“Playing?”

“Volleyball.” He laughs. “I’ve been on nights, so we’re down to once a week, but we’ve got some regular games going these days.” Oscar from the brewery walks up then, with his own doubles partner and a smile for LaRynn. Creep.

“Not today,” she says. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

But then she takes a step and stalls. “Wait, Oscar, right?” She smiles brightly at him and my back teeth click together. “I was wondering if I could get your number?” The lid on my coffee cup pops off and I have to resecure it. Jensen smirks at me. It’s too early for this shit.

“For a live music night at the café,” she adds. “Dinner service has been pretty dead lately, so I was talking to the owner and we thought maybe we’d try to organize some music nights for the summer. I figure with the people leaving the park, it could be a good draw.”

Oscar enthusiastically agrees and starts exchanging his details, giving her Anya’s, too. He’s one of those clean-cut types on the outside. Blondish and pale, sometimes wears glasses, has that whole guitar thing going for him. I know via Anya that the rest of the staff over at the brewery have crushes on him, too. He’s also two inches taller than me. Giant creep.

“Oscar, you remember LaRynn from the other night?” I blurt. “My wife.”

Jensen snorts before he starts laughing silently. LaRynn slow-swivels my way with a look that is no doubt meant to eviscerate me on the spot. I avoid her eyes like she’s Medusa.

“Err, yeah,” says Oscar with a pout. “We literally just reintroduced ourselves.”

If crickets lived in the sand I’m sure they’d be treating us to a veritable symphony in this painfully awkward moment.

LaRynn swipes the coffee from my hand and starts toward the crosswalk. “I’ll see you at home, mon petit puce. ” She blows me her signature kiss that turns into the middle finger before she struts off, sipping my coffee as she goes.

“I mean,” Jensen laughs, “peeing on her would’ve been more subtle, man.”

I sigh and sit down on the bench—nicely warmed from its former occupant—put my face in my newly freed hands, and curse.

When I eventually get myself together and look up, Jensen’s still standing here, still sporting a bag of volleyballs slung over his shoulder and his typical shit-eating grin. Oscar and his buddy have migrated down to the beach and are warming up.

“For whatever it’s worth,” Jensen says, “this whole thing with you two and the house? Sounds like kismet to me. I always thought you made a good team.” He pats me on the shoulder before he trots down the cement stairs onto the sand.

Easy for him to say. The man could get his foot run over by a car and respond with a pithy tale about a distant relative’s injury and the newfound perspective he gained from it. His relentless positivity used to exhaust me. Now that I know how genuine it is, I usually can’t help but appreciate the guy. It’s probably an ideal trait for someone who wants to be a pediatrician.

The next hour passes in traditional fashion: doubles matches in the sand against other regulars, occasional shit-talking and catching up. It’s a decent enough distraction, but my thoughts are still a jumbled mess.

My mind is drifting again when we start to wrap up. I wonder how LaRynn’s been filling her time the last two days. Wonder if she’s liking the café.

“Have you heard anything about how it’s going? I assume she’s doing fine and not being violent with the customers?” I ask Jensen.

Jensen looks up from his crouched position with a squint. “Huh? LaRynn?”

Oh. I realize I haven’t actually been talking about LaRynn out loud. I dig a foot into the sand and watch it disappear, wipe the sweat off my face with a forearm. “She’s been working at Spill the Beans.”

“I—know? I visited her there yesterday after my shift.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because my girlfriend owns it and also happened to be there? And I happen to enjoy her, and I enjoy seeing LaRynn? You’re acting really fucking strange.”

“Just don’t go getting too attached to her, alright?” I tell him.

“Is this some weird role-playing exercise where you’re supposed to be me and I’m supposed to be you? Is this what you wish I was saying? If you need to keep saying things out loud to me that you should be saying to the mirror, that’s fine, but I’ll do as I damn well please,” he says with a laugh.

I roll my eyes and shake my head, but he presses on. “This reminds me, I tried asking Elyse and she said she couldn’t pry with Rynn, but I gotta know. What’s the bedroom arrangement? She free to see other people? After the chest pounding earlier, I assume no?” I stare at his smiling face before it parts into another delighted laugh. “Don’t tell me you guys didn’t discuss this?” he says.

I walk toward the sideline and grab my shirt.

“Can’t wait to hear how that goes!” he calls, and I fruitlessly try to dust the sand off my limbs before I start the march up the hill.

There’s nothing more humbling than trying to stomp up both a hill and stairs in flip-flops, but after a few years of living here I gave up and sold out part of my East Coast soul to wear sandals—to and from the beach only . I kick them off as soon as I get inside and snort out a breath. I swear her scent followed me from the courtyard and up these stairs and has already invaded every inch of space here, too.

And then I freeze as I start to take in everything around me.

There are six— six! —new pillows on my couch. A new coffee table with a candle the size of my face on it next to a stack of books. A weird, overlong chair thing that doesn’t fucking fit stuffed in the corner next to another new stool thing—one that looks like a stump she hauled up from the beach, another candle on top of it. Some modern-looking record player of some kind on top of a small case stuffed with vinyls, with a little TV beside it. I whirl around and see that there’s a bunch of new things added to the kitchen, too, where I also glance over at LaRynn, who is currently chopping something. There are no doors on the cabinets that are left, but there are now little wire shelves stacked full of shit in them. Clear containers holding various nuts, pastas… bags of chips arranged by color. It’s like peeking into the mind of a serial killer. Another candle. Some dish towels rolled up in a basket next to the sink, a toaster oven on the counter, a copper kettle on one of the burners, a rug on the floor, another candle, and… a fucking new refrigerator ?!!

Oh my god.

I scramble to my bathroom next, and groan.

New pink bath towels sit rolled up in a basket on the ground under more pink towels that are hung on a towel rack. A tan shower curtain with a matching pink stripe at the bottom (and tassels) has replaced my old one, and—you guessed it—there’s another candle on the counter.

I vaguely register what looks like four new pillows on my bed but choose not to count. Instead, I sink onto the four inches of couch that remain pillow-free and rock back and forth a bit.

She did this to show me something, didn’t she? This is a power move to get the upper hand, to make me scared of what she’ll do with the money. Our budget is tight , to say the least, and we are supposed to be in this together.

I grab a plushy pillow and clutch it to my chest, leaning back into the couch with a groan. We don’t even have real cabinets and the countertops are plywood and plumbing is still testy and this woman is spending all our money on pillows. There’s got to be a good way to approach a money conversation that doesn’t end in my castration, but hell if I know what that is, or what that looks like.

I’m not sure how long I stare around the room at everything, trying to find the answer, but it’s long enough that she stops what she’s doing in the kitchen and comes around to lean a hip against the counter. Arms crossed, eyes hard. It’s like I can visibly see her building up for a fight, brick by brick. Shoulders stiffening, chin lifting.

“What? What is it?” she says. “You wanted a wife, Deacon. You got a wife.”

As a kid, the evergreen fight between my parents was money. They both worked, but I realized later in life that my mom had worked just as many hours as he had and would still be the one to prepare a meal every night. She’d borne the brunt of the mental load, too. Whenever an expense came up that wasn’t glamorous, I remember how distracted she’d be, preparing herself to tell him. How it felt like we were always walking on emotional eggshells for Dad, trying to keep him pleased.

The way LaRynn seems to brace herself now reminds me of then. Like she’s gearing up to justify herself.

Dad wanted to make plans for vacations and dates. He never wanted to be home. We’d be in the middle of plans and he’d be making others. It felt like we were always trying to keep him entertained, and rarely succeeding. Mom canceled the kitchen remodel they’d saved up for for two years when Ramsey got into a specialty program for baseball, all so they could afford to go to Australia with him, even though she’d have been happy to stay at home and let Ramsey go with one of the host families. She deserved a space she enjoyed, too. And Dad cared about how things looked all the time, but from the outside. Like how he’d make sure we had the most immaculate lawn in the neighborhood, but would bitch at my mom for wanting to update an appliance. And when it came to anything that needed fixing, he’d put that off, too. He wanted to look like the ultimate family man, with a nice-looking house from the outside, taking his wife and kids to far-off places. He even coached me and my brother in Little League until he had an affair with one of the other players’ moms.

The first affair.

He begged and pleaded and promised his way back into Mom’s trust. And then he got sick. I watched her give him a shot in the ass every night for months on end. Watched her plaster on a smile and shield us from his mood swings. I was convinced that she single-handedly healed the man when he went into remission when I was fourteen.

Mom found out about the second affair when I was eighteen.

Two months later we found out the cancer had come back and spread, right after she’d put a deposit down on an apartment for us.

We moved back in with my father, and she proceeded to care for him with the same unending patience until he died six months later on New Year’s Day.

She was lonely and lost, and after a while my nana told her about a job that came with housing, out here at a campground in Santa Cruz. I’d blown out my shoulder that previous summer and had been skipping most of my classes at junior college, aimlessly drifting. So when she’d looked at me with her tired eyes and asked me if I’d be up for a fresh start, I said yes and came with her.

She didn’t talk about the affairs much. Still won’t. But sometimes, typically around the holidays or his birthday, she’ll let something slip. I’ve heard her cry and seen her clutch cards that he’d written to her and ask, “How? How could he write these things to me at the same time he was sleeping with them?”

So, even though my gut reaction is to stay suspicious, to err on the side of judgment, to remind myself that someone can always be more duplicitous than they seem, I look at LaRynn now, and maybe it’s those same tired eyes that make me wonder if this is her fresh start. I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt, and to consider that she was trying to do something nice. Something to make her comfortable and, though it’s hard to believe, add some comfort for me, too. No one else is here to entertain or impress. Maybe this wasn’t ill-intentioned.

“I fucking love these pillows” is all I say. Maybe if I show her she can count on me to have her back, she’ll open up and have mine, too. Maybe I’m an absolute sucker and I’ll get left at the end of this a lot more broken.

She blinks a few times in surprise. Shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “I—um. I tried not to go overboard, I know that we’ll have to move a lot of these things around during different phases and I probably should’ve asked if the fridge was fine, but it was actually a good deal and I just figured we could be more comfortable in the meantime, you know? The pantry stuff just helps it all stay organized instead of piling up on the counters, too.”

And there it is. A glimpse at LaRynn when she opens up.

Maybe we can be friends. Something we never got to be. Not really.

“I’m headed out with the twins this afternoon… if you want to join us?” I ask.

She unties her apron and my eyes flick to her chest as it presses against the v of her shirt. I blink back down to the pillow in my lap, turn my palm to study it instead.

“I worked with June for like nine hours yesterday. I think if she’d wanted to include me she would have. Thanks, though,” she responds quietly.

I make a tired noise. “We just made these plans, Lar. Seriously, in the last five minutes.” I hold up my cell phone for emphasis.

She looks like she wants to say something snippy back to me, but shuts her eyes and rocks back on her feet instead. “Fine. Okay. Give me ten minutes. I’ll go change over there.”

When I get up, I steal a glance through the doorway to look across the landing where she pointed, catalog the makeshift room she’s set up for herself. There’s the edge of what appears to be a bare cot behind one of those folding divider things, plus a few more baskets on the ground. Jesus, she’s clearly got a thing for baskets and candles. Her shoes are neatly lined up at the base of the divider, an upright dresser floating in the room nearby, next to a rolling rack of clothes and a standing full-length mirror.

“Could you not stare over here while I change?” she asks, and I only just notice her standing at the edge of the frame.

I make a noncommittal noise and head to my room, wishing I had a door to shut behind me. Instead, my line of sight through the opening leads straight through the entry and onward, right to her area.

My body goes rigid when I look over my shoulder as she slings her bra over the top of the divider, right before I spot a kneecap as she bends a leg—presumably to step in or out of something. I turn away to smother a groan before something else catches the corner of my eye—a tag on one of the new pillows on my bed. Why did she get me new pillows anyway, dammit?

I hesitate for only a moment before I decide to look at the price. It’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll be happily surprised.

I am not happily surprised.

$94.99.

It’s a $95 fucking PILLOW.

IT IS A SINGLE PILLOW. My vision goes blurry. I’m—is this what pillows cost? Am I having a stroke? I’m not even twenty-eight but crazier things have happened. Like pillows being $100.

I’m moving before I’m even cognizant of it. “Hey!” barks out of me before I feel the impending meltdown unspool. “Hey heyheyheyhey —what in good fuck —” I round the divider and walk straight into the sight of her thonged ass bent over, jean shorts pooled at her feet before she jerks them up and whirls on me.

Christ, I forgot about that birthmark on her ass—dark pink. Like the curve of a palm swept across it with paint.

“What the hell, Deacon?!”

I turn the other way. “I’m sorry, okay?” No I’m not. “But a hundred dollars for a fucking pillow?!” I shake it in the air despite not facing her. “How much have you spent already?”

She’s completely silent behind me. There’s only the whir of her zipper and a huffy breath that jets out of her.

“I’m not obligated to answer that,” she says, low and dangerous.

I can hear my heart in my ears, feel my blood thud against my temples. I will myself to turn around slowly.

“Like hell you’re not.”

Her cheeks redden and her nose scrunches in rage. “Funny, that check was addressed to me, they let me cash it. Neither your presence nor your approval were required.”

“How. Much.”

“I’m not sure. Guess I’ll go add up all my receipts.” She feigns indifference but there’s a challenge behind those words, I’m sure of it.

“Ballpark number, Larry. Give it to me.”

“Like a little over two grand, give or take.” She says this like she has no idea how monumental it is. Two grand out of a hundred, when we have a thousand different expenses here, is significant.

I…

I need to sit.

I sit—no. My ass falls onto her cot.

And then I lie on it and put the hundred-dollar pillow over my face in case I scream into it. What I actually need is to take a deep inhale, but I’m currently suffocating myself instead.

When I end up throwing it off in a move that I’m certain is tantrum-adjacent, she’s scowling down at me, hands bracketing her hips, and I can’t seem to hold it in anymore. “You spent TWO GRAND IN ONE DAY?!”

“I bought a refrigerator,” she says, tone peaking at the end. “It was a day and a half.”

“And—like—fucking—eighty-eight—pillows—and—twenty-seven—fucking—baskets!” I bark back. It’s like the words are too thick with agitation, they have to force their way out of me.

She makes an unflattering sound and rolls her eyes before she turns away. “Obviously, you can go out without me. I’m not going to subject anyone else to this.” She gestures between us.

“SOUNDS GOOD.” It feels like a vein is popping out of my forehead as she comes back to bend over me with a sneer. I can make out every shade of green in her eyes this close, even when they’re as slitted as they are.

“Get off my bed,” she says, quiet and sinister.

I get up and snatch the pillow from the ground. Use it to point at her on my way out.

“ That isn’t a bed. That is a COT, you COMPLETELY INSANE WOMAN.” And then, “Speaking of which, why the hell would you waste money on a cot when you have a bed on its way?!”

“You told me you’d be here to sign for it,” she says. Voice devoid of feeling.

I close my eyes, the ire going out of me like a deflating balloon. Shit .

“I forgot,” I say. I clear my throat.

“I should’ve expected it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That you’d leave me hanging,” she says through her teeth. She still won’t face me.

I heave a sigh. “LaRynn, I just forgot.”

“Just get out, Deacon. Please.”

It’s the “please” that trips my switch again. “Why wouldn’t you just remind me, LaRynn? Why wouldn’t you send one simple text? Why were you sleeping on a couch for six months?!”

“GET. OUT! ”

Of course. Of course she shuts down. I’m not worth sharing anything real with. She can barely stand to communicate with me, apparently. It feels like I failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

I toss the pillow across the landing before I can tear it in half. Breathe in and out slowly. “If you change your mind, we’ll be at Hard Water,” I offer when I’m at the landing.

“Not likely,” she says, her back to me again.

Fine, then. I schlep down the stairs, and softly shut the door I’d like to slam before I head out into the courtyard and leave.